"If we were both Jason Todd and we went drinking..."
It's the magical never-ending h/c fic of doom! Now that the madness of xmas exchanges is over I can get back to editing this behemoth.
Also, why do I keep agreeing to go out drinking? It's seriously cutting into my comic reading time.
Title: Half Lost, Half Found (2/5)
Rating: PG for language and violence
Words: 5,359 this part
Summary: Nightwing and Batman. H/C. Driven underground, Batman fights to keep Nightwing alive.
Thanks this time go to cienna for betaing, and again to gnine for harassment and Way-laying.
.Half Lost, Half Found.
.Part 2.
When he was a kid, new to a world outside the circus and everything was strange and different, Dick never thought anything of spending long hours in what was essentially a cold, draughty, damp cave. He had, after all, grown up with people who preferred sleeping on hay with their animals than on a bed, or who never changed out of their costumes, even when they had to go into town.
Sometimes Alfred would do that creepy smile thing and say to Bruce, “Perhaps you might consider carpeting? No? A little heating? The computers will overheat you say? Then perhaps a waterproof, heat-preserving suit for your over-worked and chilled employee?”
Dick never really noticed the cold. He moved too much. Never stayed still for longer than the time it took to eat or to look at whatever Bruce was showing him on the screens or to catch a few minutes sleep in Batman’s chair when he wasn’t looking. It was only when Alfred or Superman or someone mentioned it that Dick would realise that, oh yeah, it was maybe a little on the cool side. But Bruce never minded and neither did Dick. The cave was more of a home than the warm luxury of the Manor above ever was. In the endless halls and cavernous rooms of the Mansion Dick always felt lost; a small, invisible thing hidden between antique chairs and imposing bookcases. In that house he was Dick Grayson, who had no parents and who always had a mountain of homework to do and who had nothing of his own.
In the cave below Dick’s presence meant something. He was important. He was Batman’s partner, and Batman listened to him. He was safe.
A whole lot had changed over the years. He and Bruce had more arguments than Dick could count. Half the time they weren’t talking, and the other half they only talked shop. But somehow, despite all this, every time Dick finds himself back in the cave he still gets the feeling that this is where he belongs. That this is where he grew up. His home.
Dick imagines he’s there, now, dozing in a corner. There’s a damp mustiness to the air that makes Dick think it must be winter, before Alfred has gotten to the work surfaces with bleach and cleaning spray for his bi-monthly blitz against what he calls the pig-sty you two manage to make of a cave.
It’s colder than usual; his clothes are wet and Dick wonders if maybe they’ve just come back from a night patrolling and it was raining outside or something. He doesn’t remember rain. But then, he doesn’t remember patrolling either.
Somewhere close by Dick can hear the soft sounds of running water, the whirring of one of Batman’s gadgets, and Batman himself bustling around the room, his heavy cape shifting every time he moves.
It’s hard to move, his whole body heavy and sore. Dick guesses he must have been in a fight. A hard one too from the aching in one of his legs, the low burn of pain in his chest. That would explain why Batman was letting him rest in the Batcave for once and not forcing him upstairs to bed if he’s that tired, or into another hour of training if he’s just being lazy.
There’s no Alfred though, which is weird.
Now Dick thinks about it he remembers he doesn’t live here anymore. He’s not Batman’s partner anymore. Not for years.
He’s Nightwing. He has his own city to protect. His own life away from Batman. Or at least, that’s what he’d like to think, but Dick is self-aware enough to know that it isn’t quite that simple. Nor is it ever going to be.
Once a Bat, always a Bat.
The thing is; Dick wouldn’t have it any other way. They’re his family and he’d do anything for them.
Maybe that’s why he’s here in the cave. Maybe he’s here to help with something. Or maybe he’s just here to bug Bruce, because God knows someone has to. Dick will never admit to it but bugging Bruce is something he really enjoys doing. Maybe even when it all ends with them yelling at each other because at least then they’re talking. Kind of.
The fact that he doesn’t remember worries Dick. Could be some kind of drug messing with his memory. More likely a blow to the head from the way his brain feels like it wants to melt out of his ears. Concussion. Fun times.
Dick knows it’s a mistake to try opening his eyes, but he does it anyway.
And, yeah, instantly regrets it.
The world lurches, too bright, and Dick has to snap his eyes shut. He heaves, his stomach cramping, and Dick turns on his side, trying to relieve the pain. He’s in worse shape than he’d realised, his ribs moving wrong, the aching leg now burning. There’s only bile to bring up but it leaves his throat sore and a sour taste in his mouth. Just that much leaves Dick so exhausted he can’t even hold his head up. There’s no comfortable cot under him, like the one he remembers from the cave. Instead, there is cold, damp stone and Dick shivers. It doesn’t make any sense. He’s never slept on the cave floor before, and Dick doesn’t believe Bruce would let him, especially considering the mess he’s in.
Bruce.
Dick feels hands gently cradling his head, lifting it up off of the stone. There’s no doubt who those hands belong to.
Dick licks his lips. He’s so thirsty. “Why am I on the floor?”
Bruce’s voice doesn’t echo the way it usually does in the cave. “I didn’t have a camp bed in my utility belt.”
It takes Dick way too long to work out what Bruce is saying. Even then he’s not sure he heard right. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Good effort,” Dick grins, but then frowns. “We’re not in the cave?” He doesn’t dare open his eyes again to check for himself.
A long silence. Bruce shifts closer; Dick can feel knees pressing against his back, movement as Bruce changes position so that he can lay Dick’s head on what feels like Bruce’s lap. A heavy blanket is laid over him. Bruce leans over Dick, tucking in the edges. The blanket smells familiar. Doesn’t feel like any blanket Dick’s ever come across before where it lays over his hands. Then he realises: not a blanket. Batman’s cape.
“Nightwing,” Bruce says. Not Dick. Which is weird. “What do you remember?”
Nothing is what Dick wants to answer, but he knows Bruce will never be satisfied with that. There is no situation, he would say, in which you can know nothing.
His most recent memories, then.
There was a mostly silent, awkward-as-hell dinner with Bruce at the Manor. Something Alfred had set up and Bruce looked confused about, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there.
There was an offer to patrol together which, okay, was pretty cool. They hadn’t patrolled together in years without some reason for them both to be there. Dick couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or kind of sad that as soon as they were out there, traversing Gotham’s skyline, they didn’t need to talk to know that whatever else had happened they still remembered how to work together seamlessly. This they knew; how to fight together. How to watch each other’s backs.
None of that is what Bruce is looking for though. Dick tells him, “There was… a fight? We saw a fight. Or were we fighting?”
Dick certainly feels like he’s been fighting. With a brick wall.
Fingers gently touch his cheek and it stings. Dick tries to turn away but Bruce stops him. “Open your eyes for me,” he says. Orders.
“I’ll puke on you,” Dick warns.
A pause. “Not on the cape.”
Dick snorts a laugh, and doesn’t care that it kind of hurts because, wow, two jokes in one night. Bruce is on a roll.
Unless that’s not actually a joke.
“Okay, take it easy.” Bruce tilts Dick’s head to the side, orders again, “Open your eyes, Nightwing.”
Cautiously this time, slowly, Dick does as he’s told. He hadn’t noticed before, with the rest of him feeling like a giant ball of pain, but his eyes sting like someone has ground salt right up against his eyeballs. They’re gritty; the skin of his eyelids peeling and sore and Dick gets them about half way open before he wretches. He’s pretty sure he misses the cape.
It’s better this time though because Bruce is there, a hand on his back, holding his head up and Dick isn’t quite as cold.
When his stomach decides to stop emptying itself, when he can breathe again Dick realises that even with his eyes open, everything around him is still a blur of blacks and greys.
“Is it dark in here?” he asks.
“It’s light enough to see by,” Bruce says.
“Then how come I can’t-?”
There was an explosion, Dick remembers. Gas in his face, choking him, making his eyes burn. Walls falling around his ears. No. That didn’t happen at the same time. They were taken by surprise. They were trying to stop something. Dick was trying to survive.
“Nightwing.” Bruce is gripping his shoulder almost too tightly. The instruction is clear: calm down. Focus.
“I don’t-" Dick tries to explain. “I remember some things but none of it makes sense.”
“All right.” Bruce settles Dick’s head back on his lap. “You have a concussion.”
I could have told you that, Dick thinks, but he’s never been one for talking back to Bruce.
“You’ll get your memory back.” Bruce is saying. “It isn’t important right now.”
“Where are we?” Dick asks, because that seems like it might be a useful thing to know.
“We’re in a section of the old sewer lines under Gotham East. A series of explosions trapped us down here.”
Dick grimaces. “That would explain the smell.”
Bruce hums noncommittally. “The cave-in is too extensive to hope I can dig us out of here. The structure is too old and unstable to risk any more explosives.”
“Does anyone know we’re here?” Dick asks, and Bruce’s silence is answer enough.
“They’ll find us anyway.” Dick is certain of it.
Predictably, Bruce says, “I would prefer not to wait.” But there is none of the irritated impatience Dick has become used to hearing in Bruce’s- in Batman’s- voice. Instead, it sounds a lot like concern. Frustration, like he doesn’t think they have much time. The cramping ache in his leg and his chest and his head make Dick wonder if it’s maybe him that doesn’t have the time. He ignores the thought.
Bruce- Batman- will get him out of here. One way or another.
Under the back of his legs there is water seeping into his suit.
“Hey.” Dick’s pretty sure there’s more to this situation than Bruce is saying. “What’s with the river under my legs?”
“We’re in a sewer,” Bruce deadpans.
“It’s rising.”
A pause. So, yes, definitely worse than Bruce is saying.
“The cave-in is acting as a dam,” Bruce finally admits. “It’s coming in faster than it’s going out.”
“You didn’t think to mention that?” The water is damned cold. Dick can already feel a prickling kind of numbness in his toes.
“I had hoped to have come up with a way out of here before it became an issue.”
It isn’t like Bruce- even more for Batman- to spare him the gory details like this.
Dick narrows his eyes. Or would do if the skin around his eyes didn’t hurt like hell. “Are you being nice because it’s my birthday or something?”
“It’s not your birthday,” Bruce says dismissively.
Really, Dick should have seen that coming. “It is,” he argues because, well, it is.
And there is the familiar awkward silence of Bruce realising he’s gotten something wrong. It’s usually a date or a meeting or an appropriate sentiment when you get called into school because your thirteen year old has just beaten the crap out of six boys two grades older than him. Oh yeah. That was a fun afternoon. Batman never gets anything wrong. Bruce Wayne is a whole other story.
“I guess I shouldn’t expect a card, then,” Dick jokes. He hadn’t expected one. He hadn’t expected Bruce to remember. But he had kind of hoped. At least Bruce doesn’t try to make any excuses. If Dick hears some variation on I was on a case one more time he’s going to strangle Bruce.
“It’s cool,” Dick shrugs. Then wishes he hadn’t because the movement pulls something the wrong way in his chest and it hurts. It’s not like Bruce remembered last year either. Or the year before that. Dick’s gotten used to it.
“Our mutual butlering friend was angry with me all week,” Bruce tells him. “I couldn’t work out why.”
Dick can believe it. Alfred can be the king of passive-aggressive when he wants to be. “I’ll get you a calendar for your birthday.”
“You tried that,” Bruce reminds him. “When you were eleven.”
It surprises Dick that Bruce even remembers that. It was a desk diary, and Dick had been so proud that Bruce had given it pride of place on his desk at Wayne Enterprises. Except he hadn’t thought that one through, because Bruce sat at that desk maybe once a month. And then only for maybe an hour.
“I’ll get one for your utility belt this time,” Dick decides. “With annoyingly loud reminder ring tones.”
Even though he can’t see it, Dick can just imagine the face Bruce is pulling; horror and distaste and maybe a little betrayal. He hates ring tones. Everyone who even knows Bruce slightly knows how much he hates ring tones. It never stops being funny.
It’s weird, Dick thinks, but this might be the most he and Bruce have talked about something other than Batman business in months. Maybe years. Which is kind of depressing.
Dick is exhausted. He’s finding it harder and harder to keep himself awake and alert enough to follow the conversation. But he doesn’t want to stop. It might be a long time before he gets the chance to talk to Bruce like this again. Even if it is freezing and Dick can feel himself starting to shiver and everything hurts. A lot.
“Is there… anything you need?” Bruce offers tentatively, like maybe he’s unsure if Dick will take offence. He knows Dick hates it when Bruce tries to buy him stuff. But they’ve had this argument so many times and Dick is so tired he decides to let it go. Dick has long since resigned himself to the realisation that giving is one of the few ways Bruce Wayne knows how to express himself. He gives money to charity. He gave Dick everything he ever asked for as a child (except a motorbike at age twelve and a set of ninja swords at thirteen and yes, he’s still bitter). He just couldn’t give Dick some of the other stuff he might have wanted, like maybe his time or someone to hang out with. That was just Bruce though, and long experience had taught Dick there was no changing him. In truth, he kind of didn’t want to anyway: he wouldn’t be Bruce without the slightly cold, impenetrable veneer of detachment. And it is a veneer.
“I’d like a new leg, please,” Dick says, and actually gets an almost-laugh out of Bruce for it.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Bruce promises, squeezing Dick’s shoulder lightly.
There is water pooling underneath him now. Dick can feel it filling his boots, lapping against his sides. Every inch it rises threatens to take Dick’s breath away because it’s so damn cold. The contrast of his burning leg to the freezing water now surrounding it puts Dick on edge. Makes him want to try and twist away. But there’s no way that would end well. Even worse, who knows what’s in this water, and at this point maybe Dick is glad he can’t see. He really needs to stop thinking about that.
“What happened to the leg anyway?” Dick asks. Which, on reflection, is not the best of ideas for a conversation starter because still thinking about the leg.
“You were shot,” Bruce says shortly. He changes the subject. “I need to move you higher out of this water.”
As great as it sounds to not be floating in sewerage the thought of having to put anything like weight on his leg makes Dick feel ill.
Bruce must see the reticence in Dick’s face because he goes on, “I know it’ll hurt, but you’re getting too cold.” Dick understands; danger of hypothermia, shortening the time Bruce has to get them out of here and no way is Dick going to die in a sewer.
“Okay,” he agrees. “Um. I don’t know how much help I can give you.” His muscles have all seized up. He feels so weak. Even if it makes him feel like he’s a scared little kid again Dick just wants to go home.
“You’ll be fine,” Bruce replies, which could mean pretty much anything. Dick takes it as encouragement.
He expects it to hurt, but Bruce has only gotten as far as hooking his arms around Dick’s chest and it’s almost too much. Long ago, Bruce taught him a whole bunch of methods for ignoring pain, for putting it aside like it was nothing more than a distraction, but at that moment Dick cannot think of a single one. He thinks maybe he actually cries out, and Bruce is saying something to him that he can’t work out, and he should probably try harder but he can’t. It’s impossible to even tell what’s happening because it all hurts too much. Everything is a mess of cold and sharp edges and hands pulling at him and things inside of him moving wrong. Maybe he throws up again. Maybe he tastes blood. Maybe his fucking leg falls off. And even when it all stops and Dick is leaning up against something warmer than the cold stone ground and not being pushed at and wrenched apart anymore it feels like a long time before he can breathe again. Before he can think of anything except Oh God make it stop.
It doesn’t. Not really. The pain is still there. It just dulls to a bearable level. Mostly bearable.
Still dark. Still blind. Leg still useless, but not as cold or wet.
The cape- Batman’s cape- is draped over his shoulders, wrapped around him now. Dick can feel the weight of it, smells the familiar fabric. His head is resting against what can only be Bruce’s chest. Arms hold him in place and Dick’s first clear thought is, Tim would never believe this.
His leg- he’s going to pretend his leg doesn’t exist.
“You’re awake.” Bruce’s voice is loud in his ears. Oh yeah. He’s very close.
“I was asleep?” It felt more like being dragged under a bus than sleeping. Sleep would have been nice. His throat is dry and Dick wishes they’d brought water with them. He’s not desperate enough to drink this water. Dick doesn’t think he’d ever be that desperate.
“Non-responsive,” Bruce amends.
“You took off your cape.” Which means Bruce took off his cowl and that is almost unheard of in the field. He kind of wishes he could see Bruce's face to know it was real; to know this was really happening.
“No one can get in.”
And they couldn’t get out goes unsaid. Minimal danger of discovery. Dick is glad for it, the cape- and Bruce- making him feel a little less like he might freeze to death.
Silence follows. He guesses Bruce has exceeded his chattiness quota for the day. In the quiet Dick can make out the sound of water trickling in somewhere below him. He feels every slow, steady breath Bruce takes. Smells rotting and decay, old crumbling brick, copper, blood. His head is too heavy, his chest aches so badly Dick is certain he can feel it in his teeth. His leg burns even though he’s s cold. Despite the warmth of the cape and Bruce he’s still shivering and Dick needs distraction. He needs sound and he needs to speak and Dick doesn’t care if it hurts his throat or tires him out. It’s better than listening to the pounding and pounding and pounding in his head.
“So, no thoughts on getting out of here?” he asks. Escape seems like a safe subject.
“We wouldn’t be expected back until dawn-”
“You wouldn’t be expected back until dawn,” Dick interrupts. “I had plans.”
From the way Bruce changes his grip on Dick, says, “Oh?” Dick knows exactly what he’s thinking.
“Not like that.” It isn’t often Dick is in Gotham these days, and he’d planned on making the most of his visit. “I was gonna go out with Tim. Maybe invite Clark.”
“When?” And that right there is Batman’s interrogation voice.
“Ten.” Late enough to catch a movie. Eat too much popcorn. Have time to fly between Gotham’s familiar skyscrapers and towers afterwards.
Above him, Bruce nods slowly. “We’re well past that.”
They’ll know something is wrong. Tim has to know Dick wouldn’t just ditch him. Well, not without letting him know he was ditching him first.
But they’ll have to find them, and they’re buried under tonnes of brick and dirt and steel.
“Tracker?” Dick asks hopefully.
“No. No communications possible down here.” Bruce’s tone suggests he already tried that. Multiple times.
“We could try… shouting?” Dick suggests. “Beat Morse code out on… the pipes?”
“There are no pipes.”
Trust Bruce to take him seriously.
Silence again. Dick guesses Bruce must be considering their options. It’s not like him to sit and wait for rescue. Inconceivable that he would have given up. While they’re breathing there’s a chance; that’s a lesson Dick learned a hundred times over. Their options might be limited but that’s pretty much standard operating procedure for them.
Dick feels himself drifting. Without conversation he has nothing to focus on besides the pain, too much of it and everywhere and there’s a part of Dick that wishes he would just pass out and be done with it. But that feels too much like quitting. As useless as Dick feels he’d be even more of a burden as a dead weight.
Dead weight. He’d always thought that was a truly unfortunate phrase. Like dead wrong. It ended up being way too accurate half the time.
Okay. Too depressing. Think about something else. Like the water that’s starting to rise around him again, cold and uncomfortable where it gets into Dick’s clothes. He doesn’t know how big a space they’re in, or how fast the water is pouring into it, but the level is rising rapidly. Faster than before, Dick thinks.
“The… water-” Dick begins, finds himself too tired to finish the sentence. Bruce understands what he’s asking anyway.
“It’s coming in too fast,” Bruce confirms. “There’s no higher ground.”
Dick grimaces. “Don’t feel like swimming.”
A pause. Bruce shifts his legs, takes in a breath. Preparing himself to tell Dick something he won’t want to hear. He’s seen Bruce do it often enough.
“As a last resort, I can take out the wall behind us.”
Yeah. Dick had hoped they weren’t down to last resorts yet. He can do the math. More explosives in an unstable environment. It’s a massive risk. It could bring the whole roof down on them. It could drown them. It could burn them alive if it’s a small enough space. Or it could do nothing at all.
It’s likely the authorities are above them, looking into what the hell happened, but they won’t be looking for Batman. And if the water level keeps rising the way it currently is there’s no way they’ll be found, let alone rescued, before they both drown. Or freeze. Or blow themselves to smithereens.
“Clark-”
He’d told Dick he’d try to make it. No definites. Dick got that. You never knew when some maniac was going to try and take over the world. But Dick was certain too that Clark would come looking for them.
“I’ve warned you before,” Bruce says sternly, “about relying on his powers.”
“Not relying,” Dick shakes his head slowly. “Staying positive.” Which is becoming more and more difficult the colder Dick gets. The more the pain feels like it has wormed its way into his bones and taken up permanent residence there. Still, Dick tries. “He might hear us. Y’know. If we were… actually talking much.”
“We may be buried too deep.” Bruce sounds thoughtful. “Perhaps a louder noise. Something to attract his attention.”
“You could sing,” Dick suggests. “Clark would think… you were in agony.”
“You,” Bruce says, “have never heard me sing.”
“Have.” To his great misfortune, multiple times. “Shower. In the cave. It echoes.”
The silence that follows is a strange, tense thing that despite everything makes Dick grin because Bruce is probably trying to work out if Dick is lying or not, and if so what he can do by way of soundproofing.
When he first moved in with Bruce, Dick couldn’t understand the man at all. He was a mystery, hurrying away to late night meetings almost every night. He was contradictory; sometimes cold and aloof, other times sitting with Dick and talking and occasionally even laughing. Bruce never failed to surprise him. Dick would never have figured him a shower-singer but there he was, all of thirteen and recently back from patrol, sitting in Batman’s chair peeling sticky, gross seaweed off his legs and wishing for tights when he heard it. At first he thought it was the bats, but Dick could discern a sort-of tune in the echoes and realised it was Bruce humming some song Dick didn’t recognise. He guesses Bruce never figured out why Dick couldn’t’ stop laughing for hours that night. And at breakfast the next morning. And for most of the rest of the week. He’s pretty sure Bruce suspected exposure to Joker-gas.
There is a sharp pinch to his arm, Bruce is demanding his attention, hissing, Dick,” in his ear. Dick sits up straight in surprise. He hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep. Is kind of impressed he even could sleep with how messed up and cold he is. But then, he has a lot of experience. Winters were always the worst; stake-outs in freezing rain and snow and even when he’d been a kid Batman would always do that pinching thing to wake him up if he dozed on duty. It annoyed Dick then and it annoys Dick now.
“I’m awake,” he insists. His tongue feels heavy, too large, in his mouth.
“You weren’t.” Batman sounds pissed. And maybe he has a point because Dick can feel now that the water covers his thighs, is inching its way up past his waist. At some point Batman- Bruce- had tucked Dick’s hands against his chest. To keep them out of the rising water a little longer, he guesses.
His eyes do feel heavy and sore and everything is kind of muffled like he’s still half-asleep. Dick tries to shake it off but can’t. Someone was singing, he remembers. Badly. Must have been Bruce, in a memory. Or a dream. He tries blinking the confusion away and is surprised when instead of the darkness he’s gotten used to he sees something. Blurry splodges of greys- which is probably about all there is to see in a collapsed sewer anyway- but it’s better than nothing.
“Hey.” Dick reaches up to his face, tries to rub his eyes. Batman stops him with a hand around his wrist. “I can see. Kind of.”
He sees Bruce: his face is blurry but Dick could never not recognise him. Bruce leans down, looking Dick over carefully.
“Hi!” Dick greets. He’s maybe a little over excited about this, but it’s pretty much the first thing that’s gone right for Dick all day.
Bruce lets go of his wrist, but orders sternly, “Don’t touch your eyes.”
Oh yeah. Gross sewage-water covered hands. And the skin of his face still feels scrubbed raw.
It’s a novelty though, despite the crappy view, to look.
Dick turns his head away from Bruce’s shoulder, ignores the ache in his neck. The room is shaded a slightly ominous green- glow stick, Dick thinks- and in the dim light he can just about make out the wall on the other side. It’s made up of bricks and twisted beams and mud, water pouring in through a hundred crevices all over its surface.
Maybe Dick didn’t want to see that. Nor the dark water creeping up around them. It’s deeper than Dick had realised. Or at least he thinks it’s deep. His sight still isn’t exactly clear. The space they’re trapped in is a whole lot smaller than Dick had imagined.
“I’ve never thought about drowning.” Dick hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and regrets it immediately when he feels Bruce tense beside him, start to draw carefully away.
“We’re not going to drown.” It’s not so much that Bruce sounds certain but that he has that irritated stubborn tone going on that convinces Dick that no, he’ll find some extreme escape route likely to kill them before they get the chance.
“I’m going to set the charges,” Bruce says.
Oh right. Blowing the back wall. Exactly.
Bruce extracts himself from the hold he had on Dick, helping Dick shift over so that he’s leaning against the wall. The movement pulls at everything, stealing Dick’s breath. Even numb from the cold water the wound in his leg burns. God. An open gunshot wound stewing in sewer-juice. So gross.
Okay. Not thinking about that.
In the dark water Dick thinks he can just about make out Bruce’s makeshift bandage wrapped around his leg. He can’t see any blood, but the water’s so grimy and his sight is so bad that doesn’t mean much.
Batman crouches in front of Dick, his face close enough that Dick can see his stern expression. The green glow spilling across the walls of their prison makes his face look sickly and sinister. “Stay awake.” Then he is gone in a messy blur of black and shade, somewhere to Dick’s right.
He hears crumbling rocks, the splash of water as Bruce clambers down into the growing pool around them. Dick is sitting on a ledge, Dick realises, once a walkway beside the sewer proper. If there hadn’t been this higher ground Dick would have been in water over his head by now. He’d had to have stood. The water level has reached up to Dick’s chest now and he still might have to.
His eyes close, too heavy, and Dick tries to wrap his arms around his chest. Trying to keep them out of the water. He pulls Batman’s cape more tightly around himself. He’s cold and tired and there’s nothing much interesting to see anyway. Somewhere close by Dick can hear Bruce moving around, scratching out holes in the wall. He thinks he should probably help, or offer encouragement. Or something. But his head hurts less with his eyes closed. He’ll just rest for a few minutes. It’s not the same as falling asleep. It’s preserving his strength.
Gradually, sound fades away. Pain becomes numbness. For once- just this once, Dick wants to give in. He wants to let himself sleep and just not have to think or feel anymore. But he is Dick Grayson, former Boy Wonder and current Nightwing. He doesn’t give in. And worse, Batman will not be pleased if he does. So Dick tries to force his eyes open. Tries to shake himself or do something but his arms are dead weights and he’s starting to feel warm and that is so not right. Dick fights. He does. He just doesn’t win.
.Part 3.
Also, why do I keep agreeing to go out drinking? It's seriously cutting into my comic reading time.
Title: Half Lost, Half Found (2/5)
Rating: PG for language and violence
Words: 5,359 this part
Summary: Nightwing and Batman. H/C. Driven underground, Batman fights to keep Nightwing alive.
Thanks this time go to cienna for betaing, and again to gnine for harassment and Way-laying.
.Half Lost, Half Found.
.Part 2.
When he was a kid, new to a world outside the circus and everything was strange and different, Dick never thought anything of spending long hours in what was essentially a cold, draughty, damp cave. He had, after all, grown up with people who preferred sleeping on hay with their animals than on a bed, or who never changed out of their costumes, even when they had to go into town.
Sometimes Alfred would do that creepy smile thing and say to Bruce, “Perhaps you might consider carpeting? No? A little heating? The computers will overheat you say? Then perhaps a waterproof, heat-preserving suit for your over-worked and chilled employee?”
Dick never really noticed the cold. He moved too much. Never stayed still for longer than the time it took to eat or to look at whatever Bruce was showing him on the screens or to catch a few minutes sleep in Batman’s chair when he wasn’t looking. It was only when Alfred or Superman or someone mentioned it that Dick would realise that, oh yeah, it was maybe a little on the cool side. But Bruce never minded and neither did Dick. The cave was more of a home than the warm luxury of the Manor above ever was. In the endless halls and cavernous rooms of the Mansion Dick always felt lost; a small, invisible thing hidden between antique chairs and imposing bookcases. In that house he was Dick Grayson, who had no parents and who always had a mountain of homework to do and who had nothing of his own.
In the cave below Dick’s presence meant something. He was important. He was Batman’s partner, and Batman listened to him. He was safe.
A whole lot had changed over the years. He and Bruce had more arguments than Dick could count. Half the time they weren’t talking, and the other half they only talked shop. But somehow, despite all this, every time Dick finds himself back in the cave he still gets the feeling that this is where he belongs. That this is where he grew up. His home.
Dick imagines he’s there, now, dozing in a corner. There’s a damp mustiness to the air that makes Dick think it must be winter, before Alfred has gotten to the work surfaces with bleach and cleaning spray for his bi-monthly blitz against what he calls the pig-sty you two manage to make of a cave.
It’s colder than usual; his clothes are wet and Dick wonders if maybe they’ve just come back from a night patrolling and it was raining outside or something. He doesn’t remember rain. But then, he doesn’t remember patrolling either.
Somewhere close by Dick can hear the soft sounds of running water, the whirring of one of Batman’s gadgets, and Batman himself bustling around the room, his heavy cape shifting every time he moves.
It’s hard to move, his whole body heavy and sore. Dick guesses he must have been in a fight. A hard one too from the aching in one of his legs, the low burn of pain in his chest. That would explain why Batman was letting him rest in the Batcave for once and not forcing him upstairs to bed if he’s that tired, or into another hour of training if he’s just being lazy.
There’s no Alfred though, which is weird.
Now Dick thinks about it he remembers he doesn’t live here anymore. He’s not Batman’s partner anymore. Not for years.
He’s Nightwing. He has his own city to protect. His own life away from Batman. Or at least, that’s what he’d like to think, but Dick is self-aware enough to know that it isn’t quite that simple. Nor is it ever going to be.
Once a Bat, always a Bat.
The thing is; Dick wouldn’t have it any other way. They’re his family and he’d do anything for them.
Maybe that’s why he’s here in the cave. Maybe he’s here to help with something. Or maybe he’s just here to bug Bruce, because God knows someone has to. Dick will never admit to it but bugging Bruce is something he really enjoys doing. Maybe even when it all ends with them yelling at each other because at least then they’re talking. Kind of.
The fact that he doesn’t remember worries Dick. Could be some kind of drug messing with his memory. More likely a blow to the head from the way his brain feels like it wants to melt out of his ears. Concussion. Fun times.
Dick knows it’s a mistake to try opening his eyes, but he does it anyway.
And, yeah, instantly regrets it.
The world lurches, too bright, and Dick has to snap his eyes shut. He heaves, his stomach cramping, and Dick turns on his side, trying to relieve the pain. He’s in worse shape than he’d realised, his ribs moving wrong, the aching leg now burning. There’s only bile to bring up but it leaves his throat sore and a sour taste in his mouth. Just that much leaves Dick so exhausted he can’t even hold his head up. There’s no comfortable cot under him, like the one he remembers from the cave. Instead, there is cold, damp stone and Dick shivers. It doesn’t make any sense. He’s never slept on the cave floor before, and Dick doesn’t believe Bruce would let him, especially considering the mess he’s in.
Bruce.
Dick feels hands gently cradling his head, lifting it up off of the stone. There’s no doubt who those hands belong to.
Dick licks his lips. He’s so thirsty. “Why am I on the floor?”
Bruce’s voice doesn’t echo the way it usually does in the cave. “I didn’t have a camp bed in my utility belt.”
It takes Dick way too long to work out what Bruce is saying. Even then he’s not sure he heard right. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Good effort,” Dick grins, but then frowns. “We’re not in the cave?” He doesn’t dare open his eyes again to check for himself.
A long silence. Bruce shifts closer; Dick can feel knees pressing against his back, movement as Bruce changes position so that he can lay Dick’s head on what feels like Bruce’s lap. A heavy blanket is laid over him. Bruce leans over Dick, tucking in the edges. The blanket smells familiar. Doesn’t feel like any blanket Dick’s ever come across before where it lays over his hands. Then he realises: not a blanket. Batman’s cape.
“Nightwing,” Bruce says. Not Dick. Which is weird. “What do you remember?”
Nothing is what Dick wants to answer, but he knows Bruce will never be satisfied with that. There is no situation, he would say, in which you can know nothing.
His most recent memories, then.
There was a mostly silent, awkward-as-hell dinner with Bruce at the Manor. Something Alfred had set up and Bruce looked confused about, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there.
There was an offer to patrol together which, okay, was pretty cool. They hadn’t patrolled together in years without some reason for them both to be there. Dick couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or kind of sad that as soon as they were out there, traversing Gotham’s skyline, they didn’t need to talk to know that whatever else had happened they still remembered how to work together seamlessly. This they knew; how to fight together. How to watch each other’s backs.
None of that is what Bruce is looking for though. Dick tells him, “There was… a fight? We saw a fight. Or were we fighting?”
Dick certainly feels like he’s been fighting. With a brick wall.
Fingers gently touch his cheek and it stings. Dick tries to turn away but Bruce stops him. “Open your eyes for me,” he says. Orders.
“I’ll puke on you,” Dick warns.
A pause. “Not on the cape.”
Dick snorts a laugh, and doesn’t care that it kind of hurts because, wow, two jokes in one night. Bruce is on a roll.
Unless that’s not actually a joke.
“Okay, take it easy.” Bruce tilts Dick’s head to the side, orders again, “Open your eyes, Nightwing.”
Cautiously this time, slowly, Dick does as he’s told. He hadn’t noticed before, with the rest of him feeling like a giant ball of pain, but his eyes sting like someone has ground salt right up against his eyeballs. They’re gritty; the skin of his eyelids peeling and sore and Dick gets them about half way open before he wretches. He’s pretty sure he misses the cape.
It’s better this time though because Bruce is there, a hand on his back, holding his head up and Dick isn’t quite as cold.
When his stomach decides to stop emptying itself, when he can breathe again Dick realises that even with his eyes open, everything around him is still a blur of blacks and greys.
“Is it dark in here?” he asks.
“It’s light enough to see by,” Bruce says.
“Then how come I can’t-?”
There was an explosion, Dick remembers. Gas in his face, choking him, making his eyes burn. Walls falling around his ears. No. That didn’t happen at the same time. They were taken by surprise. They were trying to stop something. Dick was trying to survive.
“Nightwing.” Bruce is gripping his shoulder almost too tightly. The instruction is clear: calm down. Focus.
“I don’t-" Dick tries to explain. “I remember some things but none of it makes sense.”
“All right.” Bruce settles Dick’s head back on his lap. “You have a concussion.”
I could have told you that, Dick thinks, but he’s never been one for talking back to Bruce.
“You’ll get your memory back.” Bruce is saying. “It isn’t important right now.”
“Where are we?” Dick asks, because that seems like it might be a useful thing to know.
“We’re in a section of the old sewer lines under Gotham East. A series of explosions trapped us down here.”
Dick grimaces. “That would explain the smell.”
Bruce hums noncommittally. “The cave-in is too extensive to hope I can dig us out of here. The structure is too old and unstable to risk any more explosives.”
“Does anyone know we’re here?” Dick asks, and Bruce’s silence is answer enough.
“They’ll find us anyway.” Dick is certain of it.
Predictably, Bruce says, “I would prefer not to wait.” But there is none of the irritated impatience Dick has become used to hearing in Bruce’s- in Batman’s- voice. Instead, it sounds a lot like concern. Frustration, like he doesn’t think they have much time. The cramping ache in his leg and his chest and his head make Dick wonder if it’s maybe him that doesn’t have the time. He ignores the thought.
Bruce- Batman- will get him out of here. One way or another.
Under the back of his legs there is water seeping into his suit.
“Hey.” Dick’s pretty sure there’s more to this situation than Bruce is saying. “What’s with the river under my legs?”
“We’re in a sewer,” Bruce deadpans.
“It’s rising.”
A pause. So, yes, definitely worse than Bruce is saying.
“The cave-in is acting as a dam,” Bruce finally admits. “It’s coming in faster than it’s going out.”
“You didn’t think to mention that?” The water is damned cold. Dick can already feel a prickling kind of numbness in his toes.
“I had hoped to have come up with a way out of here before it became an issue.”
It isn’t like Bruce- even more for Batman- to spare him the gory details like this.
Dick narrows his eyes. Or would do if the skin around his eyes didn’t hurt like hell. “Are you being nice because it’s my birthday or something?”
“It’s not your birthday,” Bruce says dismissively.
Really, Dick should have seen that coming. “It is,” he argues because, well, it is.
And there is the familiar awkward silence of Bruce realising he’s gotten something wrong. It’s usually a date or a meeting or an appropriate sentiment when you get called into school because your thirteen year old has just beaten the crap out of six boys two grades older than him. Oh yeah. That was a fun afternoon. Batman never gets anything wrong. Bruce Wayne is a whole other story.
“I guess I shouldn’t expect a card, then,” Dick jokes. He hadn’t expected one. He hadn’t expected Bruce to remember. But he had kind of hoped. At least Bruce doesn’t try to make any excuses. If Dick hears some variation on I was on a case one more time he’s going to strangle Bruce.
“It’s cool,” Dick shrugs. Then wishes he hadn’t because the movement pulls something the wrong way in his chest and it hurts. It’s not like Bruce remembered last year either. Or the year before that. Dick’s gotten used to it.
“Our mutual butlering friend was angry with me all week,” Bruce tells him. “I couldn’t work out why.”
Dick can believe it. Alfred can be the king of passive-aggressive when he wants to be. “I’ll get you a calendar for your birthday.”
“You tried that,” Bruce reminds him. “When you were eleven.”
It surprises Dick that Bruce even remembers that. It was a desk diary, and Dick had been so proud that Bruce had given it pride of place on his desk at Wayne Enterprises. Except he hadn’t thought that one through, because Bruce sat at that desk maybe once a month. And then only for maybe an hour.
“I’ll get one for your utility belt this time,” Dick decides. “With annoyingly loud reminder ring tones.”
Even though he can’t see it, Dick can just imagine the face Bruce is pulling; horror and distaste and maybe a little betrayal. He hates ring tones. Everyone who even knows Bruce slightly knows how much he hates ring tones. It never stops being funny.
It’s weird, Dick thinks, but this might be the most he and Bruce have talked about something other than Batman business in months. Maybe years. Which is kind of depressing.
Dick is exhausted. He’s finding it harder and harder to keep himself awake and alert enough to follow the conversation. But he doesn’t want to stop. It might be a long time before he gets the chance to talk to Bruce like this again. Even if it is freezing and Dick can feel himself starting to shiver and everything hurts. A lot.
“Is there… anything you need?” Bruce offers tentatively, like maybe he’s unsure if Dick will take offence. He knows Dick hates it when Bruce tries to buy him stuff. But they’ve had this argument so many times and Dick is so tired he decides to let it go. Dick has long since resigned himself to the realisation that giving is one of the few ways Bruce Wayne knows how to express himself. He gives money to charity. He gave Dick everything he ever asked for as a child (except a motorbike at age twelve and a set of ninja swords at thirteen and yes, he’s still bitter). He just couldn’t give Dick some of the other stuff he might have wanted, like maybe his time or someone to hang out with. That was just Bruce though, and long experience had taught Dick there was no changing him. In truth, he kind of didn’t want to anyway: he wouldn’t be Bruce without the slightly cold, impenetrable veneer of detachment. And it is a veneer.
“I’d like a new leg, please,” Dick says, and actually gets an almost-laugh out of Bruce for it.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Bruce promises, squeezing Dick’s shoulder lightly.
There is water pooling underneath him now. Dick can feel it filling his boots, lapping against his sides. Every inch it rises threatens to take Dick’s breath away because it’s so damn cold. The contrast of his burning leg to the freezing water now surrounding it puts Dick on edge. Makes him want to try and twist away. But there’s no way that would end well. Even worse, who knows what’s in this water, and at this point maybe Dick is glad he can’t see. He really needs to stop thinking about that.
“What happened to the leg anyway?” Dick asks. Which, on reflection, is not the best of ideas for a conversation starter because still thinking about the leg.
“You were shot,” Bruce says shortly. He changes the subject. “I need to move you higher out of this water.”
As great as it sounds to not be floating in sewerage the thought of having to put anything like weight on his leg makes Dick feel ill.
Bruce must see the reticence in Dick’s face because he goes on, “I know it’ll hurt, but you’re getting too cold.” Dick understands; danger of hypothermia, shortening the time Bruce has to get them out of here and no way is Dick going to die in a sewer.
“Okay,” he agrees. “Um. I don’t know how much help I can give you.” His muscles have all seized up. He feels so weak. Even if it makes him feel like he’s a scared little kid again Dick just wants to go home.
“You’ll be fine,” Bruce replies, which could mean pretty much anything. Dick takes it as encouragement.
He expects it to hurt, but Bruce has only gotten as far as hooking his arms around Dick’s chest and it’s almost too much. Long ago, Bruce taught him a whole bunch of methods for ignoring pain, for putting it aside like it was nothing more than a distraction, but at that moment Dick cannot think of a single one. He thinks maybe he actually cries out, and Bruce is saying something to him that he can’t work out, and he should probably try harder but he can’t. It’s impossible to even tell what’s happening because it all hurts too much. Everything is a mess of cold and sharp edges and hands pulling at him and things inside of him moving wrong. Maybe he throws up again. Maybe he tastes blood. Maybe his fucking leg falls off. And even when it all stops and Dick is leaning up against something warmer than the cold stone ground and not being pushed at and wrenched apart anymore it feels like a long time before he can breathe again. Before he can think of anything except Oh God make it stop.
It doesn’t. Not really. The pain is still there. It just dulls to a bearable level. Mostly bearable.
Still dark. Still blind. Leg still useless, but not as cold or wet.
The cape- Batman’s cape- is draped over his shoulders, wrapped around him now. Dick can feel the weight of it, smells the familiar fabric. His head is resting against what can only be Bruce’s chest. Arms hold him in place and Dick’s first clear thought is, Tim would never believe this.
His leg- he’s going to pretend his leg doesn’t exist.
“You’re awake.” Bruce’s voice is loud in his ears. Oh yeah. He’s very close.
“I was asleep?” It felt more like being dragged under a bus than sleeping. Sleep would have been nice. His throat is dry and Dick wishes they’d brought water with them. He’s not desperate enough to drink this water. Dick doesn’t think he’d ever be that desperate.
“Non-responsive,” Bruce amends.
“You took off your cape.” Which means Bruce took off his cowl and that is almost unheard of in the field. He kind of wishes he could see Bruce's face to know it was real; to know this was really happening.
“No one can get in.”
And they couldn’t get out goes unsaid. Minimal danger of discovery. Dick is glad for it, the cape- and Bruce- making him feel a little less like he might freeze to death.
Silence follows. He guesses Bruce has exceeded his chattiness quota for the day. In the quiet Dick can make out the sound of water trickling in somewhere below him. He feels every slow, steady breath Bruce takes. Smells rotting and decay, old crumbling brick, copper, blood. His head is too heavy, his chest aches so badly Dick is certain he can feel it in his teeth. His leg burns even though he’s s cold. Despite the warmth of the cape and Bruce he’s still shivering and Dick needs distraction. He needs sound and he needs to speak and Dick doesn’t care if it hurts his throat or tires him out. It’s better than listening to the pounding and pounding and pounding in his head.
“So, no thoughts on getting out of here?” he asks. Escape seems like a safe subject.
“We wouldn’t be expected back until dawn-”
“You wouldn’t be expected back until dawn,” Dick interrupts. “I had plans.”
From the way Bruce changes his grip on Dick, says, “Oh?” Dick knows exactly what he’s thinking.
“Not like that.” It isn’t often Dick is in Gotham these days, and he’d planned on making the most of his visit. “I was gonna go out with Tim. Maybe invite Clark.”
“When?” And that right there is Batman’s interrogation voice.
“Ten.” Late enough to catch a movie. Eat too much popcorn. Have time to fly between Gotham’s familiar skyscrapers and towers afterwards.
Above him, Bruce nods slowly. “We’re well past that.”
They’ll know something is wrong. Tim has to know Dick wouldn’t just ditch him. Well, not without letting him know he was ditching him first.
But they’ll have to find them, and they’re buried under tonnes of brick and dirt and steel.
“Tracker?” Dick asks hopefully.
“No. No communications possible down here.” Bruce’s tone suggests he already tried that. Multiple times.
“We could try… shouting?” Dick suggests. “Beat Morse code out on… the pipes?”
“There are no pipes.”
Trust Bruce to take him seriously.
Silence again. Dick guesses Bruce must be considering their options. It’s not like him to sit and wait for rescue. Inconceivable that he would have given up. While they’re breathing there’s a chance; that’s a lesson Dick learned a hundred times over. Their options might be limited but that’s pretty much standard operating procedure for them.
Dick feels himself drifting. Without conversation he has nothing to focus on besides the pain, too much of it and everywhere and there’s a part of Dick that wishes he would just pass out and be done with it. But that feels too much like quitting. As useless as Dick feels he’d be even more of a burden as a dead weight.
Dead weight. He’d always thought that was a truly unfortunate phrase. Like dead wrong. It ended up being way too accurate half the time.
Okay. Too depressing. Think about something else. Like the water that’s starting to rise around him again, cold and uncomfortable where it gets into Dick’s clothes. He doesn’t know how big a space they’re in, or how fast the water is pouring into it, but the level is rising rapidly. Faster than before, Dick thinks.
“The… water-” Dick begins, finds himself too tired to finish the sentence. Bruce understands what he’s asking anyway.
“It’s coming in too fast,” Bruce confirms. “There’s no higher ground.”
Dick grimaces. “Don’t feel like swimming.”
A pause. Bruce shifts his legs, takes in a breath. Preparing himself to tell Dick something he won’t want to hear. He’s seen Bruce do it often enough.
“As a last resort, I can take out the wall behind us.”
Yeah. Dick had hoped they weren’t down to last resorts yet. He can do the math. More explosives in an unstable environment. It’s a massive risk. It could bring the whole roof down on them. It could drown them. It could burn them alive if it’s a small enough space. Or it could do nothing at all.
It’s likely the authorities are above them, looking into what the hell happened, but they won’t be looking for Batman. And if the water level keeps rising the way it currently is there’s no way they’ll be found, let alone rescued, before they both drown. Or freeze. Or blow themselves to smithereens.
“Clark-”
He’d told Dick he’d try to make it. No definites. Dick got that. You never knew when some maniac was going to try and take over the world. But Dick was certain too that Clark would come looking for them.
“I’ve warned you before,” Bruce says sternly, “about relying on his powers.”
“Not relying,” Dick shakes his head slowly. “Staying positive.” Which is becoming more and more difficult the colder Dick gets. The more the pain feels like it has wormed its way into his bones and taken up permanent residence there. Still, Dick tries. “He might hear us. Y’know. If we were… actually talking much.”
“We may be buried too deep.” Bruce sounds thoughtful. “Perhaps a louder noise. Something to attract his attention.”
“You could sing,” Dick suggests. “Clark would think… you were in agony.”
“You,” Bruce says, “have never heard me sing.”
“Have.” To his great misfortune, multiple times. “Shower. In the cave. It echoes.”
The silence that follows is a strange, tense thing that despite everything makes Dick grin because Bruce is probably trying to work out if Dick is lying or not, and if so what he can do by way of soundproofing.
When he first moved in with Bruce, Dick couldn’t understand the man at all. He was a mystery, hurrying away to late night meetings almost every night. He was contradictory; sometimes cold and aloof, other times sitting with Dick and talking and occasionally even laughing. Bruce never failed to surprise him. Dick would never have figured him a shower-singer but there he was, all of thirteen and recently back from patrol, sitting in Batman’s chair peeling sticky, gross seaweed off his legs and wishing for tights when he heard it. At first he thought it was the bats, but Dick could discern a sort-of tune in the echoes and realised it was Bruce humming some song Dick didn’t recognise. He guesses Bruce never figured out why Dick couldn’t’ stop laughing for hours that night. And at breakfast the next morning. And for most of the rest of the week. He’s pretty sure Bruce suspected exposure to Joker-gas.
There is a sharp pinch to his arm, Bruce is demanding his attention, hissing, Dick,” in his ear. Dick sits up straight in surprise. He hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep. Is kind of impressed he even could sleep with how messed up and cold he is. But then, he has a lot of experience. Winters were always the worst; stake-outs in freezing rain and snow and even when he’d been a kid Batman would always do that pinching thing to wake him up if he dozed on duty. It annoyed Dick then and it annoys Dick now.
“I’m awake,” he insists. His tongue feels heavy, too large, in his mouth.
“You weren’t.” Batman sounds pissed. And maybe he has a point because Dick can feel now that the water covers his thighs, is inching its way up past his waist. At some point Batman- Bruce- had tucked Dick’s hands against his chest. To keep them out of the rising water a little longer, he guesses.
His eyes do feel heavy and sore and everything is kind of muffled like he’s still half-asleep. Dick tries to shake it off but can’t. Someone was singing, he remembers. Badly. Must have been Bruce, in a memory. Or a dream. He tries blinking the confusion away and is surprised when instead of the darkness he’s gotten used to he sees something. Blurry splodges of greys- which is probably about all there is to see in a collapsed sewer anyway- but it’s better than nothing.
“Hey.” Dick reaches up to his face, tries to rub his eyes. Batman stops him with a hand around his wrist. “I can see. Kind of.”
He sees Bruce: his face is blurry but Dick could never not recognise him. Bruce leans down, looking Dick over carefully.
“Hi!” Dick greets. He’s maybe a little over excited about this, but it’s pretty much the first thing that’s gone right for Dick all day.
Bruce lets go of his wrist, but orders sternly, “Don’t touch your eyes.”
Oh yeah. Gross sewage-water covered hands. And the skin of his face still feels scrubbed raw.
It’s a novelty though, despite the crappy view, to look.
Dick turns his head away from Bruce’s shoulder, ignores the ache in his neck. The room is shaded a slightly ominous green- glow stick, Dick thinks- and in the dim light he can just about make out the wall on the other side. It’s made up of bricks and twisted beams and mud, water pouring in through a hundred crevices all over its surface.
Maybe Dick didn’t want to see that. Nor the dark water creeping up around them. It’s deeper than Dick had realised. Or at least he thinks it’s deep. His sight still isn’t exactly clear. The space they’re trapped in is a whole lot smaller than Dick had imagined.
“I’ve never thought about drowning.” Dick hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and regrets it immediately when he feels Bruce tense beside him, start to draw carefully away.
“We’re not going to drown.” It’s not so much that Bruce sounds certain but that he has that irritated stubborn tone going on that convinces Dick that no, he’ll find some extreme escape route likely to kill them before they get the chance.
“I’m going to set the charges,” Bruce says.
Oh right. Blowing the back wall. Exactly.
Bruce extracts himself from the hold he had on Dick, helping Dick shift over so that he’s leaning against the wall. The movement pulls at everything, stealing Dick’s breath. Even numb from the cold water the wound in his leg burns. God. An open gunshot wound stewing in sewer-juice. So gross.
Okay. Not thinking about that.
In the dark water Dick thinks he can just about make out Bruce’s makeshift bandage wrapped around his leg. He can’t see any blood, but the water’s so grimy and his sight is so bad that doesn’t mean much.
Batman crouches in front of Dick, his face close enough that Dick can see his stern expression. The green glow spilling across the walls of their prison makes his face look sickly and sinister. “Stay awake.” Then he is gone in a messy blur of black and shade, somewhere to Dick’s right.
He hears crumbling rocks, the splash of water as Bruce clambers down into the growing pool around them. Dick is sitting on a ledge, Dick realises, once a walkway beside the sewer proper. If there hadn’t been this higher ground Dick would have been in water over his head by now. He’d had to have stood. The water level has reached up to Dick’s chest now and he still might have to.
His eyes close, too heavy, and Dick tries to wrap his arms around his chest. Trying to keep them out of the water. He pulls Batman’s cape more tightly around himself. He’s cold and tired and there’s nothing much interesting to see anyway. Somewhere close by Dick can hear Bruce moving around, scratching out holes in the wall. He thinks he should probably help, or offer encouragement. Or something. But his head hurts less with his eyes closed. He’ll just rest for a few minutes. It’s not the same as falling asleep. It’s preserving his strength.
Gradually, sound fades away. Pain becomes numbness. For once- just this once, Dick wants to give in. He wants to let himself sleep and just not have to think or feel anymore. But he is Dick Grayson, former Boy Wonder and current Nightwing. He doesn’t give in. And worse, Batman will not be pleased if he does. So Dick tries to force his eyes open. Tries to shake himself or do something but his arms are dead weights and he’s starting to feel warm and that is so not right. Dick fights. He does. He just doesn’t win.
.Part 3.