Oh no
I post post-climbing around in trees (in celebration of my brother's birthday) during which time I damaged my wrist and typing now hurts. Considering about 80% of my job involves typing this is very annoying.
Writing fic, however, doesn't count.
This took forever to edit and I do apologise for that but work for the past few weeks has been killing me. As has Person of Interest.
My thanks as always to cienna for her prize-winning and speedy betas. ♥
But anyway, here, have some Dick.
Title: Half Lost, Half Found (4/5)
Rating: PG for language and violence
Words: 3,743 this part
Summary: Nightwing and Batman. H/C. Driven underground, Batman fights to keep Nightwing alive.
.Half Lost, Half Found.
.Part 4.
It’s been approximately thirteen minutes since Dick last responded and no amount of calling his name or jostling him has yet brought him around. Bruce has tried, and even knowing it’s useless he still talks.
“Only a little further,” he says, and, “You’re not giving up on me.”
Dick is still breathing, his pulse there, but too slow and sluggish. There’s nothing Bruce can do about that down here; limited resources depleted by multiple explosions, communication devices useless this far beneath stone and steel. His own reserve of strength is beginning to fail and as much as Bruce would prefer to stop and coax Dick back to consciousness he’s acutely aware that time is running out for both of them.
There’s a trail of blood smeared along the trough of the tunnel where Dick’s leg is bleeding again. He’s already too pale, his lips almost white, but Bruce doesn’t dare stop for fear he won’t be able to start again. Bruce fears more than just that, but he will not allow himself to acknowledge any of it.
Instead, he focuses on the maps and blueprints in his head, long ago memorised and regularly updated. He calculates his speed (too slow) and works out the distance he has travelled (not far enough). He is down to his last glow stick, though Bruce is certain he can keep going without light; there is only one path to take. He does not, however, like the prospect of not being able to see Dick. Even now Bruce has to look very closely to be able to discern the slight rise and fall of Dick’s chest as he breathes.
He says, “You need to do better than this, Nightwing.” It’s easier to call him by his codename at times like these, easier to dissociate the grinning, manic kid Bruce has known and raised for so many years from the failing body he pulls and hauls and won’t let go of. “If you want to go to Bermuda, you damn well need to do better than this.”
Bruce hates the beach. He’s always hated it. Too hot and too bright and too sandy. Too exposed, too many smiles and families and reminders of a normality he’s almost forgotten was once his. Bruce has done his best to avoid it for as long as he can remember, but if Dick survives this he’ll go, and gladly. In truth, he’d suffer a lot worse for Dick to get through this mess.
No response. Not that Bruce had expected one. But he had hoped. Dick has always managed to surprise him, time and time again. Today, Bruce decides, is not going to be any different.
The bandage around Dick’s leg snags on the join between two sections of pipe and it’s enough that Dick’s breathing hitches. Bruce winces, knowing how much this must hurt. Perhaps his being unconscious is a mercy.
But then Dick relaxes, becomes heavy and still and no, no, this is not happening.
There’s little room to manoeuvre in the tunnel and there’s no time for being careful so all Bruce can do is kneel down and pull Dick’s head and shoulders up onto his lap. He pulls off a glove, ignoring the way his hands shake. It’s the cold, he tells himself. Tentatively reaching out, Bruce’s fingers find a pulse point in Dick’s neck. His skin is too cold and clammy but there’s life and that’s enough to relieve the hard knot of concern in Bruce’s stomach, just a little.
Holding his hand under Dick’s nose, over his mouth, laying a hand gently on his chest Bruce finds no breath. No breathing and oh, hell, no.
“Come on, Dick.”
Bruce can’t let him die in a sewer. Won’t let him die anywhere if he can help it. This- exactly this- watching one of his family die and knowing it was his fault has been the fuel of some of Bruce’s worst nightmares for years and he’s not letting it happen. He can stop this from happening. Dick is strong.
Nightwing is strong.
Batman knows exactly what he must do; the best methods, the proven most effective techniques of resuscitation. Nightwing’s nose is swollen under his mask, broken badly, and Batman would regret having to touch it if he had any other means to revive him. He doesn’t. Repositioning himself to crouch beside Nightwing in the small space, his cape twisted behind him- a weight pulling on his shoulders that has become so familiar Batman does not often notice how it drags at him- Batman leans in, pinching Nightwing’s nose, breathes into his lungs. It’s easier to concentrate on watching Nightwing’s chest rise than to think about how cold his mouth is.
His silence is unnatural.
Batman breathes for him again, shoving aside the white hot anger that makes him want to shout at Nightwing, to beat him awake. Logically, Batman knows that’s just about the worst thing he could do but this is how Dick and Bruce have always communicated; through furious words meant to hurt. Bruce is self-aware enough to realise why he does it. They are an expression of concern when he doesn’t know the words to tell Dick what he wants to; that he doesn’t know what he’d do if something happened to him. That all he’s ever wanted is to keep him safe, as a boy from Dick’s own anger and fear, as a man from Dick’s penchant for trust and his fearlessness. Even though, at the same time, these are the qualities in the man Dick has become that Bruce is most proud of.
“Come on,” Batman hisses between breaths. “Live. That’s an order.” Another forced breath. Check pulse: barely there but not gone. Check breathing: nothing.
There is a blankness, a darkness where the future might be. The tightness gripping his insides is not panic. Batman does not panic.
Take another steady, controlled breath. Monitor progress.
He’s too cold, Batman finds himself thinking, his fingers pressed against Nightwing’s neck. He’s too cold and there’s nothing I can do. It’s not working.
Pulse fading.
He'll stay here, Batman decides, until Nightwing breaths again. He won't stop. He won't ever give up.
A part of him- that cold, detached part of himself that Bruce sometimes finds himself fearing- balks at the ridiculousness of the sentiment. Hours of freezing water and exertion have left him drained. The explosions, the fights, the constant cold and dampness have all taken their toll and Bruce is well aware he has not gone as uninjured as he might like to think. His hands are wrinkled and white, his boots waterlogged and heavy. Even with layers of protection, his suit designed to insulate he’s shivering.
Blood coloured strange and alien by the green light stains Dick's upper lip where he's bleeding from the nose. Batman can feel the shift of cartilage beneath his fingers as he pinches the nostrils closed, gives breath again. That's going to hurt when he wakes up, Batman knows, but it's better than being dead.
Logically, Batman knows it's only been seconds since Nightwing's breathing stopped but every second that ticks away and every incremental slowing of his pulse feels like minutes. Useless, he thinks as he waits. For all his learning and training he’s useless when it comes to the things that mean the most. That are the most important.
"Wake up, damn you," Batman grits out between clenched teeth, and this time he breathes out hard into Nightwing's lungs, watches his chest rise and tastes blood on his lips. And this time, suddenly, Nightwing gasps, back arching. Batman holds on to him, supports his head and tries to immobilise his injured leg, trying to prevent any further damage where Nightwing is shaking, struggling in obvious discomfort and confusion.
"You're all right," Batman assures him. "Take small breaths."
It's enough.
Nightwing relaxes against him, does as he's told and Batman is pleased to see that even after all their arguments and disagreements and the bad blood that has created a rift between them over the years Nightwing still trusts him enough to obey him. Or maybe he’s just too exhausted to keep fighting.
Unacceptable.
“Open your eyes, Nightwing,” Batman orders. He should be angry at the number of times he’s had to give that order tonight, but anger is not what he’s feeling. Not at all.
When Nightwing doesn’t respond to the command Batman taps his cheek lightly. Nightwing’s nose is still bleeding and Batman wipes the blood away from his top lip with his thumb. This, too, Batman has done too many times this night. That, at least, gets him a response; Nightwing groaning softly and turning his head away.
The light of the glow stick is dimming. They have to get moving.
Batman forces Nightwing’s attention, taking hold of his chin. “Wake up. We don’t have time to rest.”
When they are out of here, when they are safe, Batman will let- will enforce that- Nightwing rest for as long as he needs. Alfred can fuss over him and Tim will fret and Bruce will chain him to his bed if he has to. But not now.
Too quietly, Nightwing mumbles an apology. "Sorry. Awake. Sort of." His slurred speech is concerning.
"You have to do better. Eyes open." Batman hates that he must push Nightwing this far, but right now survival is more important than niceties. Nightwing always understood this. When he was a child, finding his place as Robin in a world that was far darker and far more cruel than he’d ever realised Dick never complained when Bruce asked for another hour of training, had Dick practice hand to hand combat until his fists were red and Alfred glared. He took every test and every trial in good humour, Bruce never needing to explain some day this might save your life, or this is what you will face.
This practicality, this recognition that survival and necessity are to be prioritised beyond all else is something the other self-styled heroes never seem to understand. It has always been what sets him apart from them. Him and his followers. It might make him unpopular- even hated- but Batman does what he has to do. Nightwing understands that. Nightwing has always understood that.
Nightwing would die for him. Batman has known it for a long time; has seen evidence of it often enough but it never feels any less like Batman has failed him somehow. Failed to instil in Dick- in all of them- how they are more important than him. More important to him.
Nightwing winces, mumbles, "Sorry. Yeah. Sorry."
If anyone should be apologising, Batman thinks, it should be him. All his training and all his years of experience and still it was Nightwing who saw the explosive first, saw what was coming, put himself between the blast and Batman. Even after all this time, after all the times he’s heard it, listening to Nightwing crying out in pain has never gotten any easier. Seeing the way he’d been thrown back, his eyes bleeding, limbs twisted, just for an instant Batman had been unable to breathe, a ringing in his ears that was more than the explosion and the single thought: I’ve lost him too.
Then there had only been the fight, the blank focus of ensuring none of the bastards so much as touched Nightwing again. Now, again, Batman must find focus. There will be time for guilt and recriminations later.
"Just don't give up on me again," Batman says, the stern tone he was going for sounding far more like a plea. Begging.
Nightwing nods once, a slow tilt of his head.
"Good."
Batman checks Nightwing's pulse one last time. Still too weak but satisfactory. He allows his hand to linger for longer than is strictly necessary. This is all the assurance he can allow himself that Dick is still with him; still fighting.
It has been a long time since such a simple case went this bad, since he’d seen Dick too hurt even to talk, to joke. The quiet is the worst thing of all. Somewhere above them Batman could hear the distant rumble of cars, a heavy truck passing overhead. The tunnel slants upwards, closer to the surface. Not close enough.
If Batman is anything he is undefeated. He always has a plan. He always has a way out; an escape route. Or at least, that’s what everyone believes.
Batman shakes Nightwing’s shoulder as hard as he dares, watches as he stirs sluggishly.
"You said you were meeting Clark."
"Yeah-" Nightwing blinks blearily, looking around like he's not quite sure where he is. Not a good sign.
Familiar with the construction of these old tunnels, with the foundations upon which Gotham is built, Batman knows the compacted soil around them is heavy with lead pollution. If he were to call for Superman would the idiot even hear him?
Under his breath, Batman mutters, "Where are you, Clark, damn you?" A stupid hope. A foolish reliance he’s warned Nightwing against a hundred times and here he is, wishing to be saved. And here he is; when Batman really needs him, the one time he would appreciate the help, Clark isn’t there. When it comes down to it, as it always has, Batman can only rely on himself. That, and Nightwing's will to live.
Batman starts to rise out his crouch but Nightwing catches the corner of his cape, holds on.
"No. No moving." He's still trying to catch his breath. Every inhale sounds painful, a wheezing, wet intake of air.
"We can't stay here."
Nightwing knows this, but his expression twists into something unhappy and he almost looks like he's about to argue. At this point Batman would welcome the disagreement; if Nightwing is arguing he can't be dead. Nightwing holds his tongue though, letting go of the cape. That has to be a first, Batman thinks.
His eyes are closing again so Batman squeezes his shoulder firmly and Nightwing startles awake.
He's losing him.
"Recite, in generational order, the Sabatino syndicate hierarchy."
It’s all Batman can think of to keep him talking. He shifts around Nightwing, taking hold of him under the arms again, getting a good grip. He'll move fast. Get this over with. Get them out in the open or at least to somewhere where his communicator will work. If it isn’t so waterlogged as to be completely useless. There’s always yelling, if he gets desperate. He’d yell for Clark- for Superman- if it’d do any good.
“Now?” Even hoarse and barely more than a whisper Nightwing’s tone still somehow manages to convey belligerence.
“Now.”
This is something easy. Something that Batman long since drilled into the then Robin’s memory. He knows Nightwing. He doesn’t believe for a second that he’s forgotten any of it. Batman takes the opportunity of Nightwing’s distraction- of his annoyance- to start moving again.
Nightwing gives an aborted cry, grinds out, “Reginald.” He hisses. Draws a breath. “Bob, Cuthbert, Wilma-"
They’ve gone barely any distance at all and Nightwing has run out of air and fake names. He swallows and every rise and fall of his chest is hitched with pain. Batman drags Nightwing along faster. It must hurt him even worse, but Batman can’t think of that.
“Wrong.”
“Then,” Nightwing grits out, “there was Bruce. Evilest of- all.”
Even in such bad shape, Nightwing still somehow finds the energy to joke, and Batman draws hope from that. He’s always known that Dick was- has always been- the strongest of all of them.
He moves faster. There’s a light, cold breeze at Batman’s back. They must be getting close to the access shaft.
“Evilest is not a word.”
“Worse than Alfred,” Nightwing complains. Feebly, he tries to twist in Batman’s hold.
Trust Nightwing to try and make this more difficult. “Keep still.”
“S’dark. Couldn’t- ah- see you.”
Every inch they go, with every minute that passes, the tunnel around them darkens just a little more. The last glow stick is almost completely spent now, light almost completely swallowed by shadows and Batman understands Nightwing’s fear. If Batman is honest with himself he feels it too; that the encroaching blackness is an end. A limit. As far as they go.
Ridiculous superstition, Batman chides himself, but he grips Nightwing more tightly, pulls harder. The tunnel splits into two, Batman takes the right-hand path, assuring Nightwing, “Not much further.”
His leg catches on the lip of the tunnel as they turn and Nightwing gasps and says, “Can’t… can’t,” and Batman does not reply because he can and he will.
It’s a matter of feet now, the breeze against his back is stronger and for the first time in what feels like days Batman smells something that isn’t waste and decay and sickening. The air is still grimy and polluted but unmistakably Gotham. Gotham above ground.”
Bent over almost double, face close to Nightwing’s, Batman hears a mumbled, “Too dark.”
As a child, not long taken from his circus home and everything that was loved and familiar, Dick had hated the darkness. He was unused to it. Unused to not being surrounded by colour and motion. Bruce remembers those times late at night when the Mansion stood silent and shadowed and Dick would find Bruce and sit with him and tell him he wasn’t sleepy when they both knew that wasn’t the truth at all. Those times he was quiet, the complete opposite of the loud, cheerful boy of the daytime who seemed to take very great pleasure in bouncing off walls, leaping over the furniture, and generally causing Alfred to fear for any and all breakables wherever he went. Those quiet times, Bruce let Dick be and it was enough.
Batman still saw that child in the man he dragged along in his arms. No matter how much bigger he’d gotten or how much they clashed, argued in a way Bruce would have thought impossible when Dick was amiable and eight, Dick would always be that boy he took in.
Then, Batman hears it; the distant, faint sounds of a city; a grumbling grind and hum far above. The breeze picks up.
“Just a little more, Dick,” Batman says, hoping for a response, satisfied when Nightwing mumbles, “Yeah, right,” under his breath. Speaking is unnecessary, taking away from Batman's reserves when he has none to spare, his muscles too heavy and overworked. But he doesn't care. To hear Dick breathing, talking, when only minutes ago he was doing neither is reason enough.
The light flickers and goes out and suddenly the world is reduced to pitch black. Batman's fingers curl into Nightwing's upper arms, trying for reassuring when Nightwing tenses. They're so close.
He doesn’t need to see for these last few feet, needs only keep moving backwards, sliding his feet along the base of the tunnel in case of obstructions, anything that might hurt Dick.
Long minutes, twenty careful inhales and exhales and finally Batman feels the uplift of a draft and an empty space above his head where for the past however-long-it's-been there has been only the confining arch of thick metal.
Carefully, gently, he lays Nightwing down. He keeps one hand on Nightwing’s shoulder as he switches on his communication device, presses the spare earpiece from his belt into his ear. The hiss of static is loud after hours of radio silence and Batman realises just how much of the time he's connected now. He talks to Oracle, Alfred, Commissioner Gordon, the others like him in Gotham and beyond who wear a mask and walk the fine line. Once upon a time there was no one. Then there was Dick. Then there was everyone.
But at least the device works. It's something.
Taking hold of Nightwing's chin Batman orders, "Don't go anywhere."
"'Imma run away, yeah," Nightwing snorts weakly.
"I mean it, Nightwing." He wishes he could see Dick's face. He wishes he didn't have to go, even if he doesn't mean to be gone for more than a few minutes. Even if nothing will keep him from coming back.
"Leaving?"
"There's an access tunnel above us," Batman explains. "I'm going to climb up to get a signal." To get help.
"'Kay," Nightwing agrees, sounding very much like an over-tired child on the edge of sleep. It would be pointless to continue trying to press the importance of staying alert, Batman decides. He just needs to get Nightwing out of here, to medical assistance, as soon as possible.
A final light pat of Dick's cheek and Batman stands, his back aching as he straightens for the first time in hours. Starting to feel his age, maybe.
He reaches up, feels around the lip of the access shaft until his hand catches on rusty metal. He tugs at it and the rung holds. It will be a hard climb, made all the harder because he can't see, but not so long ago Nightwing was fighting off ruthless thugs with guns without sight so Batman thinks he can manage a ladder.
His cape is heavy at his back as he pulls himself up, hand over hand, rung by rung, carefully yanking on each when his hands find them in the darkness; they're old and some are missing and others are loose, long since disused. He avoids the spaces, stretching painfully to find the next when he has to. The leather of his suit is sodden and stiff and before he's even half way, by Batman's estimate, he's breathing hard, the muscles of his arms shaking.
Out of the tunnels, Batman takes the chance to hope that Superman can hear him, speaks into the darkness, "Clark, you asshole, hurry the fuck up and help me."
Nothing.
He climbs.
"Nightwing is dying and you're probably sipping coffee in Metropolis. Or saving puppies. What good is your super-hearing if you can't hear me the one time I damn well need you."
Then, there is a screeching, scraping sound above him and light, bright enough that it momentarily blinds Batman. He looks up anyway and there is Clark, looking down at him with wide, panicked eyes. In all the years they've known each other Bruce has never been so glad to see him.
Dick isn't out of danger yet. It's not over. But now there is hope. A good chance.
Bruce says, "What took you so long?"
.To be concluded.
Comments and concrit much loved and appreciated.
Writing fic, however, doesn't count.
This took forever to edit and I do apologise for that but work for the past few weeks has been killing me. As has Person of Interest.
My thanks as always to cienna for her prize-winning and speedy betas. ♥
But anyway, here, have some Dick.
Title: Half Lost, Half Found (4/5)
Rating: PG for language and violence
Words: 3,743 this part
Summary: Nightwing and Batman. H/C. Driven underground, Batman fights to keep Nightwing alive.
.Half Lost, Half Found.
.Part 4.
It’s been approximately thirteen minutes since Dick last responded and no amount of calling his name or jostling him has yet brought him around. Bruce has tried, and even knowing it’s useless he still talks.
“Only a little further,” he says, and, “You’re not giving up on me.”
Dick is still breathing, his pulse there, but too slow and sluggish. There’s nothing Bruce can do about that down here; limited resources depleted by multiple explosions, communication devices useless this far beneath stone and steel. His own reserve of strength is beginning to fail and as much as Bruce would prefer to stop and coax Dick back to consciousness he’s acutely aware that time is running out for both of them.
There’s a trail of blood smeared along the trough of the tunnel where Dick’s leg is bleeding again. He’s already too pale, his lips almost white, but Bruce doesn’t dare stop for fear he won’t be able to start again. Bruce fears more than just that, but he will not allow himself to acknowledge any of it.
Instead, he focuses on the maps and blueprints in his head, long ago memorised and regularly updated. He calculates his speed (too slow) and works out the distance he has travelled (not far enough). He is down to his last glow stick, though Bruce is certain he can keep going without light; there is only one path to take. He does not, however, like the prospect of not being able to see Dick. Even now Bruce has to look very closely to be able to discern the slight rise and fall of Dick’s chest as he breathes.
He says, “You need to do better than this, Nightwing.” It’s easier to call him by his codename at times like these, easier to dissociate the grinning, manic kid Bruce has known and raised for so many years from the failing body he pulls and hauls and won’t let go of. “If you want to go to Bermuda, you damn well need to do better than this.”
Bruce hates the beach. He’s always hated it. Too hot and too bright and too sandy. Too exposed, too many smiles and families and reminders of a normality he’s almost forgotten was once his. Bruce has done his best to avoid it for as long as he can remember, but if Dick survives this he’ll go, and gladly. In truth, he’d suffer a lot worse for Dick to get through this mess.
No response. Not that Bruce had expected one. But he had hoped. Dick has always managed to surprise him, time and time again. Today, Bruce decides, is not going to be any different.
The bandage around Dick’s leg snags on the join between two sections of pipe and it’s enough that Dick’s breathing hitches. Bruce winces, knowing how much this must hurt. Perhaps his being unconscious is a mercy.
But then Dick relaxes, becomes heavy and still and no, no, this is not happening.
There’s little room to manoeuvre in the tunnel and there’s no time for being careful so all Bruce can do is kneel down and pull Dick’s head and shoulders up onto his lap. He pulls off a glove, ignoring the way his hands shake. It’s the cold, he tells himself. Tentatively reaching out, Bruce’s fingers find a pulse point in Dick’s neck. His skin is too cold and clammy but there’s life and that’s enough to relieve the hard knot of concern in Bruce’s stomach, just a little.
Holding his hand under Dick’s nose, over his mouth, laying a hand gently on his chest Bruce finds no breath. No breathing and oh, hell, no.
“Come on, Dick.”
Bruce can’t let him die in a sewer. Won’t let him die anywhere if he can help it. This- exactly this- watching one of his family die and knowing it was his fault has been the fuel of some of Bruce’s worst nightmares for years and he’s not letting it happen. He can stop this from happening. Dick is strong.
Nightwing is strong.
Batman knows exactly what he must do; the best methods, the proven most effective techniques of resuscitation. Nightwing’s nose is swollen under his mask, broken badly, and Batman would regret having to touch it if he had any other means to revive him. He doesn’t. Repositioning himself to crouch beside Nightwing in the small space, his cape twisted behind him- a weight pulling on his shoulders that has become so familiar Batman does not often notice how it drags at him- Batman leans in, pinching Nightwing’s nose, breathes into his lungs. It’s easier to concentrate on watching Nightwing’s chest rise than to think about how cold his mouth is.
His silence is unnatural.
Batman breathes for him again, shoving aside the white hot anger that makes him want to shout at Nightwing, to beat him awake. Logically, Batman knows that’s just about the worst thing he could do but this is how Dick and Bruce have always communicated; through furious words meant to hurt. Bruce is self-aware enough to realise why he does it. They are an expression of concern when he doesn’t know the words to tell Dick what he wants to; that he doesn’t know what he’d do if something happened to him. That all he’s ever wanted is to keep him safe, as a boy from Dick’s own anger and fear, as a man from Dick’s penchant for trust and his fearlessness. Even though, at the same time, these are the qualities in the man Dick has become that Bruce is most proud of.
“Come on,” Batman hisses between breaths. “Live. That’s an order.” Another forced breath. Check pulse: barely there but not gone. Check breathing: nothing.
There is a blankness, a darkness where the future might be. The tightness gripping his insides is not panic. Batman does not panic.
Take another steady, controlled breath. Monitor progress.
He’s too cold, Batman finds himself thinking, his fingers pressed against Nightwing’s neck. He’s too cold and there’s nothing I can do. It’s not working.
Pulse fading.
He'll stay here, Batman decides, until Nightwing breaths again. He won't stop. He won't ever give up.
A part of him- that cold, detached part of himself that Bruce sometimes finds himself fearing- balks at the ridiculousness of the sentiment. Hours of freezing water and exertion have left him drained. The explosions, the fights, the constant cold and dampness have all taken their toll and Bruce is well aware he has not gone as uninjured as he might like to think. His hands are wrinkled and white, his boots waterlogged and heavy. Even with layers of protection, his suit designed to insulate he’s shivering.
Blood coloured strange and alien by the green light stains Dick's upper lip where he's bleeding from the nose. Batman can feel the shift of cartilage beneath his fingers as he pinches the nostrils closed, gives breath again. That's going to hurt when he wakes up, Batman knows, but it's better than being dead.
Logically, Batman knows it's only been seconds since Nightwing's breathing stopped but every second that ticks away and every incremental slowing of his pulse feels like minutes. Useless, he thinks as he waits. For all his learning and training he’s useless when it comes to the things that mean the most. That are the most important.
"Wake up, damn you," Batman grits out between clenched teeth, and this time he breathes out hard into Nightwing's lungs, watches his chest rise and tastes blood on his lips. And this time, suddenly, Nightwing gasps, back arching. Batman holds on to him, supports his head and tries to immobilise his injured leg, trying to prevent any further damage where Nightwing is shaking, struggling in obvious discomfort and confusion.
"You're all right," Batman assures him. "Take small breaths."
It's enough.
Nightwing relaxes against him, does as he's told and Batman is pleased to see that even after all their arguments and disagreements and the bad blood that has created a rift between them over the years Nightwing still trusts him enough to obey him. Or maybe he’s just too exhausted to keep fighting.
Unacceptable.
“Open your eyes, Nightwing,” Batman orders. He should be angry at the number of times he’s had to give that order tonight, but anger is not what he’s feeling. Not at all.
When Nightwing doesn’t respond to the command Batman taps his cheek lightly. Nightwing’s nose is still bleeding and Batman wipes the blood away from his top lip with his thumb. This, too, Batman has done too many times this night. That, at least, gets him a response; Nightwing groaning softly and turning his head away.
The light of the glow stick is dimming. They have to get moving.
Batman forces Nightwing’s attention, taking hold of his chin. “Wake up. We don’t have time to rest.”
When they are out of here, when they are safe, Batman will let- will enforce that- Nightwing rest for as long as he needs. Alfred can fuss over him and Tim will fret and Bruce will chain him to his bed if he has to. But not now.
Too quietly, Nightwing mumbles an apology. "Sorry. Awake. Sort of." His slurred speech is concerning.
"You have to do better. Eyes open." Batman hates that he must push Nightwing this far, but right now survival is more important than niceties. Nightwing always understood this. When he was a child, finding his place as Robin in a world that was far darker and far more cruel than he’d ever realised Dick never complained when Bruce asked for another hour of training, had Dick practice hand to hand combat until his fists were red and Alfred glared. He took every test and every trial in good humour, Bruce never needing to explain some day this might save your life, or this is what you will face.
This practicality, this recognition that survival and necessity are to be prioritised beyond all else is something the other self-styled heroes never seem to understand. It has always been what sets him apart from them. Him and his followers. It might make him unpopular- even hated- but Batman does what he has to do. Nightwing understands that. Nightwing has always understood that.
Nightwing would die for him. Batman has known it for a long time; has seen evidence of it often enough but it never feels any less like Batman has failed him somehow. Failed to instil in Dick- in all of them- how they are more important than him. More important to him.
Nightwing winces, mumbles, "Sorry. Yeah. Sorry."
If anyone should be apologising, Batman thinks, it should be him. All his training and all his years of experience and still it was Nightwing who saw the explosive first, saw what was coming, put himself between the blast and Batman. Even after all this time, after all the times he’s heard it, listening to Nightwing crying out in pain has never gotten any easier. Seeing the way he’d been thrown back, his eyes bleeding, limbs twisted, just for an instant Batman had been unable to breathe, a ringing in his ears that was more than the explosion and the single thought: I’ve lost him too.
Then there had only been the fight, the blank focus of ensuring none of the bastards so much as touched Nightwing again. Now, again, Batman must find focus. There will be time for guilt and recriminations later.
"Just don't give up on me again," Batman says, the stern tone he was going for sounding far more like a plea. Begging.
Nightwing nods once, a slow tilt of his head.
"Good."
Batman checks Nightwing's pulse one last time. Still too weak but satisfactory. He allows his hand to linger for longer than is strictly necessary. This is all the assurance he can allow himself that Dick is still with him; still fighting.
It has been a long time since such a simple case went this bad, since he’d seen Dick too hurt even to talk, to joke. The quiet is the worst thing of all. Somewhere above them Batman could hear the distant rumble of cars, a heavy truck passing overhead. The tunnel slants upwards, closer to the surface. Not close enough.
If Batman is anything he is undefeated. He always has a plan. He always has a way out; an escape route. Or at least, that’s what everyone believes.
Batman shakes Nightwing’s shoulder as hard as he dares, watches as he stirs sluggishly.
"You said you were meeting Clark."
"Yeah-" Nightwing blinks blearily, looking around like he's not quite sure where he is. Not a good sign.
Familiar with the construction of these old tunnels, with the foundations upon which Gotham is built, Batman knows the compacted soil around them is heavy with lead pollution. If he were to call for Superman would the idiot even hear him?
Under his breath, Batman mutters, "Where are you, Clark, damn you?" A stupid hope. A foolish reliance he’s warned Nightwing against a hundred times and here he is, wishing to be saved. And here he is; when Batman really needs him, the one time he would appreciate the help, Clark isn’t there. When it comes down to it, as it always has, Batman can only rely on himself. That, and Nightwing's will to live.
Batman starts to rise out his crouch but Nightwing catches the corner of his cape, holds on.
"No. No moving." He's still trying to catch his breath. Every inhale sounds painful, a wheezing, wet intake of air.
"We can't stay here."
Nightwing knows this, but his expression twists into something unhappy and he almost looks like he's about to argue. At this point Batman would welcome the disagreement; if Nightwing is arguing he can't be dead. Nightwing holds his tongue though, letting go of the cape. That has to be a first, Batman thinks.
His eyes are closing again so Batman squeezes his shoulder firmly and Nightwing startles awake.
He's losing him.
"Recite, in generational order, the Sabatino syndicate hierarchy."
It’s all Batman can think of to keep him talking. He shifts around Nightwing, taking hold of him under the arms again, getting a good grip. He'll move fast. Get this over with. Get them out in the open or at least to somewhere where his communicator will work. If it isn’t so waterlogged as to be completely useless. There’s always yelling, if he gets desperate. He’d yell for Clark- for Superman- if it’d do any good.
“Now?” Even hoarse and barely more than a whisper Nightwing’s tone still somehow manages to convey belligerence.
“Now.”
This is something easy. Something that Batman long since drilled into the then Robin’s memory. He knows Nightwing. He doesn’t believe for a second that he’s forgotten any of it. Batman takes the opportunity of Nightwing’s distraction- of his annoyance- to start moving again.
Nightwing gives an aborted cry, grinds out, “Reginald.” He hisses. Draws a breath. “Bob, Cuthbert, Wilma-"
They’ve gone barely any distance at all and Nightwing has run out of air and fake names. He swallows and every rise and fall of his chest is hitched with pain. Batman drags Nightwing along faster. It must hurt him even worse, but Batman can’t think of that.
“Wrong.”
“Then,” Nightwing grits out, “there was Bruce. Evilest of- all.”
Even in such bad shape, Nightwing still somehow finds the energy to joke, and Batman draws hope from that. He’s always known that Dick was- has always been- the strongest of all of them.
He moves faster. There’s a light, cold breeze at Batman’s back. They must be getting close to the access shaft.
“Evilest is not a word.”
“Worse than Alfred,” Nightwing complains. Feebly, he tries to twist in Batman’s hold.
Trust Nightwing to try and make this more difficult. “Keep still.”
“S’dark. Couldn’t- ah- see you.”
Every inch they go, with every minute that passes, the tunnel around them darkens just a little more. The last glow stick is almost completely spent now, light almost completely swallowed by shadows and Batman understands Nightwing’s fear. If Batman is honest with himself he feels it too; that the encroaching blackness is an end. A limit. As far as they go.
Ridiculous superstition, Batman chides himself, but he grips Nightwing more tightly, pulls harder. The tunnel splits into two, Batman takes the right-hand path, assuring Nightwing, “Not much further.”
His leg catches on the lip of the tunnel as they turn and Nightwing gasps and says, “Can’t… can’t,” and Batman does not reply because he can and he will.
It’s a matter of feet now, the breeze against his back is stronger and for the first time in what feels like days Batman smells something that isn’t waste and decay and sickening. The air is still grimy and polluted but unmistakably Gotham. Gotham above ground.”
Bent over almost double, face close to Nightwing’s, Batman hears a mumbled, “Too dark.”
As a child, not long taken from his circus home and everything that was loved and familiar, Dick had hated the darkness. He was unused to it. Unused to not being surrounded by colour and motion. Bruce remembers those times late at night when the Mansion stood silent and shadowed and Dick would find Bruce and sit with him and tell him he wasn’t sleepy when they both knew that wasn’t the truth at all. Those times he was quiet, the complete opposite of the loud, cheerful boy of the daytime who seemed to take very great pleasure in bouncing off walls, leaping over the furniture, and generally causing Alfred to fear for any and all breakables wherever he went. Those quiet times, Bruce let Dick be and it was enough.
Batman still saw that child in the man he dragged along in his arms. No matter how much bigger he’d gotten or how much they clashed, argued in a way Bruce would have thought impossible when Dick was amiable and eight, Dick would always be that boy he took in.
Then, Batman hears it; the distant, faint sounds of a city; a grumbling grind and hum far above. The breeze picks up.
“Just a little more, Dick,” Batman says, hoping for a response, satisfied when Nightwing mumbles, “Yeah, right,” under his breath. Speaking is unnecessary, taking away from Batman's reserves when he has none to spare, his muscles too heavy and overworked. But he doesn't care. To hear Dick breathing, talking, when only minutes ago he was doing neither is reason enough.
The light flickers and goes out and suddenly the world is reduced to pitch black. Batman's fingers curl into Nightwing's upper arms, trying for reassuring when Nightwing tenses. They're so close.
He doesn’t need to see for these last few feet, needs only keep moving backwards, sliding his feet along the base of the tunnel in case of obstructions, anything that might hurt Dick.
Long minutes, twenty careful inhales and exhales and finally Batman feels the uplift of a draft and an empty space above his head where for the past however-long-it's-been there has been only the confining arch of thick metal.
Carefully, gently, he lays Nightwing down. He keeps one hand on Nightwing’s shoulder as he switches on his communication device, presses the spare earpiece from his belt into his ear. The hiss of static is loud after hours of radio silence and Batman realises just how much of the time he's connected now. He talks to Oracle, Alfred, Commissioner Gordon, the others like him in Gotham and beyond who wear a mask and walk the fine line. Once upon a time there was no one. Then there was Dick. Then there was everyone.
But at least the device works. It's something.
Taking hold of Nightwing's chin Batman orders, "Don't go anywhere."
"'Imma run away, yeah," Nightwing snorts weakly.
"I mean it, Nightwing." He wishes he could see Dick's face. He wishes he didn't have to go, even if he doesn't mean to be gone for more than a few minutes. Even if nothing will keep him from coming back.
"Leaving?"
"There's an access tunnel above us," Batman explains. "I'm going to climb up to get a signal." To get help.
"'Kay," Nightwing agrees, sounding very much like an over-tired child on the edge of sleep. It would be pointless to continue trying to press the importance of staying alert, Batman decides. He just needs to get Nightwing out of here, to medical assistance, as soon as possible.
A final light pat of Dick's cheek and Batman stands, his back aching as he straightens for the first time in hours. Starting to feel his age, maybe.
He reaches up, feels around the lip of the access shaft until his hand catches on rusty metal. He tugs at it and the rung holds. It will be a hard climb, made all the harder because he can't see, but not so long ago Nightwing was fighting off ruthless thugs with guns without sight so Batman thinks he can manage a ladder.
His cape is heavy at his back as he pulls himself up, hand over hand, rung by rung, carefully yanking on each when his hands find them in the darkness; they're old and some are missing and others are loose, long since disused. He avoids the spaces, stretching painfully to find the next when he has to. The leather of his suit is sodden and stiff and before he's even half way, by Batman's estimate, he's breathing hard, the muscles of his arms shaking.
Out of the tunnels, Batman takes the chance to hope that Superman can hear him, speaks into the darkness, "Clark, you asshole, hurry the fuck up and help me."
Nothing.
He climbs.
"Nightwing is dying and you're probably sipping coffee in Metropolis. Or saving puppies. What good is your super-hearing if you can't hear me the one time I damn well need you."
Then, there is a screeching, scraping sound above him and light, bright enough that it momentarily blinds Batman. He looks up anyway and there is Clark, looking down at him with wide, panicked eyes. In all the years they've known each other Bruce has never been so glad to see him.
Dick isn't out of danger yet. It's not over. But now there is hope. A good chance.
Bruce says, "What took you so long?"
.To be concluded.
Comments and concrit much loved and appreciated.