One Week Only Event (is a lie)
Drinking. Sick. Old men. Galavanting. Sick. My past few weeks in six words.
Title: Half Lost, Half Found (3/5)
Rating: PG for language and violence
Words: 6,868 this part
Summary: Nightwing and Batman. H/C. Driven underground, Batman fights to keep Nightwing alive.
Again, thanks to cienna for the lovely beta, and to gnine for not letting me stop.
This chapter is dedicated to miki_moo for her birthday and her lack of patience. I hate you. ♥
.Half Lost, Half Found.
.Part 3.
Cold. Wet. Shouting. Sharp pain.
Dick wakes up suddenly and the first thing he thinks is, Batman is going to kill me. The second is that his head is under water and he’s drowning. He chokes, tries to find purchase on something, on anything, tries to push himself up but there’s nothing. Too slow. His muscles sluggish. Unresponsive.
Before he can panic there are hands pulling at his shoulders, yanking him out of the water and then finally, gratefully, he can breathe. Dick gasps and coughs until it hurts and oh God he’s so freaking cold.
The shouting is Bruce, Dick realises. No. Not shouting. He’s just very close, his mouth pretty much right up against Dick’s ear and he’s saying, “Wake up, Dick. Dammit, wake up.”
It feels like he’s been here before recently. Oh yeah. Because he has.
“Sorry.” Dick tries to apologise, but it comes out as more of a slur than a word. Stupid mouth.
Either Bruce doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say or he’s choosing to ignore him. Could go either way. Because then he orders, “Work with me.”
Dick wants to ask how when he doesn’t actually seem to have any control over his limbs. He’s shivering. His teeth are chattering and it’s starting to hurt his teeth. His teeth. They’re the least of his worries.
Batman is pulling at him, trying to turn him around. The water level is almost up to Dick’s neck now so he moves easily. Not fighting him, letting himself be pushed and pulled is about all the help Dick can give.
“I told you to stay awake.” Dick recognizes Batman’s tone; irritated. Impatient. Angry. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”
Dick complies, finds himself worn out by just that much effort and has to take several deep (painful, painful) breaths before he can reply. Somehow he manages to force his eyes open to prove he isn’t asleep. They feel gummed up and sore and it’s hard to make out anything more than the blur of shapes. But there is Bruce, peering at him sharply, and Dick concentrates on that.
“Wasn’t… asleep,” Dick scowls. He’s having a shitty day and it wouldn’t kill Bruce to cut his some slack. Just this once.
But this is Batman, and any weakness is a liability. He doesn’t stop pulling at Dick even when he hisses in pain, chokes and coughs when water sloshes into his mouth.
They’re moving into the corner, to slightly higher ground, the concrete and rubble under their feet sloping upwards. It would be impossible to sit on the ground and keep his chin out of the water now. Even half-numb from the cold there’s no let up from the pain, his leg hurting like a bitch where Dick has no choice but to balance on it.
Batman says, “The charges are set.”
Yeah, Batman is definitely mad at him.
“We’re… going through with this?” Dick is not going to call it a plan.
“We’re out of time.”
It’s impossible for Dick to know how long they’ve been trapped. Weirdly, it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long, but then Dick has been passing out all over and it could well have been hours. From the tense, pale look on Bruce’s face Dick guesses it probably hasn’t been a short while.
Dick feels like he should apologise.
“I never did… like baths,” he quips instead.
Straight-faced, Bruce nods, “I remember.”
Showers, yes. Baths, no. Dick had always thought them a waste of time. Now he’s going to develop a phobia of bathtubs. Not that this is anything like even the oldest and largest of the Manor’s bathrooms. Or that this water is anything like as fragrant as Alfred’s collection of herbal soaps.
“Never much liked… water.”
It’s kind of hard to talk when your teeth are chattering like crazy and even the muscles in your mouth are ignoring you. Dick tries to remind himself that if he’s feeling the cold then at least he’s not hypothermic. Still being able to feel stuff is good. Except where it gets so bad he blacks out again trying to bend his legs, trying to kneel up, keep his face out of the rising water.
The water hits his face like a fist; a sudden shock, sharp. Dick gasps, wishes he hadn’t when the foul tasting water hits the back of his mouth and he gags.
He’s only out for a few seconds, Dick thinks, but he wakes up gasping, his face pressed against Batman’s chest plate, slipping through Batman’s hold.
“Up,” Bruce orders. “I’ve got you.” Which is only kind of true because Dick feels like he’s doing most of the work here, grabbing hold of Batman’s shoulders, pulling himself upright.
Finally, somehow, Dick gets to standing. Or maybe, more accurately, balancing on one leg wedged between the crumbling wall and Batman. It takes a long time before he can catch his breath again. Here, the water level reaches up to the middle of his chest which is good because it means he’s not about to drown in sewerage anymore, but bad because his exposed half is suddenly freezing, sopping wet, colder, more uncomfortable than submerged.
“Next year,” Dick wheezes, “We’re going to… Bermuda… for my birthday.”
“Hurricanes,” Bruce points out.
“Not all year.”
It’s gotta be years since Dick went on a real, honest-to-God holiday. He can just about imagine the taste of too-sweet cocktails, the warmth of the sun on his back, silken sand between his toes. They used to travel sometimes when he was younger; just Dick, Bruce and Alfred and a deserted beach or a mountain trail or a calm, steady river to cruise along. Sometimes, Bruce used to laugh and smile back then.
“Bermuda,” Dick insists.
He’s going to take them all. He’s going to kidnap Bruce if he has to. Tie him down to a sun bed and force-feed him Pina Coladas. Tim can help.
Dick grins at the thought.
Bruce hums warily. “I don’t trust that smile.”
Dick’s grin widens and he opens his eyes, tries to look at Batman. His face is still kind of fuzzy, but Dick is certain Bruce is scowling at him.
“Fine. Bermuda. If we survive.”
Dick is going to hold him to that. And they will survive.
If his head weren’t mostly leaning against Batman’s shoulder Dick would be shaking his head in exasperation. “Always… the optimist.”
“Realist.”
A damp gloved hand rests against the back of Dick’s neck. For anyone else that would probably be a sign of support or comfort or something. Dick knows it’s a sign that worse is yet to come.
“We need to move.”
Definitely worse.
“We could… just talk about Bermuda some more?” Dick tries hopefully.
Bruce ignores him. “We’ll go slow. Hold on to me. Unless you want to be next to this wall when I blow it out.”
“I would prefer we didn’t…” Dick starts to say, and because Bruce is an ass he chooses that moment to start walking. Have to blow the wall at all, Dick finishes silently. Maybe walking is too strong a word. Hefting. Wobbling. Stumbling down fallen stone and brick deeper into the water. They’d just gotten out of the water.
Dick can’t quite bite back a yelp when his bad leg hits something solid under the water. His vision colours red and white and grey and the world narrows down to his leg and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
Bermuda, he thinks. Bermuda. The ocean. The sun. Burying Bruce in the sand while he sleeps.
Batman tightens his grasp on Dick’s waist, doesn’t stop moving. It’s not encouragement. It’s a clear message that Bruce believes Dick can do better, do more, keep going, keep pushing forward and so Dick does. He always does.
Every step is agony, ice-cold water creeping up towards his chin. Their wading creates waves around them, splashing in their faces, stinging at their eyes.
A bone-deep weariness hits Dick and he just wants to sleep again. Just for a little while. He wants this to all be over. But Bruce is demanding, “Walk,” and, “Don’t stop,” so Dick doesn’t.
It takes forever, feels like he’s covered ten miles and not only walked from what amounts to one side of a room to the other. He has to tilt his head up to keep his mouth out of the water and that hurts. Water fills his ears and washes over his face, making him cough. Dick’s just glad Tim isn’t here. The poor kid would have to swim by now.
Then there’s a wall at his back, and Batman is shifting him around, jolting every strained and pulled and broken part of Dick; taking his cape back, Dick realises. Blinking water from his eyes, trying to focus, Dick can just about make out Bruce pulling the cowl over his face one-handed. His mouth is set and Dick recognises that look. Determination. Unswerving dedication to a course of action no matter how crazy it might seem. Years of seeing only half of Bruce’s face have taught Dick to read him from nothing more than the line of his mouth, the set of his chin.
Somewhere between struggling to keep upright, trying to stop himself from drowning or passing out, trying not think about what’s coming, Dick hears Batman speaking into his ear. “Five second fuse, then hold your breath.”
There’s no time for protests now; no time to convince Batman that this is a really bad idea. They’re backed up against the opposite wall and Batman has an arm wrapped tightly around Dick.
“Nightwing,” he says. Back to business. It means, Give me your attention, and Batman waits until Dick more or less meets his eyes. There’s a detonator in his free hand held above the surface of the unsettled water. A warning. It’ll be even more unsettled soon.
A single sharp nod and Dick knows to count to five.
At times like these, when the world has come down to survival, to escape routes that no sane person would ever even contemplate, Dick has learnt from long experience that it’s best to just clear the mind. Not think too much about what’s about to happen. To fall back on training and instinct long ago drilled into him; obey Batman. React. Stay alive.
Five.
A breath. Too much water catches in his mouth but it’ll have to do.
He clings tightly to Batman, feels Batman holding onto him in return even more tightly, and then Batman is pulling them both under the surface and Dick squeezes his eyes closed. His injured leg hits the floor and the jolt of pain that spikes through him almost makes Dick let go. Almost makes him open his mouth to gasp or cry out or breathe. He clamps down on it. Batman is holding him so tightly it hurts his ribs, but if he’s still feeling then he’s still alive.
It’s not like before, when the sewer tunnels had been coming down around their ears. This time Dick knows what’s coming before he feels it; pressure knocking them back against the wall so hard that even submerged it’s like being thrown against concrete by some super-powered villain having a bad day.
One of Batman’s hands curls around the back of his head, drawing Dick’s face up against his neck. He desperately wants to breathe but the world is on fire now above them, heat bleeding into the water around them, and even hidden under Batman’s arms with his eyes closed, red and yellow burns through his eyelids. The sound of the explosion is a muffled boom in his ears. Too loud. Brick and debris rain down overhead and Dick can’t help but think Oh shit, and This is it. If they’ve blown the roof out too they’ll be buried alive and that’s not the kind of death Dick would wish on his worst enemy. And he has some pretty bad worst enemies.
But they aren’t crushed. They don’t die. Luck. Skill. Whatever it was. But the worst isn’t over yet.
Fingers dig into Dick’s sides.
In an instant the pressure is gone, replaced by a pulling, sucking whirlpool. Dick can feel the strain in Batman’s body as he tries to fight against it, tries to keep them pressed up against the wall but his feet slip and slide away and they’re dragged along helplessly by the tide.
There isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t feel flayed, ripped and torn apart. He’s choking. He’s drowning. He’s burning from the inside out and the only thing that’s keeping him grounded, keeping the black and grey edges around his vision engulfing him completely, are the arms around him that won’t let go; that don’t lose an inch of their grip on him. If Bruce can hold on then so can Dick.
They hit something. Hit a lot of somethings. By this point Dick doesn’t think he can actually feel any worse than he already does but the universe loves to infinitely surprise him. It’s one of the things he loves about life. Except not right now because Dick could really have done without the scraping and gouging. He could have done even more without the way they’re dashed against the ground- Dick thinks it’s the ground anyway- landing so heavily on his arm Dick thinks it might break.
Maybe things are looking up then because finally, finally Dick can breathe in air again and he doesn’t care how much it hurts his chest or how much water he coughs out. It feels good anyway. The moment of relief is over too soon and instead they’re tumbling, legs twisting together, hitting the ground over and over as they roll, carried along by the wave.
Dick doesn’t notice when they stop. He doesn’t notice much of anything, focused only on not letting go until he can’t feel his fingers any more. He can’t hear anything except dull ringing in his ears, his stomach still doing cartwheels, his head pounding.
Slowly, bruise by bruise, hollow sound by hollow sound, the world inches back into Dick’s awareness. He knows he’s lying on his back. He knows Batman is still there, lying beside him. Somehow he’s gotten wrapped up in Batman’s sodden cloak. Batman’s arms are still tight around his shoulders. It must have been bad, Dick thinks, because even Batman is breathing heavily.
Forcing his eyes open, it takes a freakily long time before Dick can see anything with any focus. But he knows, with the certainty of a hundred missions gone wrong before, Bruce is watching him.
“Stop with the… creepy staring thing,” Dick manages. He thinks he sees Bruce’s lips twitch upwards. Could be a trick of the light. Red drips down Bruce’s cheek in a diffused line, bleeding from somewhere under the cowl.
It’s just as well Dick doesn’t expect a reply because he certainly doesn’t get one. Instead Bruce gets right up in his face, peering closely at Dick’s eyes.
Maybe that is kind of an answer after all. Or maybe Bruce is proving a point. Or maybe he’s just checking that Dick hasn’t bashed his head any worse.
Apparently satisfied that Dick’s brains aren’t in danger of spilling out of his eyeballs, Bruce turns his attention to Dick’s neck, his shoulders, his arms, checking for breaks and punctures. The prodding is an irritation, pain flaring where Bruce pokes at bruises or tries to move his heavy, aching limbs. Even so, Dick submits to it, knowing arguing would only prolong the torture.
“Move your legs,” Batman orders.
Okay, hell no.
“Seriously?”
Dick has reached an almost Zen place with his pain and he does not want to screw that up. He’s not cold anymore. He doesn’t want to puke. It’s the best he’s felt in what has got to be hours. So maybe that’s not a good sign, but anything is better than before.
Batman stares at him.
“Jesus. I hate you.”
He doesn’t. Not even slightly. Dick gets what Bruce is doing, but it still sucks. Making sure Dick is still in one piece. Making sure that Dick is still aware of what’s going on around him.
And also, Dick hates him.
But he still obeys, bending his knee, dragging his good leg up until his foot is flat on the ground. It’s a relief that the movement doesn’t hurt too bad. The cold is making him numb, Dick thinks. There’s a stream running under his back, water winding its way around him, around where Batman is crouched down beside him. Looming over him. Scowling down at him.
“Now the other.”
Damn. With a crazy kind of desperation, Dick had been hoping Batman wouldn’t notice he hadn’t moved his bad leg.
Taking a deep breath, Dick tries to concentrate on anything other than the searing pain. He thinks of Barbara’s smile and he thinks of Tim running along rooftops beside him. Dick thinks of a time when he was a kid and standing in Batman’s shadow was safe instead of confining.
“All right,” Batman is saying somewhere close by. “Okay.” A hand lays lightly against his breastbone, a warm weight. There’s a buzzing in his ears and Dick has to pry his eyes open all over again. He doesn’t remember closing them.
Batman puts a hand against the side of his face, drawing Dick’s attention. “We’re going to walk out of here.”
Dick had been joking about Batman being the optimist before. He really had.
“You can… go for… help.” Speaking is becoming too much of an effort and it’s frustrating because Dick wants to talk. Always wants to talk. He doesn’t like silence. Never has. Sometimes Dick used to wonder how Bruce- quiet, reclusive Bruce- managed to stand the incessant chatter filling up his lifeless Manor, echoing through his cave. But maybe that was the point; there was too much silence and stillness in Bruce’s life. Maybe Bruce needed something different.
“I’m not leaving you here.” Definitive. No arguments. End of conversation, and really what was Dick expecting.
Arguing with Batman, though, is something Dick has long since become an expert at.
“Move quicker. Find Tim… or Superman. I’ll… be okay.” Dick even believes it. Mostly.
The only reply Dick gets is in the form of narrowed eyes and pursed lips like Batman is biting back words. Angry, then. Dick guesses he’d react the same way if Batman ever suggested he leave him behind. It’s just that Dick trusts Batman to come back for him, no matter what.
“We’re moving,” Batman says.
“Bad guys,” Dick argues.
“Either cleared out or dead.”
Dick watches warily as Batman moves around him, down towards his bad leg.
“Can’t… be certain.”
He’s looking at the makeshift bandage, still miraculously tied tightly around Dick’s calf.
“No, but I can deal with them.”
Not carrying me you can’t, Dick wants to point out, but Batman- the asshole- decides to choose that moment to grab hold of Dick’s leg. It’s reflex to try and sit up, try to lash out and get Batman the fuck away, but the attempt pulls at Dick’s chest and oh God he is so messed up.
Distantly he thinks he hears Batman telling him to, Lay still, Dick, and This will be over soon, but Dick wants it over now.
“You bastard,” Dick hisses. He grits his teeth against the agony of whatever the hell Batman is doing to his leg. It’s driving Dick crazy that he’s so damned helpless. He doesn’t even have the strength left to try pushing Batman off of him. “What… are you… doing?”
Eternally calm, Batman replies sternly, “Mind your language,” and then, “Retying this dressing.”
He takes long enough about it. Or maybe the leg just keeps right on hurting long after Batman has finished. That would explain why Batman is sitting cross-legged next to him, a hand cradling the back of his head, keeping it off the ground, when Dick finally gets a handle on the pain again enough to think about something other than wanting to punch Bruce in the face. And oh, what he wouldn’t give to not be conscious right now. Batman is looking away, scanning the roof and the walls with a methodical precision that tells Dick he’s using more than his eyes. How the cowl’s visors survived all the crap they’ve been through Dick will never know.
Dick follows his line of sight; between the dim green light of glow sticks and his unfocused vision he can just about make out a wide crack splitting across the curving brick arc of the tunnel roof. That cannot be good.
“The main tunnel will be blocked further up,” Batman tells him, somehow aware that Dick is awake without even needing to look. “There is a smaller tunnel we can take. It leads to a maintenance access-way.”
It says a whole lot that Batman doesn’t mention exactly how far they’re going to have to go.
There’s nothing more Dick wants than to just rest. To stop fighting and following Batman’s orders and let go. Maybe he would be saved. Maybe be wouldn’t. But it would be out of his hands. It would be easy. Except giving in is something Batman has never showed Dick how to do. It’s never been an option, not for any of them. So when Batman takes a hold of Dick’s shoulders, braces his legs against Dick’s side, Dick goes with it. Tries to ride through the pain. Focuses on levering himself up, getting some kind of balance when only one leg will even barely support his weight and when the world seems to tip further away with every inch towards upright he gains.
It must be bad, Dick thinks, because Batman is being encouraging. Well. What counts as encouraging for him.
He says, “Come on, Dick. You can do this,” and hefts Dick up into an awkward half-hug, half-collapsed kind of hold. “We’re getting out of here. Now,” Batman tells him and gets hands under Dick’s arms, pulling until he’s mostly vertical and clinging to Batman’s neck to stay that way. Leaning against Batman’s armour puts too much pressure on his chest. Hurts too much.
“Bruce-” Dick isn’t really sure what he’s asking; to make it stop. To help. To make this over with. Maybe it’s pathetic and needy but, whatever, Dick thinks he’s earned the right to whine a little.
Bruce understands anyway, carefully rearranges them to take the pressure off of Dick’s chest and tells him, “Slow breaths. That’s it. Good.”
Now, “One step in front of the other. We’re not stopping.”
As impossible as it might seem Dick knows that Bruce means it; he’ll keep Dick on his feet and moving until they’re out of here. Or dead. That’s how it always is with Bruce. With Batman. They work in absolutes. Good or bad. Friend or enemy. Feckless playboy or humourless crime-fighter. Dead or alive. It’s comforting in some ways because Dick knows with absolute certainty that Batman will do absolutely everything in his power to get them out of here vaguely intact, no matter what it takes. In other ways this single-mindedness terrifies Dick because it means that no matter how bad this gets, no matter how much it hurts, Bruce won’t let Dick rest.
He should be used to it, Dick thinks. Since he joined Batman’s war this crazy way of thinking- the expectation that there is always more to give- has been his life. In training, in fighting, in school Bruce would never let up. Always pushing Dick beyond what he thought his limits were like Bruce didn’t believe he actually had any. Dick had always thought, One day I’ll break, but he hadn’t yet. He won’t today.
Dick walks. Kind of walks. Closer to being dragged along beside Batman really, but whatever it is, it’s moving forward.
The ground is uneven which doesn’t help and Dick feels every brick and broken up, fallen section of wall that blocks their path reverberate through his injured leg as they clamber over rubble, spiking up his spine.
They move far enough that there is almost no light anymore, glow sticks abandoned back in what had been their concrete prison. They’re walking in almost pitch black before Batman produces another from his belt, cracks it alight against his armour. He holds it before them, picking his way carefully over debris stained with green light.
There’s a strong odour of burnt flesh that almost overpowers the sewer stench. An arm, a hand, curled in on itself like a claw, skin scorched red and black, reaches out from under a pile of bricks in front of them where part of the wall has collapsed. Dead. In the green glow it almost looks like some fake plastic Hallowe’en trick.
Dick hadn’t thought about it before but some of the bad guys trailing them hadn’t been far behind. Must have been caught up in the blast. Whoever set those explosives, whoever set them off, didn’t care they were killing their own trying to get rid of Batman. Beside him Batman tenses, narrowing his eyes. Dick understands that even if this dead man was one of the asshats who’d been trying to kill him earlier this is still a failure. Still someone who could have been saved from what had to have been a gruesome death.
Dick will never understand why there are people who chose to live among- to fight for- guys that’d kill you as soon as it became convenient. Who wouldn’t think twice about it.
They go around the cave-in.
Fourteen steps later, boots splashing in the shallow stream they’re walking through, Dick’s good leg gives way. It’s only Batman’s tight hold that stops him collapsing to the ground completely.
“Straighten up,” Batman orders, and somehow Dick finds the strength to unbend his leg.
Batman gives him no time to catch his breath before Dick is being pushed to move forward, to take another step, another, and another. Dick counts every one as an accomplishment. A great and impossible feat. Just one more, he tells himself and even if he knows it’s a lie somehow it works.
His vision narrows to his feet, his concentration focused on dragging one foot, shuffling forward the other, trying to work with Batman rather than hindering him. So distracted is Dick that he almost topples over when Batman comes to an abrupt stop.
Stopping now is not a good idea. Dick isn’t so sure he’ll be able to start moving again.
Dick tilts his head up to glare at Bruce. “Why are we-?”
“Our exit.”
Blinking water out of his eyes, squinting into the darkness, Dick follows Batman’s line of sight to the tunnel wall. He can just about make out a rusting grate set a few feet above ground level. It’s maybe big enough to crawl through. Dick looks down at his injured leg. Even having been immersed in water for so long the leg of his suit is still stained dark. In the green glow of Batman’s glow stick it looks purple.
“I can’t-”
Can’t crawl. Can’t bend his leg that way. Isn’t strong enough.
It’s no surprise that Batman ignores him, drags Dick over to the grate and attempts to lean him against the wall.
Hopelessness, frustration, anger claw at Dick’s stomach. He wants Batman to listen to him. He wants to rest. He wants Batman to stop fucking thinking he can keep going when he can’t. Dick isn’t Bruce. Nightwing isn’t Batman. His body just can’t take any more of this and Dick collapses to the ground as soon as Batman lets go.
It hurts when his ass hits the stone ground, jarring at his leg and his chest but right about now Dick just doesn’t give a shit anymore. He’s going to pass out, he decides. He’s done listening to Batman. He lets his eyes slide closed.
The next thing Dick feels is a sharp sting across his cheek; someone slapping him. Way to remind him he has a broken nose.
“M’sleep.” Fast asleep. Passed out. Dead to the fucking world. There is no sewer smell. There is no cold water running under him. There is no pain. There is no irritated Dark Knight crowding him, heavy cloak cutting out noise and icy breeze. There are only dreams of Alfred’s chocolate brownies and Bermuda. Where they’re going next year.
“No, you’re not.”
Trust Bruce to ruin his nice, comfortable fantasy.
It’s damned hard to stop himself arguing back because he totally is.
Cold fingers- skin rather than the leather of gloves- press up against his neck.
“You’re in shock,” Batman tells him.
“Could’a told ya that… hours ago,” Dick snorts. Even to his own ears his words sound slurred. Hollow.
The palm of a hand brushes lightly over his forehead. “I’m opening this gate. You’re staying awake.”
There’s a threat in there somewhere, Dick thinks. Absently, he wonders what Bruce would do if he died, right here and now. If he’d purge him from his life the way he did Jason. If he’d miss him. It’s not like they talk much anymore, and even more rarely about anything other than this criminal or that case.
Which is why Dick almost wants to laugh when Bruce says, “Talk to me.”
That was possibly, Dick thinks, the most difficult three words to ever come out of Bruce’s mouth. If he weren’t so damned exhausted Dick would’ve made a joke of it.
“’bout what?” he sighs instead.
“You always have something to say.”
Batman’s presence retreats and Dick finds himself missing the touch and the closeness. It’s stupid. Even when he was just a kid Dick understood that Bruce and physical affection didn’t mix so well. That Bruce was nothing like his parents. When he first came to the Manor Dick was almost glad for it. Bruce never tried to be his dad, not anything like. The distinction was a comfort. A line drawn under his old life. The beginning of a new colder, darker world where Dick was alone. Mostly alone. Except, you know, where he wasn’t.
There was always a shadow cast over him, a presence even on those long nights when Batman left him at home to finish his homework. A promise that he would return (to check he’d done it right). And when Dick couldn’t concentrate on anything because all he could think of was the blood on his mother’s lips and her blank, empty eyes as she lay dead and gone and broken on the ground. Bruce would always be there with training, or puzzles, or mug shots to memorise. It wasn’t exactly fun but it was something else to concentrate on. Something that was important.
To his left Bruce is calling, “Dick.”
“M’here.” Though Dick isn’t entirely sure how.
“Tell me where you were going with Tim and Clark,” Batman suggests. The sound of metal scraping against metal, old hinges screeching, sets Dick’s teeth on edge. He squeezes his eyes closed more tightly.
“Checkin’ up on me?”
“It’s a topic of conversation.”
Just that. Nothing more, Dick thinks. He’s exhausted enough, given up caring about three pints of blood ago, that he says, “Didn’t think you… cared ‘bout anything besides… Nightwing.”
When it came to Nightwing, Bruce always seemed to know everything; what cases he’d taken, how many bad guys he’d put away, what other crime fighters he’d been hanging with. Sometimes it was kind of creepy how much he knew. Sometimes it was reassuring; that Batman was covering his back. That he took an interest.
But about Dick Grayson, Bruce never seemed to know all that much at all.
“I do,” Bruce says shortly. Dick can hear the discomfort in his voice. For a second Dick is stunned to silence. That Bruce would admit even that much is unexpected. Surprising. Damn but Dick must be in a really bad way if Bruce is willing to right out say things like that.
“So where?” Bruce prompts. There’s strain in his voice, and a creaking sound. Must be heaving the grill open. Dick is too tired to look.
“No plan,” Dick replied. “Y’know I never... have a plan.”
“You used to like the movies.” More scraping. “Always wanted to go to the theatre for your birthday.”
Dick grins at the memory. “Fifteenth birthday. You wanted to… take me to… err… opera?”
“I enjoy opera.”
“I don’t.”
To be fair, Bruce did build him a motorbike which was both awesome and practical and pretty much summed up Bruce’s attitude towards gifts.
“How would you know? You’ve always refused to go.” There’s a splitting sound, a thud, and Dick imagines that Bruce has won his battle to open up their escape route.
In the end, Dick remembers, it hadn’t mattered anyway because that night, the night of his fifteenth birthday, when other kids had parties and cake Dick had an armed bank robbery to put a stop to.
“Hey,” Dick asks thoughtfully. “Did I ever… have a birthday where we weren’t… y’know. Fightin’ crime?”
If there was one Dick can’t remember it. Even in recent years, away from Gotham and Batman most of the time, Dick spends every birthday the same way he spends almost every other night; patrolling. Fighting. It always ends up the same.
Although generally not as bad as tonight.
“No.” Bruce’s next words echo dully, metallic, and Dick guesses he must be checking out the tunnel. It sounds small. Too small. Dick is not thinking about that. “If I tried to leave you at home you would take it as a punishment.”
Which was true, Dick thinks. He always hated being left behind.
The next thing Dick knows Bruce is gripping his upper arms. “It never was,” he says, doesn’t give Dick a chance to respond before he’s lifting him bodily up.
This isn’t going to work, Dick wants to argue but is too busy trying not to puke or pass out.
Yeah, he hates being left behind but right now he really wishes Batman would just leave him. But that’s about as likely to happen as The Joker is to become a model citizen.
So Dick bears it, not sure anymore how he’s still going.
Batman sits him in the mouth of the tunnel and somehow Dick stays upright. Somehow opens his eyes to find Batman kneeling in front of him. The dark outline of his cowl and cape almost blend in with the shadows surrounding him.
“It isn’t far.” Bruce tells him. “This is going to hurt.” As thought Dick didn’t know that already. “Talk to me. About your most recent case.”
The tunnel is so narrow he doubts Tim could stand upright in it. Dick swallows down his horror at the thought of crawling on his injured leg, let alone talking at the same time. “How am I-”
“I’ll do all the work. You can make it up to me by testing the cave’s security systems.”
Oh, hell no. Dick remembers the last time he let Bruce guilt him into doing that. He came out of it covered in bruises, with second degree burns all down his left arm and a mild concussion.
He scowls at Bruce, then he notices the glimpse of a smirk on his face. Asshole.
“I’d polish all… your silver before doing… that again.”
Bruce’s smirk widens. “Deal.”
The worst part is that Dick knows Bruce will hold him to it. And then Alfred will supervise. And then it’ll be three weeks later and Dick will still only have gotten through the dishes in the dining room.
In one fluid movement Batman moves into the tunnel beside Dick, moves past him, and Dick feels old and stiff and useless. It goes against his nature to be so still. Even as exhausted as Dick is, it burns in his gut that he can barely lift an arm right now.
“Talk,” Bruce demands from behind him. Dick can hear him fiddling with his gear, then a swish of cape. Instead of looking Dick leans against the side of the tunnel, closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at dark, half collapsed sewers anymore. He’d like even more if he didn’t have to smell them either.
“Nightwing.”
Right. Back to that. Good to know.
“I know you can keep going,” Bruce says. “We always keep going.”
Special Batman-style encouragement.
And this was something Batman had taught him too; how to keep yourself moving when you were in so much pain you could barely think. How to ignore injury, work through trauma, suppress fear, overcome exhaustion. The training is all so ingrained now that Dick rarely even consciously considers it. He just does it. Even now he knows he’s controlling his breathing. He knows he’s diverting his mind from pain and panic to concentrate on Bruce’s voice, on the creaking of the leather of his suit as Batman takes up position at his back, grips Dick under the arms. Dick tries to talk, like Batman asked.
There was a case. There’s always a case. He just can’t seem to remember it.
“I think-” he tries. “There was a-”
Dick doesn’t get any further because at that moment Batman pulls. He doesn’t even pull all that hard, but enough that his injured leg catches on the lip of the tunnel as he’s dragged along and then Dick can barely remember his own name. It just hurts and hurts and Dick is really fucking sick of the pain.
“’m retiring.” Dick hisses through gritted teeth. “Taking up crochet.”
“Crochet would mean,” Bruce pauses to draw breath before heaving Dick further into the tunnel, “sitting still.”
“Could do it… ah… on th’trapeze. New act.”
The tunnel is mostly dry, which makes a nice change, but finally out of the water Dick becomes aware of how sodden he is; how deeply entrenched the cold he is. He isn’t shivering anymore. He hasn’t in a while. It’s not like normal cold now. There is none of the sharp stinging along his extremities. This is bone deep, an iciness in his stomach and his chest that feels like it should be hunger but isn’t. Even worse, the dryness of the tunnel makes it more difficult for Batman to pull Dick along. His suit keeps snagging on the rough surface of the pipe, jolting Dick painfully. He legs bump over the lips between pipe sections and more than once Dick thinks he’s going to pass out.
He doesn’t. Bruce told him he could keep going and Dick believes it.
“Nightwing.” Bruce’s voice would be more commanding if the small space they were in didn’t flatten the sound out, making his deep, gruff tone a thin, quiet thing. Or maybe Dick’s hearing is just as messed up as the rest of him. That would be just about Dick’s luck right now. “Talk.”
“You talk,” Dick replies petulantly.
“I’m not the one who keeps losing consciousness.”
Dick didn’t realise he was doing that. He’d thought he’d managed to stay awake. Blinking, Dick tries to focus on the tunnel beyond, the grey-brown curved walls turning to black, formless in the distance. He doesn’t remember going so far that he can no longer see the opening they entered the tunnel through.
Behind him Batman is breathing heavily. From exertion, Dick guesses.
“’m not that heavy,” Dick grumbles.
“You’re a grown man,” Batman reminds him, as though Dick had somehow forgotten. But then, in the presence of Batman Dick often feels small, like he’s a kid all over again.
“Yeah,” Dick agrees. They’re long past the point where either of them can imagine that their relationship will ever be as simple as it was when Dick was young and Bruce still had a sense of humour. Before their world became a much darker, more vicious place. They might have lost that innocence but Dick won’t ever give up on trying to make Bruce smile, so he adds, because he can’t resist, “Are we there yet?”
That earns him a snort out of Batman. “I take it all back. You’re still a kid.”
He heaves Dick another few inches along and Dick understands exactly why he keeps passing out.
Another few inches. Dick squeezes his eyes shut.
“Compared t’you,” Dick grits out, “Old man.”
Behind him Batman takes a breath, pulls, takes a breath, pulls.
“And look who’s doing all the work.”
“Keeping you in… shape.”
Dick grabs at Bruce’s- Batman’s- gloved hand where it curls underneath his arms. Maybe it’s to try and get Bruce to stop. Maybe he just needs something to hold on to, but Batman squeezes his hand in reply; encouragement and acknowledgment that he’s here and not giving up and it’s enough. Every time Dick thinks he can’t take any more Bruce always seems to know exactly what to do to push him that one step further, push him that much harder. That’s how it’s always been with them. Now, too, Bruce is pushing Dick to stand more than he ever thought possible. Shouldn’t be possible, really.
Dick is dragged another few inches, and gripping hold of Bruce’s hand he imagines he could keep going for miles yet.
.To be continued.
Comments and concrit are much loved and appreciated as always!
Title: Half Lost, Half Found (3/5)
Rating: PG for language and violence
Words: 6,868 this part
Summary: Nightwing and Batman. H/C. Driven underground, Batman fights to keep Nightwing alive.
Again, thanks to cienna for the lovely beta, and to gnine for not letting me stop.
This chapter is dedicated to miki_moo for her birthday and her lack of patience. I hate you. ♥
.Half Lost, Half Found.
.Part 3.
Cold. Wet. Shouting. Sharp pain.
Dick wakes up suddenly and the first thing he thinks is, Batman is going to kill me. The second is that his head is under water and he’s drowning. He chokes, tries to find purchase on something, on anything, tries to push himself up but there’s nothing. Too slow. His muscles sluggish. Unresponsive.
Before he can panic there are hands pulling at his shoulders, yanking him out of the water and then finally, gratefully, he can breathe. Dick gasps and coughs until it hurts and oh God he’s so freaking cold.
The shouting is Bruce, Dick realises. No. Not shouting. He’s just very close, his mouth pretty much right up against Dick’s ear and he’s saying, “Wake up, Dick. Dammit, wake up.”
It feels like he’s been here before recently. Oh yeah. Because he has.
“Sorry.” Dick tries to apologise, but it comes out as more of a slur than a word. Stupid mouth.
Either Bruce doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say or he’s choosing to ignore him. Could go either way. Because then he orders, “Work with me.”
Dick wants to ask how when he doesn’t actually seem to have any control over his limbs. He’s shivering. His teeth are chattering and it’s starting to hurt his teeth. His teeth. They’re the least of his worries.
Batman is pulling at him, trying to turn him around. The water level is almost up to Dick’s neck now so he moves easily. Not fighting him, letting himself be pushed and pulled is about all the help Dick can give.
“I told you to stay awake.” Dick recognizes Batman’s tone; irritated. Impatient. Angry. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”
Dick complies, finds himself worn out by just that much effort and has to take several deep (painful, painful) breaths before he can reply. Somehow he manages to force his eyes open to prove he isn’t asleep. They feel gummed up and sore and it’s hard to make out anything more than the blur of shapes. But there is Bruce, peering at him sharply, and Dick concentrates on that.
“Wasn’t… asleep,” Dick scowls. He’s having a shitty day and it wouldn’t kill Bruce to cut his some slack. Just this once.
But this is Batman, and any weakness is a liability. He doesn’t stop pulling at Dick even when he hisses in pain, chokes and coughs when water sloshes into his mouth.
They’re moving into the corner, to slightly higher ground, the concrete and rubble under their feet sloping upwards. It would be impossible to sit on the ground and keep his chin out of the water now. Even half-numb from the cold there’s no let up from the pain, his leg hurting like a bitch where Dick has no choice but to balance on it.
Batman says, “The charges are set.”
Yeah, Batman is definitely mad at him.
“We’re… going through with this?” Dick is not going to call it a plan.
“We’re out of time.”
It’s impossible for Dick to know how long they’ve been trapped. Weirdly, it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long, but then Dick has been passing out all over and it could well have been hours. From the tense, pale look on Bruce’s face Dick guesses it probably hasn’t been a short while.
Dick feels like he should apologise.
“I never did… like baths,” he quips instead.
Straight-faced, Bruce nods, “I remember.”
Showers, yes. Baths, no. Dick had always thought them a waste of time. Now he’s going to develop a phobia of bathtubs. Not that this is anything like even the oldest and largest of the Manor’s bathrooms. Or that this water is anything like as fragrant as Alfred’s collection of herbal soaps.
“Never much liked… water.”
It’s kind of hard to talk when your teeth are chattering like crazy and even the muscles in your mouth are ignoring you. Dick tries to remind himself that if he’s feeling the cold then at least he’s not hypothermic. Still being able to feel stuff is good. Except where it gets so bad he blacks out again trying to bend his legs, trying to kneel up, keep his face out of the rising water.
The water hits his face like a fist; a sudden shock, sharp. Dick gasps, wishes he hadn’t when the foul tasting water hits the back of his mouth and he gags.
He’s only out for a few seconds, Dick thinks, but he wakes up gasping, his face pressed against Batman’s chest plate, slipping through Batman’s hold.
“Up,” Bruce orders. “I’ve got you.” Which is only kind of true because Dick feels like he’s doing most of the work here, grabbing hold of Batman’s shoulders, pulling himself upright.
Finally, somehow, Dick gets to standing. Or maybe, more accurately, balancing on one leg wedged between the crumbling wall and Batman. It takes a long time before he can catch his breath again. Here, the water level reaches up to the middle of his chest which is good because it means he’s not about to drown in sewerage anymore, but bad because his exposed half is suddenly freezing, sopping wet, colder, more uncomfortable than submerged.
“Next year,” Dick wheezes, “We’re going to… Bermuda… for my birthday.”
“Hurricanes,” Bruce points out.
“Not all year.”
It’s gotta be years since Dick went on a real, honest-to-God holiday. He can just about imagine the taste of too-sweet cocktails, the warmth of the sun on his back, silken sand between his toes. They used to travel sometimes when he was younger; just Dick, Bruce and Alfred and a deserted beach or a mountain trail or a calm, steady river to cruise along. Sometimes, Bruce used to laugh and smile back then.
“Bermuda,” Dick insists.
He’s going to take them all. He’s going to kidnap Bruce if he has to. Tie him down to a sun bed and force-feed him Pina Coladas. Tim can help.
Dick grins at the thought.
Bruce hums warily. “I don’t trust that smile.”
Dick’s grin widens and he opens his eyes, tries to look at Batman. His face is still kind of fuzzy, but Dick is certain Bruce is scowling at him.
“Fine. Bermuda. If we survive.”
Dick is going to hold him to that. And they will survive.
If his head weren’t mostly leaning against Batman’s shoulder Dick would be shaking his head in exasperation. “Always… the optimist.”
“Realist.”
A damp gloved hand rests against the back of Dick’s neck. For anyone else that would probably be a sign of support or comfort or something. Dick knows it’s a sign that worse is yet to come.
“We need to move.”
Definitely worse.
“We could… just talk about Bermuda some more?” Dick tries hopefully.
Bruce ignores him. “We’ll go slow. Hold on to me. Unless you want to be next to this wall when I blow it out.”
“I would prefer we didn’t…” Dick starts to say, and because Bruce is an ass he chooses that moment to start walking. Have to blow the wall at all, Dick finishes silently. Maybe walking is too strong a word. Hefting. Wobbling. Stumbling down fallen stone and brick deeper into the water. They’d just gotten out of the water.
Dick can’t quite bite back a yelp when his bad leg hits something solid under the water. His vision colours red and white and grey and the world narrows down to his leg and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
Bermuda, he thinks. Bermuda. The ocean. The sun. Burying Bruce in the sand while he sleeps.
Batman tightens his grasp on Dick’s waist, doesn’t stop moving. It’s not encouragement. It’s a clear message that Bruce believes Dick can do better, do more, keep going, keep pushing forward and so Dick does. He always does.
Every step is agony, ice-cold water creeping up towards his chin. Their wading creates waves around them, splashing in their faces, stinging at their eyes.
A bone-deep weariness hits Dick and he just wants to sleep again. Just for a little while. He wants this to all be over. But Bruce is demanding, “Walk,” and, “Don’t stop,” so Dick doesn’t.
It takes forever, feels like he’s covered ten miles and not only walked from what amounts to one side of a room to the other. He has to tilt his head up to keep his mouth out of the water and that hurts. Water fills his ears and washes over his face, making him cough. Dick’s just glad Tim isn’t here. The poor kid would have to swim by now.
Then there’s a wall at his back, and Batman is shifting him around, jolting every strained and pulled and broken part of Dick; taking his cape back, Dick realises. Blinking water from his eyes, trying to focus, Dick can just about make out Bruce pulling the cowl over his face one-handed. His mouth is set and Dick recognises that look. Determination. Unswerving dedication to a course of action no matter how crazy it might seem. Years of seeing only half of Bruce’s face have taught Dick to read him from nothing more than the line of his mouth, the set of his chin.
Somewhere between struggling to keep upright, trying to stop himself from drowning or passing out, trying not think about what’s coming, Dick hears Batman speaking into his ear. “Five second fuse, then hold your breath.”
There’s no time for protests now; no time to convince Batman that this is a really bad idea. They’re backed up against the opposite wall and Batman has an arm wrapped tightly around Dick.
“Nightwing,” he says. Back to business. It means, Give me your attention, and Batman waits until Dick more or less meets his eyes. There’s a detonator in his free hand held above the surface of the unsettled water. A warning. It’ll be even more unsettled soon.
A single sharp nod and Dick knows to count to five.
At times like these, when the world has come down to survival, to escape routes that no sane person would ever even contemplate, Dick has learnt from long experience that it’s best to just clear the mind. Not think too much about what’s about to happen. To fall back on training and instinct long ago drilled into him; obey Batman. React. Stay alive.
Five.
A breath. Too much water catches in his mouth but it’ll have to do.
He clings tightly to Batman, feels Batman holding onto him in return even more tightly, and then Batman is pulling them both under the surface and Dick squeezes his eyes closed. His injured leg hits the floor and the jolt of pain that spikes through him almost makes Dick let go. Almost makes him open his mouth to gasp or cry out or breathe. He clamps down on it. Batman is holding him so tightly it hurts his ribs, but if he’s still feeling then he’s still alive.
It’s not like before, when the sewer tunnels had been coming down around their ears. This time Dick knows what’s coming before he feels it; pressure knocking them back against the wall so hard that even submerged it’s like being thrown against concrete by some super-powered villain having a bad day.
One of Batman’s hands curls around the back of his head, drawing Dick’s face up against his neck. He desperately wants to breathe but the world is on fire now above them, heat bleeding into the water around them, and even hidden under Batman’s arms with his eyes closed, red and yellow burns through his eyelids. The sound of the explosion is a muffled boom in his ears. Too loud. Brick and debris rain down overhead and Dick can’t help but think Oh shit, and This is it. If they’ve blown the roof out too they’ll be buried alive and that’s not the kind of death Dick would wish on his worst enemy. And he has some pretty bad worst enemies.
But they aren’t crushed. They don’t die. Luck. Skill. Whatever it was. But the worst isn’t over yet.
Fingers dig into Dick’s sides.
In an instant the pressure is gone, replaced by a pulling, sucking whirlpool. Dick can feel the strain in Batman’s body as he tries to fight against it, tries to keep them pressed up against the wall but his feet slip and slide away and they’re dragged along helplessly by the tide.
There isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t feel flayed, ripped and torn apart. He’s choking. He’s drowning. He’s burning from the inside out and the only thing that’s keeping him grounded, keeping the black and grey edges around his vision engulfing him completely, are the arms around him that won’t let go; that don’t lose an inch of their grip on him. If Bruce can hold on then so can Dick.
They hit something. Hit a lot of somethings. By this point Dick doesn’t think he can actually feel any worse than he already does but the universe loves to infinitely surprise him. It’s one of the things he loves about life. Except not right now because Dick could really have done without the scraping and gouging. He could have done even more without the way they’re dashed against the ground- Dick thinks it’s the ground anyway- landing so heavily on his arm Dick thinks it might break.
Maybe things are looking up then because finally, finally Dick can breathe in air again and he doesn’t care how much it hurts his chest or how much water he coughs out. It feels good anyway. The moment of relief is over too soon and instead they’re tumbling, legs twisting together, hitting the ground over and over as they roll, carried along by the wave.
Dick doesn’t notice when they stop. He doesn’t notice much of anything, focused only on not letting go until he can’t feel his fingers any more. He can’t hear anything except dull ringing in his ears, his stomach still doing cartwheels, his head pounding.
Slowly, bruise by bruise, hollow sound by hollow sound, the world inches back into Dick’s awareness. He knows he’s lying on his back. He knows Batman is still there, lying beside him. Somehow he’s gotten wrapped up in Batman’s sodden cloak. Batman’s arms are still tight around his shoulders. It must have been bad, Dick thinks, because even Batman is breathing heavily.
Forcing his eyes open, it takes a freakily long time before Dick can see anything with any focus. But he knows, with the certainty of a hundred missions gone wrong before, Bruce is watching him.
“Stop with the… creepy staring thing,” Dick manages. He thinks he sees Bruce’s lips twitch upwards. Could be a trick of the light. Red drips down Bruce’s cheek in a diffused line, bleeding from somewhere under the cowl.
It’s just as well Dick doesn’t expect a reply because he certainly doesn’t get one. Instead Bruce gets right up in his face, peering closely at Dick’s eyes.
Maybe that is kind of an answer after all. Or maybe Bruce is proving a point. Or maybe he’s just checking that Dick hasn’t bashed his head any worse.
Apparently satisfied that Dick’s brains aren’t in danger of spilling out of his eyeballs, Bruce turns his attention to Dick’s neck, his shoulders, his arms, checking for breaks and punctures. The prodding is an irritation, pain flaring where Bruce pokes at bruises or tries to move his heavy, aching limbs. Even so, Dick submits to it, knowing arguing would only prolong the torture.
“Move your legs,” Batman orders.
Okay, hell no.
“Seriously?”
Dick has reached an almost Zen place with his pain and he does not want to screw that up. He’s not cold anymore. He doesn’t want to puke. It’s the best he’s felt in what has got to be hours. So maybe that’s not a good sign, but anything is better than before.
Batman stares at him.
“Jesus. I hate you.”
He doesn’t. Not even slightly. Dick gets what Bruce is doing, but it still sucks. Making sure Dick is still in one piece. Making sure that Dick is still aware of what’s going on around him.
And also, Dick hates him.
But he still obeys, bending his knee, dragging his good leg up until his foot is flat on the ground. It’s a relief that the movement doesn’t hurt too bad. The cold is making him numb, Dick thinks. There’s a stream running under his back, water winding its way around him, around where Batman is crouched down beside him. Looming over him. Scowling down at him.
“Now the other.”
Damn. With a crazy kind of desperation, Dick had been hoping Batman wouldn’t notice he hadn’t moved his bad leg.
Taking a deep breath, Dick tries to concentrate on anything other than the searing pain. He thinks of Barbara’s smile and he thinks of Tim running along rooftops beside him. Dick thinks of a time when he was a kid and standing in Batman’s shadow was safe instead of confining.
“All right,” Batman is saying somewhere close by. “Okay.” A hand lays lightly against his breastbone, a warm weight. There’s a buzzing in his ears and Dick has to pry his eyes open all over again. He doesn’t remember closing them.
Batman puts a hand against the side of his face, drawing Dick’s attention. “We’re going to walk out of here.”
Dick had been joking about Batman being the optimist before. He really had.
“You can… go for… help.” Speaking is becoming too much of an effort and it’s frustrating because Dick wants to talk. Always wants to talk. He doesn’t like silence. Never has. Sometimes Dick used to wonder how Bruce- quiet, reclusive Bruce- managed to stand the incessant chatter filling up his lifeless Manor, echoing through his cave. But maybe that was the point; there was too much silence and stillness in Bruce’s life. Maybe Bruce needed something different.
“I’m not leaving you here.” Definitive. No arguments. End of conversation, and really what was Dick expecting.
Arguing with Batman, though, is something Dick has long since become an expert at.
“Move quicker. Find Tim… or Superman. I’ll… be okay.” Dick even believes it. Mostly.
The only reply Dick gets is in the form of narrowed eyes and pursed lips like Batman is biting back words. Angry, then. Dick guesses he’d react the same way if Batman ever suggested he leave him behind. It’s just that Dick trusts Batman to come back for him, no matter what.
“We’re moving,” Batman says.
“Bad guys,” Dick argues.
“Either cleared out or dead.”
Dick watches warily as Batman moves around him, down towards his bad leg.
“Can’t… be certain.”
He’s looking at the makeshift bandage, still miraculously tied tightly around Dick’s calf.
“No, but I can deal with them.”
Not carrying me you can’t, Dick wants to point out, but Batman- the asshole- decides to choose that moment to grab hold of Dick’s leg. It’s reflex to try and sit up, try to lash out and get Batman the fuck away, but the attempt pulls at Dick’s chest and oh God he is so messed up.
Distantly he thinks he hears Batman telling him to, Lay still, Dick, and This will be over soon, but Dick wants it over now.
“You bastard,” Dick hisses. He grits his teeth against the agony of whatever the hell Batman is doing to his leg. It’s driving Dick crazy that he’s so damned helpless. He doesn’t even have the strength left to try pushing Batman off of him. “What… are you… doing?”
Eternally calm, Batman replies sternly, “Mind your language,” and then, “Retying this dressing.”
He takes long enough about it. Or maybe the leg just keeps right on hurting long after Batman has finished. That would explain why Batman is sitting cross-legged next to him, a hand cradling the back of his head, keeping it off the ground, when Dick finally gets a handle on the pain again enough to think about something other than wanting to punch Bruce in the face. And oh, what he wouldn’t give to not be conscious right now. Batman is looking away, scanning the roof and the walls with a methodical precision that tells Dick he’s using more than his eyes. How the cowl’s visors survived all the crap they’ve been through Dick will never know.
Dick follows his line of sight; between the dim green light of glow sticks and his unfocused vision he can just about make out a wide crack splitting across the curving brick arc of the tunnel roof. That cannot be good.
“The main tunnel will be blocked further up,” Batman tells him, somehow aware that Dick is awake without even needing to look. “There is a smaller tunnel we can take. It leads to a maintenance access-way.”
It says a whole lot that Batman doesn’t mention exactly how far they’re going to have to go.
There’s nothing more Dick wants than to just rest. To stop fighting and following Batman’s orders and let go. Maybe he would be saved. Maybe be wouldn’t. But it would be out of his hands. It would be easy. Except giving in is something Batman has never showed Dick how to do. It’s never been an option, not for any of them. So when Batman takes a hold of Dick’s shoulders, braces his legs against Dick’s side, Dick goes with it. Tries to ride through the pain. Focuses on levering himself up, getting some kind of balance when only one leg will even barely support his weight and when the world seems to tip further away with every inch towards upright he gains.
It must be bad, Dick thinks, because Batman is being encouraging. Well. What counts as encouraging for him.
He says, “Come on, Dick. You can do this,” and hefts Dick up into an awkward half-hug, half-collapsed kind of hold. “We’re getting out of here. Now,” Batman tells him and gets hands under Dick’s arms, pulling until he’s mostly vertical and clinging to Batman’s neck to stay that way. Leaning against Batman’s armour puts too much pressure on his chest. Hurts too much.
“Bruce-” Dick isn’t really sure what he’s asking; to make it stop. To help. To make this over with. Maybe it’s pathetic and needy but, whatever, Dick thinks he’s earned the right to whine a little.
Bruce understands anyway, carefully rearranges them to take the pressure off of Dick’s chest and tells him, “Slow breaths. That’s it. Good.”
Now, “One step in front of the other. We’re not stopping.”
As impossible as it might seem Dick knows that Bruce means it; he’ll keep Dick on his feet and moving until they’re out of here. Or dead. That’s how it always is with Bruce. With Batman. They work in absolutes. Good or bad. Friend or enemy. Feckless playboy or humourless crime-fighter. Dead or alive. It’s comforting in some ways because Dick knows with absolute certainty that Batman will do absolutely everything in his power to get them out of here vaguely intact, no matter what it takes. In other ways this single-mindedness terrifies Dick because it means that no matter how bad this gets, no matter how much it hurts, Bruce won’t let Dick rest.
He should be used to it, Dick thinks. Since he joined Batman’s war this crazy way of thinking- the expectation that there is always more to give- has been his life. In training, in fighting, in school Bruce would never let up. Always pushing Dick beyond what he thought his limits were like Bruce didn’t believe he actually had any. Dick had always thought, One day I’ll break, but he hadn’t yet. He won’t today.
Dick walks. Kind of walks. Closer to being dragged along beside Batman really, but whatever it is, it’s moving forward.
The ground is uneven which doesn’t help and Dick feels every brick and broken up, fallen section of wall that blocks their path reverberate through his injured leg as they clamber over rubble, spiking up his spine.
They move far enough that there is almost no light anymore, glow sticks abandoned back in what had been their concrete prison. They’re walking in almost pitch black before Batman produces another from his belt, cracks it alight against his armour. He holds it before them, picking his way carefully over debris stained with green light.
There’s a strong odour of burnt flesh that almost overpowers the sewer stench. An arm, a hand, curled in on itself like a claw, skin scorched red and black, reaches out from under a pile of bricks in front of them where part of the wall has collapsed. Dead. In the green glow it almost looks like some fake plastic Hallowe’en trick.
Dick hadn’t thought about it before but some of the bad guys trailing them hadn’t been far behind. Must have been caught up in the blast. Whoever set those explosives, whoever set them off, didn’t care they were killing their own trying to get rid of Batman. Beside him Batman tenses, narrowing his eyes. Dick understands that even if this dead man was one of the asshats who’d been trying to kill him earlier this is still a failure. Still someone who could have been saved from what had to have been a gruesome death.
Dick will never understand why there are people who chose to live among- to fight for- guys that’d kill you as soon as it became convenient. Who wouldn’t think twice about it.
They go around the cave-in.
Fourteen steps later, boots splashing in the shallow stream they’re walking through, Dick’s good leg gives way. It’s only Batman’s tight hold that stops him collapsing to the ground completely.
“Straighten up,” Batman orders, and somehow Dick finds the strength to unbend his leg.
Batman gives him no time to catch his breath before Dick is being pushed to move forward, to take another step, another, and another. Dick counts every one as an accomplishment. A great and impossible feat. Just one more, he tells himself and even if he knows it’s a lie somehow it works.
His vision narrows to his feet, his concentration focused on dragging one foot, shuffling forward the other, trying to work with Batman rather than hindering him. So distracted is Dick that he almost topples over when Batman comes to an abrupt stop.
Stopping now is not a good idea. Dick isn’t so sure he’ll be able to start moving again.
Dick tilts his head up to glare at Bruce. “Why are we-?”
“Our exit.”
Blinking water out of his eyes, squinting into the darkness, Dick follows Batman’s line of sight to the tunnel wall. He can just about make out a rusting grate set a few feet above ground level. It’s maybe big enough to crawl through. Dick looks down at his injured leg. Even having been immersed in water for so long the leg of his suit is still stained dark. In the green glow of Batman’s glow stick it looks purple.
“I can’t-”
Can’t crawl. Can’t bend his leg that way. Isn’t strong enough.
It’s no surprise that Batman ignores him, drags Dick over to the grate and attempts to lean him against the wall.
Hopelessness, frustration, anger claw at Dick’s stomach. He wants Batman to listen to him. He wants to rest. He wants Batman to stop fucking thinking he can keep going when he can’t. Dick isn’t Bruce. Nightwing isn’t Batman. His body just can’t take any more of this and Dick collapses to the ground as soon as Batman lets go.
It hurts when his ass hits the stone ground, jarring at his leg and his chest but right about now Dick just doesn’t give a shit anymore. He’s going to pass out, he decides. He’s done listening to Batman. He lets his eyes slide closed.
The next thing Dick feels is a sharp sting across his cheek; someone slapping him. Way to remind him he has a broken nose.
“M’sleep.” Fast asleep. Passed out. Dead to the fucking world. There is no sewer smell. There is no cold water running under him. There is no pain. There is no irritated Dark Knight crowding him, heavy cloak cutting out noise and icy breeze. There are only dreams of Alfred’s chocolate brownies and Bermuda. Where they’re going next year.
“No, you’re not.”
Trust Bruce to ruin his nice, comfortable fantasy.
It’s damned hard to stop himself arguing back because he totally is.
Cold fingers- skin rather than the leather of gloves- press up against his neck.
“You’re in shock,” Batman tells him.
“Could’a told ya that… hours ago,” Dick snorts. Even to his own ears his words sound slurred. Hollow.
The palm of a hand brushes lightly over his forehead. “I’m opening this gate. You’re staying awake.”
There’s a threat in there somewhere, Dick thinks. Absently, he wonders what Bruce would do if he died, right here and now. If he’d purge him from his life the way he did Jason. If he’d miss him. It’s not like they talk much anymore, and even more rarely about anything other than this criminal or that case.
Which is why Dick almost wants to laugh when Bruce says, “Talk to me.”
That was possibly, Dick thinks, the most difficult three words to ever come out of Bruce’s mouth. If he weren’t so damned exhausted Dick would’ve made a joke of it.
“’bout what?” he sighs instead.
“You always have something to say.”
Batman’s presence retreats and Dick finds himself missing the touch and the closeness. It’s stupid. Even when he was just a kid Dick understood that Bruce and physical affection didn’t mix so well. That Bruce was nothing like his parents. When he first came to the Manor Dick was almost glad for it. Bruce never tried to be his dad, not anything like. The distinction was a comfort. A line drawn under his old life. The beginning of a new colder, darker world where Dick was alone. Mostly alone. Except, you know, where he wasn’t.
There was always a shadow cast over him, a presence even on those long nights when Batman left him at home to finish his homework. A promise that he would return (to check he’d done it right). And when Dick couldn’t concentrate on anything because all he could think of was the blood on his mother’s lips and her blank, empty eyes as she lay dead and gone and broken on the ground. Bruce would always be there with training, or puzzles, or mug shots to memorise. It wasn’t exactly fun but it was something else to concentrate on. Something that was important.
To his left Bruce is calling, “Dick.”
“M’here.” Though Dick isn’t entirely sure how.
“Tell me where you were going with Tim and Clark,” Batman suggests. The sound of metal scraping against metal, old hinges screeching, sets Dick’s teeth on edge. He squeezes his eyes closed more tightly.
“Checkin’ up on me?”
“It’s a topic of conversation.”
Just that. Nothing more, Dick thinks. He’s exhausted enough, given up caring about three pints of blood ago, that he says, “Didn’t think you… cared ‘bout anything besides… Nightwing.”
When it came to Nightwing, Bruce always seemed to know everything; what cases he’d taken, how many bad guys he’d put away, what other crime fighters he’d been hanging with. Sometimes it was kind of creepy how much he knew. Sometimes it was reassuring; that Batman was covering his back. That he took an interest.
But about Dick Grayson, Bruce never seemed to know all that much at all.
“I do,” Bruce says shortly. Dick can hear the discomfort in his voice. For a second Dick is stunned to silence. That Bruce would admit even that much is unexpected. Surprising. Damn but Dick must be in a really bad way if Bruce is willing to right out say things like that.
“So where?” Bruce prompts. There’s strain in his voice, and a creaking sound. Must be heaving the grill open. Dick is too tired to look.
“No plan,” Dick replied. “Y’know I never... have a plan.”
“You used to like the movies.” More scraping. “Always wanted to go to the theatre for your birthday.”
Dick grins at the memory. “Fifteenth birthday. You wanted to… take me to… err… opera?”
“I enjoy opera.”
“I don’t.”
To be fair, Bruce did build him a motorbike which was both awesome and practical and pretty much summed up Bruce’s attitude towards gifts.
“How would you know? You’ve always refused to go.” There’s a splitting sound, a thud, and Dick imagines that Bruce has won his battle to open up their escape route.
In the end, Dick remembers, it hadn’t mattered anyway because that night, the night of his fifteenth birthday, when other kids had parties and cake Dick had an armed bank robbery to put a stop to.
“Hey,” Dick asks thoughtfully. “Did I ever… have a birthday where we weren’t… y’know. Fightin’ crime?”
If there was one Dick can’t remember it. Even in recent years, away from Gotham and Batman most of the time, Dick spends every birthday the same way he spends almost every other night; patrolling. Fighting. It always ends up the same.
Although generally not as bad as tonight.
“No.” Bruce’s next words echo dully, metallic, and Dick guesses he must be checking out the tunnel. It sounds small. Too small. Dick is not thinking about that. “If I tried to leave you at home you would take it as a punishment.”
Which was true, Dick thinks. He always hated being left behind.
The next thing Dick knows Bruce is gripping his upper arms. “It never was,” he says, doesn’t give Dick a chance to respond before he’s lifting him bodily up.
This isn’t going to work, Dick wants to argue but is too busy trying not to puke or pass out.
Yeah, he hates being left behind but right now he really wishes Batman would just leave him. But that’s about as likely to happen as The Joker is to become a model citizen.
So Dick bears it, not sure anymore how he’s still going.
Batman sits him in the mouth of the tunnel and somehow Dick stays upright. Somehow opens his eyes to find Batman kneeling in front of him. The dark outline of his cowl and cape almost blend in with the shadows surrounding him.
“It isn’t far.” Bruce tells him. “This is going to hurt.” As thought Dick didn’t know that already. “Talk to me. About your most recent case.”
The tunnel is so narrow he doubts Tim could stand upright in it. Dick swallows down his horror at the thought of crawling on his injured leg, let alone talking at the same time. “How am I-”
“I’ll do all the work. You can make it up to me by testing the cave’s security systems.”
Oh, hell no. Dick remembers the last time he let Bruce guilt him into doing that. He came out of it covered in bruises, with second degree burns all down his left arm and a mild concussion.
He scowls at Bruce, then he notices the glimpse of a smirk on his face. Asshole.
“I’d polish all… your silver before doing… that again.”
Bruce’s smirk widens. “Deal.”
The worst part is that Dick knows Bruce will hold him to it. And then Alfred will supervise. And then it’ll be three weeks later and Dick will still only have gotten through the dishes in the dining room.
In one fluid movement Batman moves into the tunnel beside Dick, moves past him, and Dick feels old and stiff and useless. It goes against his nature to be so still. Even as exhausted as Dick is, it burns in his gut that he can barely lift an arm right now.
“Talk,” Bruce demands from behind him. Dick can hear him fiddling with his gear, then a swish of cape. Instead of looking Dick leans against the side of the tunnel, closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at dark, half collapsed sewers anymore. He’d like even more if he didn’t have to smell them either.
“Nightwing.”
Right. Back to that. Good to know.
“I know you can keep going,” Bruce says. “We always keep going.”
Special Batman-style encouragement.
And this was something Batman had taught him too; how to keep yourself moving when you were in so much pain you could barely think. How to ignore injury, work through trauma, suppress fear, overcome exhaustion. The training is all so ingrained now that Dick rarely even consciously considers it. He just does it. Even now he knows he’s controlling his breathing. He knows he’s diverting his mind from pain and panic to concentrate on Bruce’s voice, on the creaking of the leather of his suit as Batman takes up position at his back, grips Dick under the arms. Dick tries to talk, like Batman asked.
There was a case. There’s always a case. He just can’t seem to remember it.
“I think-” he tries. “There was a-”
Dick doesn’t get any further because at that moment Batman pulls. He doesn’t even pull all that hard, but enough that his injured leg catches on the lip of the tunnel as he’s dragged along and then Dick can barely remember his own name. It just hurts and hurts and Dick is really fucking sick of the pain.
“’m retiring.” Dick hisses through gritted teeth. “Taking up crochet.”
“Crochet would mean,” Bruce pauses to draw breath before heaving Dick further into the tunnel, “sitting still.”
“Could do it… ah… on th’trapeze. New act.”
The tunnel is mostly dry, which makes a nice change, but finally out of the water Dick becomes aware of how sodden he is; how deeply entrenched the cold he is. He isn’t shivering anymore. He hasn’t in a while. It’s not like normal cold now. There is none of the sharp stinging along his extremities. This is bone deep, an iciness in his stomach and his chest that feels like it should be hunger but isn’t. Even worse, the dryness of the tunnel makes it more difficult for Batman to pull Dick along. His suit keeps snagging on the rough surface of the pipe, jolting Dick painfully. He legs bump over the lips between pipe sections and more than once Dick thinks he’s going to pass out.
He doesn’t. Bruce told him he could keep going and Dick believes it.
“Nightwing.” Bruce’s voice would be more commanding if the small space they were in didn’t flatten the sound out, making his deep, gruff tone a thin, quiet thing. Or maybe Dick’s hearing is just as messed up as the rest of him. That would be just about Dick’s luck right now. “Talk.”
“You talk,” Dick replies petulantly.
“I’m not the one who keeps losing consciousness.”
Dick didn’t realise he was doing that. He’d thought he’d managed to stay awake. Blinking, Dick tries to focus on the tunnel beyond, the grey-brown curved walls turning to black, formless in the distance. He doesn’t remember going so far that he can no longer see the opening they entered the tunnel through.
Behind him Batman is breathing heavily. From exertion, Dick guesses.
“’m not that heavy,” Dick grumbles.
“You’re a grown man,” Batman reminds him, as though Dick had somehow forgotten. But then, in the presence of Batman Dick often feels small, like he’s a kid all over again.
“Yeah,” Dick agrees. They’re long past the point where either of them can imagine that their relationship will ever be as simple as it was when Dick was young and Bruce still had a sense of humour. Before their world became a much darker, more vicious place. They might have lost that innocence but Dick won’t ever give up on trying to make Bruce smile, so he adds, because he can’t resist, “Are we there yet?”
That earns him a snort out of Batman. “I take it all back. You’re still a kid.”
He heaves Dick another few inches along and Dick understands exactly why he keeps passing out.
Another few inches. Dick squeezes his eyes shut.
“Compared t’you,” Dick grits out, “Old man.”
Behind him Batman takes a breath, pulls, takes a breath, pulls.
“And look who’s doing all the work.”
“Keeping you in… shape.”
Dick grabs at Bruce’s- Batman’s- gloved hand where it curls underneath his arms. Maybe it’s to try and get Bruce to stop. Maybe he just needs something to hold on to, but Batman squeezes his hand in reply; encouragement and acknowledgment that he’s here and not giving up and it’s enough. Every time Dick thinks he can’t take any more Bruce always seems to know exactly what to do to push him that one step further, push him that much harder. That’s how it’s always been with them. Now, too, Bruce is pushing Dick to stand more than he ever thought possible. Shouldn’t be possible, really.
Dick is dragged another few inches, and gripping hold of Bruce’s hand he imagines he could keep going for miles yet.
.To be continued.
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