Lost and Found
This was supposed to be a set of loosely connected ficlets, but then the frame story kind of ran away from me.
Title: Lost and Found
Fandom: Batman
Characters: Dick/Damian
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,044
Summary: Memories, confusion, and a man lost at sea.
------
The control panels have been hollowed out, with only the residue of half-melted drives and frayed wire stubs. Nothing to repair, even if he could figure out how. They've completely stripped the submersible of anything that could make it functional. It's nothing more than a floating shell, carrying one Dick Grayson across the Pacific as its only cargo.
And eventually it will be grave, he realizes with a start.
Of course, that had been his enemy's intention when they'd forced him into the craft, twelve rifles pointed at his back. But in these past five hours, he'd been too busy focusing on his survival to contemplate what failure would actually mean.
The space seems to grow tighter each time he surveys the hull. It's roughly rectangular, large enough for him to lay head to toe along its width, and about as long as a double tuck roll. Not that he actually has the headroom to be flipping around inside of here. He's not claustrophobic, but it doesn't mean he likes small spaces. He was raised to fly, after all; open air, not cages.
There are no windows, and the periscope can't protract with the power cut, but he's been attempting to gauge his position by keeping track of the swaying. He knows the coordinates of where he'd been abandoned, and has a rough understanding of the currents in this sector of the ocean, but that still only narrows his estimate to a three-hundred mile radius. And worse yet, he knows he's edging westward towards a dead zone, a place of radio silence where none of the Batman Inc. satellites will be able to pick up his communicator signal. Even if he manages to crack the hull and send out a call, there might be no one to hear. He could be lost forever.
------
“Why do you keep talking like that?” Damian growls. And wham, straight for the bulls-eye as always. Talking and fighting, they're just two kinds of aggression when it comes to him. Then his eyes narrow. “You're only this quiet when you have something to hide. Grayson.” He spits the name like it's a curse, and Dick tries to keep his legs from shaking, or worse, collapsing entirely.
Damian is still viciously blunt, nonetheless. And there he goes, doing that thing with his mouth. That asymmetrical twitch he gets whenever he's suspicious. Pulling his lower lip down to bare his teeth a little. And, haha-yes, that's right-can't forget how his nose wrinkles. Such an expert at contempt.
Dick has no arsenal fast enough to counter this kind of ambush. His heart's already stuttering. I remember you, it says.
Dick toys with the idea of just running like hell in any direction away from his former partner. His best chance would be to make a break through the eucalyptus trees, jumping over the fence and escaping the botanical gardens altogether. Not that he's fool enough to believe he'd ever be able to escape if Damian were on the chase.
“Sorry. I just-can't believe you've gotten so tall already.”
“It's only been eight months, Grayson.” Though what he means is, I still haven't caught up to you yet.
Their conversation is unbearably civil. Distant. They don't talk about how Dick never visited between his latest globe-hopping adventures. Or about the missed calls that weren't always returned, and how angry it made Tim and Alfred. They most certainly avoid speaking of the time he did call back, but only spent half an hour arguing with Damian, in the end forgetting his intention to wish his younger brother a happy fifteenth birthday.
Dick doesn't know if Damian has forgiven him yet. And now that they're face to face, Dick still can't tell. He doesn't ask.
“You still haven't told me what you were doing in the bushes.” Diverts the conversation away from himself. Though it's also a genuine question-he's honestly baffled as to what Damian might have been doing down there.
Dick had just been out for a quick run, an afternoon to himself to work off the feeling of jet lag. The botanical gardens had always been a favorite place to train, one of the few quiet corners in this city. He hadn't expected to run into anyone he knew, much less find them rooting around on hands and knees beneath the hedges.
Plant matter sticks to Damian's dark overcoat, and now that Dick looks a little closer, there are even a few dark leaves threaded into his hair. Dick wants to brush them away, but he stows his hands and into his pockets, where they can't get any funny ideas.
Damian grunts, flicking away a twig that had attached itself to his elbow. “The dog misplaced one of his toys in this shrubbery. He refuses to leave until we find it.”
“Titus?” Dick asks.
On cue, the hedges rustle, accompanied by heavy whuffling. Leaves spray and branches part, and the dark shape of the dane emerges. He raises a foreleg, ready to trot back to Damian, but freezes, eyes fixing upon on Dick. His paws scrabble against the cobbled path, whole body quivering as if not knowing what to do with himself. But he only hesitates a second longer before he's filling Dick's arms, lunging up again and again, trying to climb over him, whining all the while.
“Titus! Down-ah! This is very undignified behavior!” Damian chastises, placing a firm hand on the dog's collar. Titus complies, easing off of Dick, but his tail still whips back and forth frantically, battering Damian's shins.
“You're back,” Damian finally says. It feels like an accusation. His earlier annoyance has defused, though his eyes remain dark with suspicion.
“Only since Saturday,” Dick defends. He tosses in a weak shrug for effect.
Unable to resist any longer, he swipes a hand over the top of Damian's hair, brushing away the stray bits of greenery that still remain. The teen's mouth twists in displeasure, but he doesn't shrink away, not even when Dick lingers, hand hesitating at the expanse of skin just below his ear.
Dick hasn't any good explanations for why he left. Training, networking, seeing the world-all things he had been able to do while still maintaining a presence in Gotham. These past months have felt more like searching. Fighting in the darkness of unfamiliar alleys, spinning over rooftops and never recognizing the constellations. But what was there to discover? As time progressed, he'd only felt his purpose slipping further away. And he's become too familiar with that kind of weariness.
Folks in the JLA always joke that he attracts teammates like flies. He can't deny that he has a way of gathering friends. But it never lasts. The Titans, the Outsiders, Haly's Circus, the intensity of these friendships burns too quickly. Just as he gathers friends, he inevitably ends up repelling them. Ends up alone. Though that's not something that the others notice. It could be that they just don't comment on it.
The initial freedom after leaving a team-a partner-can be invigorating. No playing leader, no responsibilities for anyone but himself. But after the thrill fades, he finds himself drifting. And by then, his anchors are too far away, even if he had the will the reach for them.
Eventually, Damian strong-arms him into returning to the manor together for dinner, but Titus remains insistent about his toy. It's ten minutes of crawling beneath the viburnum bushes before Dick finally emerges, slobbery tennis ball in hand. The front of his windbreaker has been stained dark by the soil, a smudge of it even gracing his jaw, but he still feels triumphant.
“You're really grown up,” Dick says, almost to himself, as they get ready to leave. Then a little louder, and with strained laughter, “I hardly recognize you. We're practically strangers!”
Damian bends down to attach Titus' leash. “Strangers,” he echoes thoughtfully.
------
His knuckles are swollen from knocking. Bruised, definitely, might even be bleeding. He doesn't want to shuck off his gauntlets to check.
He's given up on trying to break the soldered seams of the submersible, but he's still beating at its walls. Drumming out his S-O-S, then fastidiously spelling out 'S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n' every fifth word, in the vain hope that the Kryptonian might pick up on the faint pounding. Dick isn't even sure that Clark will recognize his name in Morse code. But there's nothing else left to hope for.
He's been counting the hours, trying to track his movement across the ocean. It's been a little over three days. He keeps his estimates loose, but even by his most optimistic calculation, he'll be hitting the dead zone within the next forty minutes. And once that happens, even hoping will just be wasted effort.o
His arms are growing too sore again, so he lays down on his back, resuming the distress call by knocking his heels against the walls. It's been a ongoing pattern, back and forth, a way to keep his body busy and assure himself that he's trying his hardest to stay alive. And God, what if it isn't even possible to hear his knocking through the hull. What if the sounds are just echoing around inside the chamber, with no one to hear them except the one who needs saving.
He begins to chuckle at the thought, but then catches the sound in his chest, biting it down. He's too late. The terror has come up with the laughter, and the tears will soon follow. He clenches his eyes and his throat, holding his breath as he waits for the panic to recede. Foot still tapping, more desperate, but so quiet that even Dick can barely hear it.
S-O-S. His lungs begin to ache. S-O-S. A burning behind his eyelids. S-O-S. S-O-S. S-O-S.
There will be no bright lights, no gasping crowd.
He will go quietly, unseen, alone.
It is not the way for a child of the circus. The shame is too much.
------
Damian doesn't visit the loft very often, and only when Dick gives explicit invitation. But sometimes he will appear without warning in the neighborhood. Dick will run into him at the local supermarket standing in front of the yogurt, or see him emerging from the movie theater after a matinee showing of the latest zombie flick. It's a little bit funny. Like a live-action spread of Where's Waldo, except it's even harder because everyone is moving, and Damian's so damn stealthy and only dresses in boring clothes. Dick tries not to wonder how many times Damian has come around without ever being found.
Damian will only acknowledge him when he comes into close range, after he's absolutely certain he's been spotted. His posture changes then. It's very slight, but the line of his shoulders lifts. Chin rises in challenge, jaw hardening. Finally, he'll turn in Dick's direction, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, and wait to be greeted.
Sometimes Dick will act like he doesn't see him. When they are passing on opposite sidewalks, for instance. It's exceptionally easy to pretend when there are crowds. Businesspeople down from their offices for their lunch break. Kids walking back home after school. Tourists with their necks craned up toward the skyline, snapping their photos of Gotham's architecture. Dick will glance into the storefront mirrors, trying discreetly to pick out Damian's reflection. Trying to see he if will change direction and follow. To see how closely he will chase.
At first it's supremely funny. Cute, too. But the novelty easily dries up.
Don't you ever get tired, Dick wonders. He's certain that Damian has figured out what he's been up to anyway. He's too afraid to mention it, though, and Damian won't initiate the conversation either. This game has continued on beyond reason and the chance to talk about it has since gone stale.
------
When the fear finally ebbs, Dick gasps as though surfacing from a deep dive. His exhales sound like sobs, residual anxiety clearing out of his throat.
He sits up abruptly, hoping to shake off this feeling. Need to stay calmer, need to fight. The vents are still hissing, but who knows how many more tanks of pressurized oxygen are left. Can't waste any more air hyperventilating. Gotta keep trying. Gotta keep trying.
He's already examined his utility pouches at least twenty times, laying out the contents in a line, hoping each time to see something new. Some combination that rings true. He'd been stripped of every tool that might be apparently useful, anything that would make his escape too easy. But they'd left him with the rest, perhaps to mock him, to drive him mad with this task of inventing his own salvation.
He starts to reach beneath the seam of his left gauntlet for attempt twenty-one, but pauses first, wiping away the wetness from the corners of his eyes.
“I can do this,” he whispers, because there's no one else to remind him.
------
“I'm not going to repeat myself, Grayson. If you ever touch my property without consulting me first, I'll crush your limbs so badly you won't be able to twitch so much as flip around with your goddamn acrobatics.”
Damian storms out, dragging Titus behind him with a severely foreshortened leash. The dog's nails clatter noisily against the marble as he scrambles to match his master's pace.
“Christ,” Dick sighs, gingerly rubbing his jaw. It had been a soft punch, not even hard enough to bruise, but the surprise made it seem more painful. “I forgot how much of a little shit he can be.”
Tim arches an eyebrow. “Not cool, Dick.”
“Wha-Tim!” A stab of betrayal. He'd been certain that Tim, of all people, would have sided with him. Would have relished in the chance to finally bash their youngest brother without censure. “C'mon, Tim! All I did was take Titus out for a walk.”
“But you should have let somebody know.”
Dick bites his lip. “Why are you on his side, anyway? I thought you hated him!”
There's no agreement or denial to that statement. Instead, Tim draws in a slow breath, folding his arms over his chest.
“When he noticed Titus was gone… I've never seen him like that. He was tearing the manor apart before you got here.” Tim traces over the walls with his eyes, and Dick follows along, seeing through to all the rooms and passageways. So many places to search, to have tried and failed every time. “He just flipped out. Got everyone worked up about it; Bruce was about to call the Commissioner.”
Dick rolls his eyes. “And do what, put out an APB for a missing dog? Did Damian think somebody stole him or something?”
“I don't know what he was thinking, Dick.” Tim's frowning, now, back straightening with tension. “Eventually we looked at the security footage together, and he finally calmed down when we saw that Titus was with you. But you should've seen him. He was really scared for a while.”
Dick waves an arm. “He's just being a brat. We fight creeps every night that are a hell of a lot scarier than dognappers.”
Tim doesn't laugh, or smile. Eyes appraise, then dim with disappointment. “I can't tell if you're still trying to joke, or if you really don't get it. Either way you're a complete idiot.”
A pink tip of tongue points out the side of Tim's mouth before swiping over his lips. It's been a habit of his since Dick has known him. A quirk that appears when he's trying to pick his words carefully. “It was probably the first time he's ever felt that way, you know? To be so completely responsible for something…” He gazes back at the hallway where Damian had swept out, as if watching the wake of their brother's footsteps. Squints a little. Almost sad. But then he rounds on Dick.
“So don't yell at him. Or make fun of him.” Tim punctuates his warnings, finger jabbing against Dick's sternum. His eyes are glinting, danger and disgust. “Don't you know how important you are to him?”
Dick wants to be happy, even proud, that Tim would come to Damian's defense. But that tiny corner of his heart gets overwhelmed by the flooding guilt. Tim's not speaking out of fraternal loyalty, anyhow. He's not trying to be a better brother. He's speaking as a boy who'd looked up to Dick once. As a boy who'd been let down. Who'd been crushed. And who won't see it happen to anyone else.
Tim slips from the room. Not the same stormy bluster that Damian had made during his exit, but like the lifting of a shadow as a heavy cloud passes. Dick lets him go without a word, though he feels an argument tickling in his jaw.
It's not like Dick had asked to be the older brother. He'd never planned to be anyone's role model. He's pacing back and forth, trying to work off the last of his anger, but the empty echoes of his shoes against the floor only make him feel more alone.
Those few years ago, he'd made such a ruckus about getting his own place downtown. About having outgrown his old bedroom, outgrown Bruce's shadow. It's not that he expected to just slot back into their lives after his absence, or that it would be easy to learn the new rhythm of life at the manor. But he'd never considered what it'd mean to not belong here.
He remembers a conversation with Jason. A chance meeting at a weapon dealer's shop in Bangkok. The wandering son trying, wearily, to explain why he can never come home; and maybe finally Dick understands a little more.
A bubbling like panic stirs in his stomach. Dick slides back into his coat, and makes sure he shuts the front door as quietly as he can behind him.
------
Dick spreads his palms flat.
The steel of the submersible hull feels warm, and getting warmer.
“Remember to adjust for time,” Tim advises, leaning against the wall beside him. “Heat retention from the insulation layer.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Not in the mood for a lecture in thermodynamics, but thanks.”
Dick calculates. It's past the peak of heat. Not the direct rays of midday, but residual radiation getting compounded, the baking heat of the afternoon sun. Three o' clock, maybe four?
“Pity about the computers,” Babs mutters, frowning at the ravaged control panel.
Dick chuckles. “Nah. If they'd left them, it would've made it too simple.”
She turns, focusing her gaze at him from above her glasses. “So you prefer impossible? You do have an extraordinary history of narrow escapes, but Dick…honestly, I don't know how you're getting out of this one.”
“Aw, he'll figure it out,” Roy offers cheerfully, testing the tension of his bowstring. He's sitting cross-legged in the corner, a blithe disregard for the danger. Dick can't say if he's grateful or annoyed.
Tim huffs. “How can you be so lax? Dick could die!”
“It doesn't look good,” Babs agrees.
A deep voice rumbles from the shadows, from the space where the dim emergency lights cannot reach. “He'll make it.”
“Bruce,” Dick says, and the the cowl's lenses shimmer into visibility.
“He'll make it,” Batman repeats, and it's less an observation than an oblique order. “He still has his resources. Some he may have forgotten to account for. No one is going to die.”
Tim's eyebrows furrow. His features twist, anger welling up and gathering tears to the brim. “How can you be so sure?”
But Bruce doesn't get a chance to answer.
“Tt.”
All heads turn toward the sound, attention funneling toward the far end of the submersible.
Dick knows he's hallucinating. Faces of friends have been popping in and out for-how long has it been, half a day? Longer? Donna and Wally had been the first. He'd chatted with them for nearly two hours, while more and more joined in. He'd finally realized his mistake when Bruce laughed; an accurate sound, but somehow misplaced, jarring Dick's sensibilities. Had troubled him until he finally remembered that he hadn't heard that particular chuckle from Bruce in many years. That it had been one of the many things that had died with Jason, and stayed in the ground even after the former Robin rose again.
Dick knows he's hallucinating, but he won't force his brain to expel these ghosts of his loved ones. Because he's going to die. And this way, he doesn't have to be alone.
“You're an idiot, Grayson. You're not going to die. Just hold on.” Damian smiles. It's always a dangerous thing when he smiles. The parting of his lips is sharp like slivers of broken glass, daring Dick to reach out and cut himself.
“Wish it were that easy, little bro. But it's been too long. Who am I waiting for? No one's going to find me.”
“I can't do this again,” Tim mumbles, turning away. “I can't.” He keeps wiping his cheeks, but they won't stay dry.
Damian's determined glare pinches into something more piercing. “You're not going to die. I won't let you.”
“Didn't know I had to ask your permission.” Dick's heart clenches, but he chuckles despite himself. “I'm sorry.”
Tired. So tired. Hasn't let himself sleep for more than a couple hours at a time. Had to keep awake, keep fighting. But now? Doesn't matter how he wastes his time. He's been floating in a dead zone for at least a day. Probably longer.
He promises himself that he'll try again after he wakes up. If he wakes up. But right now, hoping takes too much effort.
As he lays himself down, he feels steps circling around him.
“You're not going to die,” Damian repeats.
The last thing Dick sees are those familiar green boots. Eyes closed and already half-dreaming, he reaches out to tug at the red laces, and tries not to hurt when his hands find nothing to hold onto.
------
"Grayson, this is ridiculous."
"Just hold still, would you? Make sure you're looking at the lens. And no funny faces!"
Damian twists in his arms. Pushes a hand against Dick's neck for leverage as he wriggles toward escape.
"Funny fa- As if I would be so childish-"
Dick holds the ten year old's shoulders, stilling him and gently guiding him back into his lap.
"Look, Damian, I just want something to remember you by. Wouldn't want me to get lonely all the way across town, right?"
Dick expects a huff, a grumble, a tut, but instead he gets a moment of tense silence. A biding of anger.
"Oh, I'm supposed to be worried about your delicate feelings, am I?"
Dick frowns. “Okay. You're upset. Maybe-"
"You don't need a photograph. You don't need a remembrance."
"Hey now. I really am going to miss you-"
"I'm right here, Grayson, and if you would just stay where you belong, then-"
He cuts off, unable to continue. Swallows. He's trying hard to stretch his mouth into a grimace, but the corners keep turning down.
“…Damian. You know that I can't-”
“Never mind. Just take the picture.” He's gone slack in Dick's arms. Resigned.
Dick sighs. “Look, I can always vis-”
“Take the damn picture, Grayson.”
He grits his teeth, cheeks warming with frustration.
“…Okay.”
------
There is a loud clang, a familiar voice, and Dick tries to roll himself into wakefulness. Damian? Is he still here? Another bang, louder, and then the voice again, calling out his name. Dick sits up on his knees, blearily peering around the submersible, wondering which corner his brother has appeared in this time, and then realizes.
The voice. The banging. It's coming from outside.
“Damian,” he tries calling, but his throat is still thick with sleep.
There's a scraping, the uneasy groan of metal, and the popping of seams. A thin shaft of light spears down from above, and the wrenching gets louder. The roof hatch. It had been welded shut, but the panels are crumpling, being torn apart by sheer force. The joints scream with the tension, pressure building, building, and Dick feels adrenaline coursing fast inside of himself. It's making him forget his soreness, his thirst, his hunger. Free, he's going to be free.
A solid thump, and Dick recognizes it, the sound of two feet landing.
Anxiety and fatigue have his body shaking, but he concentrates hard, wrapping his fingers around a rung of the exit ladder. Hand over hand, he climbs up.
“Damian!” Dick cries out.
The reply is a roar of metal. The hatch door is first bent back, and then ripped away altogether. The sun bursts down into the submersible, crashing upon Dick's head with such immediacy he is almost knocked back down into the belly of the craft. Hands wind beneath his underarms, hoisting him through the portal.
No sooner is he pulled up into the sunlight that he's thrown to the flat surface of the deck. He slams down on his back, barely reacting fast enough to keep his head from cracking against the steel. The sun is growing dimmer, beginning to set, but it's still too bright for a man who has been starving in the dark. He'd strained his senses to their limits for the past five days, trying to perceive the barest hints of the outside, and now that he's escaped, he's overloaded, overexposed. The rumbling flight engines of the Batmobile are too loud, Damian's handling, too brusque. But the smell of the ocean air, the freshness of it-it's revitalizing.
He covers his eyes with the back of his hand while Damian's hurries bits of compressed food bar into his mouth. His stomach clenches eagerly, but his throat won't cooperate, and he ends up coughing the first mouthful into the sea foam. They try again, and this time he manages to swallow.
When his eyes begin to adjust, he uncovers them, squinting. Starts to sit up, but Damian shoves him back down. Growls and throws a leg over to straddle him. “Damian,” Dick rasps, but he's not being heard.
The teen grips Dick's waist with his thighs, and pins him down solidly with his weight. He's half-shuddering with every exhale, lower lip pulling down to bare his teeth. For a moment Dick is almost certain that his brother wants to bite him. Damian clenches the front of Dick's uniform, twisting the material in his fist as he pulls close.
“I don't-” Damian begins, but his voice, strangely thready, falters and dies. He breathes in deep, lungs heaving as he tries to control them, a pressure building until his chest rumbles with the coming words. “I don't want us to be strangers.” It's a snarl. And a sob. Not rage, but measuring all the same in ferocity.
Mental whiplash cracks Dick's sense of time, and suddenly he's months ago, standing in the Gotham botanical gardens, his younger brother scowling up at him as he fastens the leash on their dog. And then Dick's consciousness swirls again. He is jerked back to the present by the hot breaths pooling against his lips. Damian's breaths. And then something more solid than that.
Just like his words, the kiss is sharp and pushy. A kind of dare. But at the same time, it is softer than Dick had imagined. And yes, at this point, it's pointless to pretend that he hadn't ever thought about it, because the tingle in his gums says he's been wondering for longer than he has even known.
No more swallowing hope. Just swallowing Damian, drawing Damian into his mouth, their tongues sliding against each other.
Two palms fan out against Dick's chest as Damian pulls back, tilting his chin, then dipping back down. Shorter, shallower kisses, in quick succession. Then sitting up, shifting his weight to where their hips connect. Dick groans, his body responding with intense gratitude for the pressure.
Then Damian hooks his index finger urgently into the center of Dick's collar. Pushes down, until the zipper yields and begins to slide. But then he hesitates. Mouth straightens to a sharp thin line. And then he freezes up completely.
The world halts.
The high velocity of the rescue comes crashing still, and reason sidles onto center stage. Damian's eyes are flickering back and forth, never landing on anything for too long and-oh that's right. This is what shy looks like on him.
The finger at Dick's zipper twitches. A question.
And Dick's answer is heard quite clearly, though he does not speak. Just the sound of his hands disarming Damian's utility belt, the buckle clacking frantically as he yanks it open.
------
It's over too quickly, and Dick knows he only lasts as long as he does because of fatigue.
Damian wipes away the stickiness between them with detached, methodical strokes. Almost primly. Tucks them back into their respective uniforms, pulling up the zippers and tying the laces. He leaves Dick lying on the deck, stepping wordlessly towards the edge of the craft. Frowns out at the horizon, sky and water dyed in warm hues by the later afternoon. The submersible is tiny, but he's making his desire for distance so clear that he might as well be a hundred yards away. Wads up the tissues into a ball before throwing them out as far as he can.
“Don't litter,” Dick quips.
“Biodegradable,” Damian mumbles in reply, then scowls when he realizes he's been tricked into talking. Swallows, mouth twisting curiously. “That shouldn't have happened.”
“Yeesh,” Dick answers with a whistle. “Was I really that bad? I can do better next time. Promise!”
He tries his most winning smile, striking a pseudo-sexy pose on his side.
Damian's face crumples. “This isn't a joke,” he spits, voice uncharacteristically frail. “From now on, things will be different between us, won't they?”
Dick's not sure how to answer that.
The Batmobile hovers above, engines gently humming, winch cable still discharged. The submersible hatch door dangles from it, swaying lazily in the water like bait on a fishing line. Damian busies himself, reaching out over the water to reclaim the broken panel. Disengages the winch clamps and reattaches the line to the side of the submersible itself, anchoring it to the Batmobile.
When he's finished he slinks away from the edge, sitting on his ankles uncertainly before sinking into a cross-legged position. Dick drags himself over. Pushes into Damian's space. Lays his head into his lap.
“Damian,” he sighs, voice soft. Almost mumbling into the tunic. Damian smells so clean. “Change is always gonna happen. Can't stick the whole world into a Lazarus pit, you know?”
Damian settles a hand on Dick's hair. Uneasy at first, but he finds a way to busy himself, threading his fingers through the locks. Against his scalp. Silent. ”Feels nice,” Dick murmurs.
Damian's tugging thoughtfully on Dick's ear when he finally speaks again.
“Every time things change, you get farther away.”
The logic is almost childish. But it's not wrong. Dick has been running for a long time.
He smiles, hoping to dispel the heavy air. “But you're here now,” he says. “So you'll always be able to track me down.” Tries to make his voice light, but there's still a strain in it. Guilt curls low in his stomach.
Damian shrugs. “Drake helped.”
Tim? And Damian? Working together? Dick snickers. “Oh man, you two actually teamed up? I'm sorry I missed that.”
That earns him a flick to the temple. Almost playful, but then the mood twists back to somber.
“He said he wasn't prepared to lose you.” Purses his lips. “I told him I wasn't prepared for that, either.”
Then a sudden blindness as Damian's hand clasps over his eyes, and before Dick can ask what's going on-a mouth settling against his own. It's short. Contrite. And it doesn't burn like the last that they've shared. No sharp edge of panic, no urgency. But worry still flits in the background, like a bitter aftertaste.
“Is it really that embarrassing to kiss me?” Dick chuckles, curling his grip around Damian's wrist to uncover his eyes. “Um.”
“What?”
“I wanted to ask earlier. Your fingers…”
They're all torn up and bruised, and Damian jerks them out of sight.
“The winch kept slipping. I had to pull up some of the paneling to give it something to grip.”
“With your hands?” Dick asks incredulously. Tries to grab them again to get a better view of the damage, but Damian foists him off with his elbows.
“A soldering iron would have taken too long. I didn't know the status of your health. You could have been hurt.” He lists out his reasons. And I was scared, he doesn't add.
Dick shakes his head, bemused.
“Well, guess I can't complain. You did save my life after all,” he replies, somberly.
Damian rolls his eyes, but his cheeks have gone ruddy. “Tt. As if I would let you die.”
Kisses him again, though he doesn't cover his eyes this time. Still a little bashful.
Do you really need me, Dick wants to ask. But he knows the answer.
It used to trouble him, that he could never return that particular feeling. He doesn't relate to people the same way that Damian does, doesn't create those bonds that look so much like suffering. But he'd still recognized the appearance of his own affection-its intensity. He'd danced around with his attraction for so long, and eventually learned to not resist the quickening of his pulse.
It's not as though he's never felt strongly for another person. But there's something different here.
Dick doesn't need Damian in the same way. He can walk away. Can be alone again, and still survive. There is no compelling force that draws him to Damian, no matter of fate. It's just that he wants him. So today he's choosing to stay with Damian. And tomorrow he'll choose to stay again. And he will stay, and he will stay, and he is no longer scared. Because his way of loving isn't wrong, isn't any worse in quality. It's the same promise in different words.
He's smiling, resisting the urge to do something silly, like blow a raspberry into Damian's stomach.
“It'll take a few days to get back to Gotham,” Damian says.
“Days?”
“We have three tons of extra cargo,” he explains, knocking his heel against the submersible with a hollow clang.
“There isn't much evidence in here,” Dick tries to point out. “It's been completely gutted so there's no point in towing-”
He gets cut off by a scoff. “Father finished the mission for you, Grayson. The trafficking ring is no more.”
Dick frowns in confusion. “Then why do we need to-”
A smirk curls across Damian's face. “I've never had a submersible before.”
Dick snorts. “You and your tinker toys,” he says, reaching for Damian's hand. Runs a thumb over the peaks of the knuckles, making sure to be gentle around the bruises and abrasions.
With his other hand, Damian pulls a remote control from his utility belt. The Batmobile's flight engines rev, the winch cable goes taut, and then they're moving, being towed gently across the waves.
The water seems endless all around them, the line of the horizon completely uninterrupted. It's beautiful, but he's glad he hadn't been able to see it from inside the submersible. No sea birds in the sky. Not even the shadows of island peaks in the distance.
He'd been so certain that he'd be lost forever.
“Damian,” Dick murmurs, nestling himself more firmly into the warm lap, his cheek pressed against Damian's thigh. Holds on. He doesn't want to drift anymore. “Thank you for finding me.”
.end
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(A/N): Not quite satisfied with this, but I'm tired of working on it, so here it is, haha. I do still like some individual moments, though.