Title: Half Lost, Half Found (1/5)
Rating: PG for language and violence
Words: 7,667 this part
Summary: Nightwing and Batman. H/C. Driven underground, Batman fights to keep Nightwing alive.
Thanks to
gnine, without whose constant harassment this fic would never have been written. And thanks to
cienna for the beta.
.Half Lost, Half Found.
.Part 1.
There is a fight. There's always a fight. With adrenalin and muscles pulling and bruised knuckles and the smell of sweat and blood.
It's dark. This is nothing unusual. Dick's spent what feels a whole lot like most of his life hiding out in shadows, facing off against everything from petty criminals to lunatics twice his size in places so dark he sometimes couldn't even see the end of his own nose. This is where he learned to fight. He's never feared it. So it confuses Dick now why he doesn't like it; there's an encroaching blackness at the edges of his vision that is too empty. The angle is all wrong. The sounds too muffled and indecipherable. Sound that could be someone laughing, or it could be the water boiling over onto the stove again, hissing and burning. Definitely burning. There's heat all down his side.
Strange shapes move over him and around him and it bothers Dick that he can't remember what he was doing or where he is or why this all feels like a bad trip. Or what he guesses a bad trip would feel like if he'd actually been on one. Because, you know, Batman would be mad as hell if Dick ever took drugs. It would be like that one time with Brian Taylor and the attempted cigarette in the second floor bathrooms in ninth grade. Bruce had smelled the smoke on Dick as soon as he'd gotten through the door because he might not have super powers but sometimes it sure as hell seems like it. Then it was an hour of lectures and six days of angry, disappointed glares. That had been the worst. They talked even less during that week of exile and Dick hadn't actually thought that possible.
There are hands on him. Grasping, pulling at his arms and digging blunt fingernails into his neck, choking him. Definitely not friendly. It's instinct to react; years upon years of training that cause Dick to lash out. His fist strikes something soft. Someone's face, his experience informs him. His legs kick out and something wrenches, something rips, but Dick has long since learned to ignore pain like this. It won't help keep him alive in a fight, pain only slowing him down. Distracting him. So Dick shoves it away, strikes out and his legs connect. Someone yells. A body falls heavily beside him. Dick can hear it but it's weird because he can't see. He's out of breath and he can't work out why.
Something heavy and solid hits Dick squarely across the chest then and Dick hears a distant cracking. Heat floods his lungs, squeezes his lungs, and Dick gasps. But he knows better than to give in to the agony that screams broken bone. He knows that letting himself succumb to the light-headedness and the struggle to get enough air will only get him dead. Instead, Dick focuses on sound. The only useful sense left that isn't messed up.
He hears the drag of metal against gravel. Heavy boots against flesh. Dick thinks he can hear a voice he recognises but the roaring of his blood through his ears and the pounding in his head drowns it out.
Everything kind of slides away and Dick thinks he should probably be more worried about that, but mostly he's just relieved. Nothing hurts in this grey, fuzzy half-consciousness. No one is trying to kill him. No one is yelling in his face. If he concentrates he can almost remember the taste of the tea Alfred made him that morning, bitter and strong. He slept in. Maybe he's still there, back in his old bed at the Manor, and this is all a really crappy dream. Maybe, soon, Alfred will wake him up and there will be comfortable warm sheets under his back instead of cold, hard concrete. He'll see Alfred's smiling face instead of the sneers of thugs. There will be breakfast in bed and a fire in the grate like there used to be when he was a kid and cold and kind of lonely.
Somewhere in his head he can even hear Bruce. It's no surprise he sounds stern. Even that has a comforting familiarity to it. What Dick doesn't get is the urgency in Bruce's voice. The- panic? It's not like Bruce to panic.
Hands squeeze almost painfully around his arms and he hears, "Wake up, Nightwing!"
Dick wants to ask for just a few more minutes. Of all days he thinks he deserves it today. And why is Bruce calling him Nightwing anyway?
It hits Dick then- or more accurately someone hits Dick then; there was a trap. Obvious. Stupid. They walked straight into it anyway because that's what they've always done. Dick's not dreaming. He's not tripping. He's blinded and he's hurt and it kind of worries Dick that he can't feel it so much.
There's a scuffle around him and Dick feels himself pushed and pulled and he really wishes he could see what the hell is going on. Someone wrenches on his arm and Dick finds his feet, finds himself upright and is almost certain he's about to puke when a hand slides around his back and he hears a low growl in his ear, "Hold on."
He holds on.
They turn dizzyingly. Beside him Batman orders, "Down," and Dick obeys. He always obeys. Mostly.
It hurts, his chest pulling, closing up as he crouches. Dick hears himself hissing, makes himself be silent. If there is one thing he trusts it's Batman to get him out of here in one piece.
It should probably sting more that Dick needs saving like this; that after all these years and all the time he spends fighting alone he's back to being saved by Batman like he's twelve and wearing tiny shorts and pixie boots. What the hell were they thinking, anyway? It wasn't exactly the kind of outfit to instil fear into the hearts of Gotham's hardened criminal element. It all seemed like a good idea at the time though, and Dick's gotta be honest: he kind of liked the boots. Still kind of likes them-
Batman pulls him upright sharply, shakes Dick. "Pay attention."
Right. Trying to stay alive. Dick had almost forgotten.
They're moving, half-stumbling because Dick can't seem to get his legs or his feet to cooperate. His arm is slung over Batman's shoulders and Dick can feel Batman's cape wrapped around his back. He hears gunfire, bullets striking concrete, and Batman growls under his breath. This close Dick can feel the tension, the strain in Batman's muscles, his carefully measured breaths. Dick tries to take more of his own weight, to stand up straight but something grinds painfully together in his chest and Dick chokes. Batman pulls him closer. It means, Hold it together and I won't let you go and Don't be an idiot all at once.
Their pace quickens, a sharp turn to the right, an immediate left and Dick can tell from the dull thudding of their boots that they're in a narrow corridor now. The shouts and jeers of bad guys echo after them. They were nothing special. Not particularly strong. Not bright. A lot of them, yes, but nothing Dick hadn't handled before so why does he feel like he's been run over by a truck? And why can't he see?
Batman stops suddenly, swings Dick around and leans him against a wall. He tries to slide down it wanting to sit down just for a minute to catch his breath and work out what's going on and maybe curl up and pass out but Batman catches him under the arms.
"Stay," he orders, making it very clear that that means stay standing. Dick frowns, wants to argue that he's not Batman's pet dog and he'll do what he damn well thinks best, but staying still is pretty much all Dick thinks he can manage so he holds his tongue and nods once. Even that much movement sends spikes of pain through his head and his neck and sometimes Dick really hates his life.
In front of him, Dick can feel how close Batman's face is, imagines his eyes narrowing, assessing, and then he's gone.
He made the grade, Dick guesses.
Without sight, Dick concentrates on sound; the heavy unfurling of Batman's cape a familiar sound. The thud of fists and boots and bodies hitting the ground. More gunshots. Cries and calls, mixing together to become meaningless, intelligible. He's losing it, Dick realises. He's losing his grip on the wall and on consciousness and Dick'll be damned if he'll let Batman come back to find him passed out on the floor. His lungs burn and every breath is starting to hurt. There's a weird prickling behind his eyes, the skin on his face itches and Dick tries to remember if there was some kind of gas or a liquid thrown at him that has left him blinded. He can't remember anything specific, his whole head is a jumble of messed up images and snippets of a case he wasn't even supposed to be working on.
It's been months since Dick- since Nightwing- last worked with Batman. For Batman. Whichever. Months since they'd spoken more than a few awkward words over the telephone because Alfred had absolutely insisted and supervised to make sure they actually said something. And that what they said didn't devolve into another argument. It never used to be like this. It never used to be so hard.
A shuffing sound to his left catches Dick's attention and at the last minute he realises it's a man creeping up on him. Dick manages to drop just as the guy swings whatever weapon he's carrying into the space where his head used to be.
Stupid, Dick chastises himself. Not paying attention. Not listening. He knows better.
Somewhere above him his opponent swears, the momentum of his swing unbalancing him; Dick can hear his feet stumbling. It's all the opportunity Dick needs. He shoves upwards with his elbow into the man's chin, ignoring how the move sends new and agonising heat spreading across his chest. Should have stayed low. Making too many mistakes. But this way, at least, the thug has no chance to fight back and the familiar cracking sound as elbow meets jaw tells Dick the man won't be calling out for help any time soon. He does manage to make a muffled kind of scream and Dick takes a guess at where his head is, ramming it into the wall with just enough force to knock the guy out. He falls silent instantly, body slumping heavily to the floor beside Dick. The thug should be grateful. Dick knows from experience how much a broken jaw hurts.
Dick really wishes Batman would hurry up and come back.
As much as he'd love to, Dick doesn't sit down. Instead he leans himself against the cold, uneven wall of the corridor. Concrete, Dick guesses. He knows there are more bad guys out there. There are always more bad guys out there.
This time he hears them when they come.
Three- no, four- from the footfalls and the hissed whispering. If they're trying for stealth they've got a whole lot to learn. Dick inches along the wall away from the noise, stepping carefully over the unconscious thug's body. It would be embarrassing as hell if Batman found him sprawled on the floor because he'd tripped over something that wasn't even moving. Mortifying. But Dick needs the room to manoeuvre when he can't see what's coming or where he's putting his feet. He feels exposed in the corridor but he guesses if there was anywhere better to hide Batman would have stashed him there. Dick has enough faith in Batman to believe he wouldn't turn this into some kind of test; some way of showing Dick exactly how much he'd screwed up and how he needed to do better because somehow getting blinded and beaten were just not acceptable.
Dick would love to remember exactly where he messed this up, maybe then he wouldn't be so pissed that no matter how many times he blinks his eyes all he gets to see is a fuzzy kind of blackness, tinged with reds and yellows around the corners like the imprint of an afterimage. He can feel wetness in his eyes, uncomfortable under his mask. He hopes it's his eyes watering and not bleeding. They sting in a way that makes Dick want to rub at them but doesn't dare.
The voices are closer now but it's difficult to pick up on their words. He hears Batman's name. Curses. The clicking sound of a gun being loaded.
Out in the open like this it would be way too easy to get shot at, and for all his skills moving faster than a speeding bullet isn't one of them. Dick tries not to feel guilty that he wishes Superman were there with them.
He wants to puke or pass out or at least not be standing and as far as he can tell none of that is going to be happening any time soon, but it doesn't make it suck any less. Dick wants to be at home where people aren't trying to kill him.
It's starting to worry Dick too how his mind keeps wandering because then suddenly he hears, "Shit!" and it's way too close. This guy could have a gun. He could be green and untrained. Or he could a ruthless veteran of Gotham's uniquely insane criminal underclass. If he could see, Dick'd be able to tell. No question. But right now all he can do is assume the worst. And there's only one thing Dick can think to do in the split second he has to make a decision.
Putting all the speed and power he's got left into his dive Dick barrels towards the voice, satisfied he hits something that feels a lot like a human chest but not so pleased because it freaking hurts. His back, his shoulders, his head, his hair. Dick pushes it all away, concentrates on using his opponent as a softer surface to land on than the concrete ground, trying to minimize doing any more damage to himself. It half works.
Beneath him Dick hears his opponent gasp as the air is forced from his lungs. It's an awkward angle but Dick manages to swing his fist at where he approximates the guy's cheek to be, feels it connect and the body under him relaxes. Another down, but Dick knows there are three more where he came from. At least. And Dick is sprawled out over some unknown unconscious guy and he's having a hard time catching his breath, so does not relish the thought of getting up, and this is not even slightly the best defensive position to be in.
It's no surprise that Dick doesn't recover fast enough. Before he knows it he can hear heavy footsteps turning a corner, coming to a stop, and then a voice hissing, "Little bastard."
Must be none too pleased with Dick's handiwork.
Dick is mostly pissed at being called little. Maybe that would have made sense when he was Robin and twelve and kind of short for his age, but he's none of those things any more. Even if sometimes Dick thinks he can never stop being Robin, not completely. Batman will always be his partner, the one he looks up to and obeys and will ultimately trust to be there. However naïve and stubborn the others might think he is.
Dick is brutally reminded that he should be concentrating here by a kick to his side. Instinctively, he curls away, gritting his teeth against the pain. A deep, angry voice orders him to get the fuck up. To fight like a man, you fucking freak.
Nice.
Dick would like nothing more than to comply, but this new bad guy doesn't give him a chance. In the next moment Dick can feel hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, turning him around. The brute pushes hard and Dick can't find his balance, can't get his feet in the right place. He topples back and thinks that probably hurt but can't feel it because his attacker is beating him around the face, one fist after another, spitting abuse that Dick has heard a thousand times before. He's just getting into a rhythm when Dick hears a sharp, dull crack; his nose breaking. No more modelling for him. Unless they like the beaten to a pulp look, which, okay sometimes they do. Which is weird.
The thug laughs and Dick hears knuckles cracking. He's always hated that sound.
The momentary pause is enough.
Dick aims low, kicks out with all the strength he has left. His boot connects. The howling that follows is a good indication he hit his mark.
"You fuck," the guy curses. "You little fuck." He's wailing, pacing somewhere close by and Dick knows he needs to move. He needs to get the hell out of there because there are more coming and Dick doesn't know how much longer he can stay conscious and where is Batman?
No matter how much Dick tells himself to get up though he just can't. He can't breathe and his face hurts and he can feel wetness trailing from his nose.
He runs out of time.
Over the pounding in his head Dick hears the distinct sound of a gun being pulled, safety off. The barrel is pressed painfully against his knee and the thug hisses gleefully, "I'll show you, you fucker. I'll teach you to fuck with me."
If Dick was a little more lucid, a little less messed up it would be an easy thing to avoid the bullet. He's angry and slow and no match for Nightwing. But Dick can barely keep a grip on consciousness and in the split second he has to realise what's about to happen and to do something about it all he can manage is to minimize the damage. He twists to the right, pulling his legs up and away from the barrel of the gun. Even expecting it, the pain of the bullet ripping through the muscles of his calf is bad enough that Dick can't stop himself crying out. His voice echoes in his ears. His leg is on fire. No matter how many times he gets shot he'll never get used to it. It's not like getting beat up or kicked or thrown through a wall. It's burning, clawing agony and all Dick can do is lie there and gasp for air. He's hot and cold all at once. It's too loud and he can't hear anything. He's having a really shitty day.
There are things he should be doing, like fighting back or getting away from this psycho but Dick can't seem to control a single one of his muscles. He can't have more than seconds before the guy fires again. He's a sitting duck. Sprawled duck. Whatever. An easy target. Helpless. And through the burning in his leg and the vice around his ribs Dick's clearest thought is how damned angry Batman is going to be. Batman taught him better than this. Batman would never get himself in such a mess. He wouldn't let himself die here, and neither will Dick.
It takes more than he has left to drag his thoughts into some kind of order; to concentrate on the immediate danger and not on the pain or how hopeless his situation is. Batman would say there is no hopeless situation, just giving up.
Dick concentrates. Still no sight, but he can hear someone- the guy who's trying to kill him he guesses- muttering, "Boss said not to kill you but I might just have to if you don't fucking keep still."
It's reckless, but Dick can't help taunting, "Like you could, creep."
"Real smartass, huh?" the guy scoffs. "You gonna take me out by hurting my feelings?"
In the next moment arms are bracketing Dick's head. He can smell bad breath where the thug is leaning in close, warm breath ghosting over his cheek. Dick tries to turn away but is stopped by a rough hand holding his chin cruelly hard.
"Hate to break it to you, pretty boy," he sneers, "but you're not getting out of this one."
It's about time he got a break, Dick thinks; this guy isn't too bright. Underestimates his opponent. Overestimates himself. A common mistake and one that right now Dick is thankful for.
Dick grins and jerks his head forward, head butting the guy with enough force that he nearly knocks himself out. Relying on reflex, Dick strikes out with his fists, punching the bastard in the neck. He gets a satisfying choking sound in response. The satisfaction is short lived because the next thing he knows is white, sheer agony as the guy grinds his fingers into the bullet wound in Dick's leg.
"Fucking shit," the thug spits.
All Dick can see is grey and red. He knows he's slipping.
Then, as suddenly as it came the pain is gone. Dick hears the familiar sound of thick fabric, feels the corner of it slide over his shoulder.
Batman.
Disconnected sounds follow; howls for help, the thud and crack of fists against flesh, breaking bone, the scuff of boots against the ground. Another gunshot and Dick cringes, expecting to feel the burn of a bullet through his body all over again but the pain never comes.
After a long while- or maybe a short time; Dick can't tell and doesn't paticularly care- there is a brief moment of quiet before hands lay gently against his shoulders, then his neck, then his face, and Batman is calling for Nightwing. Again.
"Hey," Batman says, but the voice is more Bruce than Batman and the weirdness of that has Dick opening his eyes. Trying to open his eyes. Kind of opening his eyes. It's hard to tell when open or closed the view looks the same. "I'll get you out of here," Batman- Bruce- says. "But you have to help me out. You're too big for me to carry any more."
Despite feeling like he's been run over by a truck Dick somehow manages to laugh at that.
"I think I'd die of the shame, anyway."
"Don't be so dramatic." Bruce's hands disappear and Dick hears the sound of material being ripped. He can guess what's coming next.
"Says the man who dresses as a giant bat," Dick retorts. He reaches out and Bruce catches his wrist, guides his hand to Bruce's arm.
"Hang on," is all Bruce says.
Dick does.
It doesn't lessen the pain any as Bruce binds the gunshot wound tightly- so tightly Dick thinks Bruce is trying to cut his damn leg off- but it's good to have someone there who isn't trying to kill him. Who Dick knows will keep anyone else trying to take a shot at them away. He's not convinced he could take much more damage.
Gritting his teeth, Dick feels kind of childish for wanting- for needing- to hold on to Bruce like this. It's the blood loss, he tells himself. And the head injury. And whatever the hell has happened to his eyes. It's messed him up. Bruce doesn't complain in any case, even pats Dick on the arm when it's over. Mostly by this point Dick just hopes he doesn't puke over him.
"We can't stay here." Back to Batman's voice again, stern and commanding. "Can you stand?"
Not a chance, Dick thinks.
"Sure," he says.
It might be the fact that Dick doesn't actually manage to move, but Batman is apparently not convinced because he wraps arms around Dick's back and very carefully, very slowly pulls him up.
Hanging on to Batman's shoulders, about halfway to standing, Dick has to gasp out, "Stop. Batman, stop!"
His head is splitting in two and his stomach is seriously unhappy and even without being able to see Dick is certain the ground under him is tipping sideways. Or turning upside down. Or just generally doing things it isn't supposed to.
"Nightwing," Batman says sternly. "There's no time-"
"There's time if you don't wanna be decorated with last night's dinner," Dick hisses through clenched teeth.
Batman stills instantly.
"Yeah, I know," Dick manages to grin. "Puke is a bitch to get out of Kevlar."
It's so strange to be this close to Bruce again. It has to be years since they were anywhere near this much in each other's space, but Dick still remembers the curve of Bruce's back, the reassurance of his shoulders like it was yesterday. It was rare even when he was a kid, but now this kind of proximity is pretty much unheard of. Dick is maybe kind of embarrassed that he maybe likes the way Bruce holds on to him like he means something . Like he cares. Dick takes strength from it. Reminds himself that this is no time for getting worked up over what they aren't ever going to be like.
He takes a deep breath- or at least as deep a breath as he can without it grinding something in his chest the wrong way- getting control over himself, swallowing it all down and nods, telling Batman, "Okay. I'm good."
"No," Batman says. "You're not."
"Okay, no I'm not," Dick agrees. "But I would be if we went home. Maybe drank ten cups of Alfred's coffee. Vegged out in front of the TV."
"You have never," Batman points out, balancing Dick on his one good leg and getting a good grip on him around the waist, "sat still long enough to be considered vegging out."
"I could start now." Dick would really like to start now. "Oh man. I'm going to have to hop."
Batman pulls Dick more firmly against his side. "Lean your weight on me."
"I am." Dick's got something like a death grip on Batman's neck, the muscles of his arm shaking from the strain of holding himself up.
Predictably Batman ignores him, takes a tentative step. It's awkward as hell and every movement pulls viciously at the hole in his leg and the broken mess of his chest but Dick has had worse, he reminds himself, and he does his best to help keep them moving forward. Wherever they're going. Out, hopefully.
They don't speak. Dick doesn't think he could even if he had something to say. He needs all his concentration to keep upright, holding onto Batman desperately because he's pretty sure if he loses his grip he'll lose consciousness too. And that would be bad.
It's agonisingly slow, frustrating, but if Batman is annoyed he doesn't show it. Or at least, he's not giving off any of those pissed bat-vibes Dick's kind of gotten used to feeling emanating from Bruce. Batman. Whichever.
It occurs to Dick then that Batman hasn't made any kind of comment about his blindness. There's no way he could have missed Dick's groping around, or the fact that he has his eyes closed half the time because it hurts less and they're useless anyway. The only explanation Dick can think of is that Batman knows what happened. In all likelihood was there when whatever happened happened. Dick would love to know too, and might have asked if he didn't hear raised voices somewhere behind them, to their left, closing in.
"How many?" Batman asks. It's impossible to know if Batman is testing him or if he's too preoccupied with Dick's weight to count for himself.
"Nine." Footsteps, gait, speech; classifiable, recognisable, countable. Another of Batman's lessons honed from long experience of working in dark places. To rely on sight alone would be way too much of a disadvantage in this line of work. There's an all-too familiar cackling ahead of them. The laugh reverberates creepily around him. "Ten," he corrects himself.
Beside him, Dick can tell Batman is looking around them. "We can't get out this way." With you in this state, he doesn't say but Dick hears it anyway.
It's true the thought of doing any kind of acrobatics right now makes him feel kind of queasy, but Dick isn't dead. Yet. Before he has time to argue, to tell Batman he can manage whatever needs to be done, Batman decides, "We head down."
In Batman language down pretty much always means sewers. Awesome. Like his day couldn't get any worse.
With their direction decided Batman quickens the pace.
The bad guys are closing in on them, surrounding them. Dick is starting to get lightheaded. He can feel blood running down his leg, filling his boot. Losing too much blood, too quickly.
Suddenly they come to a stop and Dick almost over-balances from the momentum. His face would certainly have met the floor if Batman hadn't gotten his hands under his arms, holding Dick up.
The next thing Dick knows he's being propped up against another cold, damp wall. It worries him that he doesn't remember getting there. It worries him even more that his face feels like it's pressed against the sharp armour at Batman's neck.
"Nightwing," Batman is calling sternly. "Stay awake."
Easy for him to say.
"I need to open the grate. You need to stay on your feet."
Dick nods. "Yeah. Okay." Not really okay, but it's not like he has a choice.
He feels the cool leather of Batman's glove against his cheek.
"You'll do fine."
If Dick had known all it took to get a few words of encouragement out of Batman was a couple broken ribs, a gunshot wound to the leg and a beating around the face he would have done it years ago.
Or not.
Batman pulls Dick upright, away from the relative support of his body. Dick shivers, suddenly cold without Batman being near. There's nothing to hold on to except the wall and Dick has to balance precariously on one leg. He manages. Kind of.
Batman doesn't let go which Dick takes to mean he doesn't exactly look stable. It's easy to imagine the dubious expression Batman is wearing.
"Stop looking at me like that," Dick says, trying to shrug Batman's hold off of him. It's a pathetically feeble attempt and only serves to make Batman hold onto him more firmly.
"You can't see how I'm looking at you," Batman points out.
"I don't need to. Go." There's only so long Dick can keep this up. His working leg is already shaking under him from the strain.
With a brief squeeze of his arms Batman goes.
Useless, Dick thinks. He's useless like this. If anyone attacks them now there's nothing Dick would be able to do about it. He should be watching Batman's back, not hiding in a corner just because he's beaten to hell. Dick can hear a soft clanging of metal against metal, a scraping of iron against concrete. Batman prying open the grate he'd mentioned, Dick guesses. He's trying to get them out of here and Batman is unprotected and it's Dick's fault.
He loses time again, feels his back sliding down the wall and has to dig his fingernails into the damp concrete until it hurts, until he can feel skin being scraped from his fingers, to catch himself. Jeering voices, getting too close, call, "Come out, little Bat Boy," and, "We won't hurt you," and Dick wonders if people will ever stop calling him boy.
Then Batman is there in front of him; a familiar presence, the same smell of leather and sweat Dick has known for so much of his life. Dick has always thought the suit had to be too hot. Too stifling. Too enclosed to allow the kind of movement Dick needs.
"Stay with me, Nightwing," Dick hears. The terse command snaps him to attention and sometimes Dick hates how he does that; how with one order Dick automatically obeys, long habit so ingrained Dick isn't certain he'll ever be able to shake it. He's not sure he even wants to.
A hand slips around his back, draws his arm across broad shoulders, begins half dragging, half carrying him because Dick can't get either of his legs to do anything but seize up painfully. Batman murmurs, "Just a little more. I need you awake, Nightwing. I'll lower you down and you don't fall when you hit the ground. Do you understand?"
"Yeah." Dick is panting like he's run a marathon or something and he wants to add, Like I ever fall, but that's not entirely true and right now is more than a lot likely.
"Nightwing," Batman says sharply. It sounds a lot like Bruce's You've done something wrong and I'm going to tell you exactly where you screwed up voice. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes," Dick hisses back. "I get it."
Stand. Don't fall. Don't mess up.
In their haste Batman isn't exactly gentle as he manoeuvres Dick into place, hands him over the edge of the drain access. When the smell hits him it's almost overwhelming and Dick's stomach turns. The amount of time he's spent wading his way through sewers and old abandoned tunnels littered with dead rats and rotting garbage you'd think he'd be used to the stench by now. Even Bludhaven on a Friday night somehow manages to smell more fragrant.
The hold Batman has on Dick's wrists is enough to hurt.
"You ready?" he asks. They both know this is going to hurt like hell. They both know Dick has to keep silent. They both know Dick's going down that hole ready or not, but Dick guesses it's kind of nice he asked anyway.
"Good to go," Dick lies, trying for a smile. The way Batman snorts leads Dick to believe that it probably wasn't all that convincing.
His bad leg hanging over the edge, Dick wonders how far down this goes. There's a dripping sound that Dick seriously hopes is water and not his own blood. It can't be far, he tells himself. Neither of his legs will take much of a fall. But then, this is Batman, who expects everything from Dick even if he never says it.
There's no easy way to do this, so Dick braces himself, pushes away from the side. For all that Dick expected the pain he didn't expect this. His chest closes up, to feel like his insides are digging into his lungs; suffocating. The world goes white, which is kind of a nice change after so long seeing nothing but darkness.
The next thing Dick knows he's dangling in mid-air and someone is holding onto his hands. His hands that are slick with sweat. Slipping, Dick realises absently.
Somewhere above him Dick hears Batman's voice growling, "Nightwing. Dammit Nightwing. Answer me."
Dick tries to form a response but finds he can't breathe and instead chokes. Coughs. Tries tipping his head back to gasp for air. To see Batman. To see what the hell is going on but there's nothing. Then he remembers. Dick remembers where he is and almost wishes he hadn't.
Batman's voice is more strained than Dick remembers hearing for a long time. "Come on. You can do this."
"Let go," Dick manages to choke out. He doesn't know how long he was out; how long he's been hanging there, but it's been too long. There's no way their pursuers aren't almost right on top of Batman's position by now and no way is Dick going to be the reason for Batman- for Bruce- to be unprotected, to be in this indefensible position any longer than he has to be.
"No," Batman states flatly.
"Do it." Dick can't do authoritative orders quite like Batman can, but he hopes he puts enough strength and determination into his voice to convince him. As soon as Dick feels Batman shift he knows he's won. If there's one thing Dick knows it's how to fall.
"Don't pass out," is all Batman says before he lets go.
There's no time to think before his bad leg is hitting the ground. Or at least what must be the ground, but all Dick can feel is fire along every nerve in his body. He can't tell which way is up and which way is down or which part of pain-wracked flesh is his arm and what is his leg. It's all the same. But Dick knows he can't make a sound. He knows with the same surety that Batman will follow. That Batman is counting on him to remain silent. So he does, swallowing down the agony, biting it all back until the pain has faded enough that Dick can tell his head from his toes again. At some point he must have bitten through his lip or his tongue because he can taste fresh blood in his mouth, and then he realises Batman is standing next to him, reassuring in a low voice, "You made it. You're okay. You did it."
Somehow Dick is kneeling on one knee, his bad leg bent at an awkward angle behind him. Batman has an arm wrapped around his shoulders, another in his hair. Dick's head is leaning against some part of Batman's armour that is maybe his stomach or side. Dick has neither the strength nor the interest to work it out for certain.
Another minute, maybe two, of rest, learning to breathe again. Taking comfort from Batman's hold on him. Cold water swirls around his knee, fills his boots. A sewer. Right.
Then Batman straightens.
"We need to move."
To be fair, even that short reprieve is more than Dick would normally expect.
Dick nods, does his very best to help Batman pull him to standing. He's all for getting as far out of the cold water as possible. He's all for surviving the night even more.
The smell hits him again, makes him gag. Or maybe that's the weird dizziness going on with his head. When he gets out of here Dick is going to take the longest, hottest bath he can get Alfred to coax out of the Manor's ancient plumbing. He's going to ignore any and all complaints about him hogging the bathroom. It's not like there aren't twelve others to choose from.
Batman shakes him lightly. "Stay focused."
He's drifting again. Losing track of time and of his thoughts. They're moving forward. Or maybe that should be crawling forward, inch by slow, agonising inch. The pain is kind of like background noise now, always there pressing in on his senses, sometimes sharp and sometimes just everywhere. His leg drags along the uneven ground and every step jars at the gunshot wound. Dick can't decide if it's a good thing or a bad thing that he's starting to feel it less and less.
"I closed the grate," Batman says out of nowhere. Dick guesses he probably doesn't mean closed so much as welded shut and armed with explosives or something. Batman's just thorough like that.
It's weird for him to offer conversation though. Dick usually does all the talking. "It should buy us some time, but we need to move faster." Maybe not so much conversation as Batman's unique method of encouragement. That at least is familiar territory.
Dick tries to nod in response but thinks it comes off more of an unfortunate lolling onto Batman's shoulder than anything. His throat is too dry, his chest heaving with the exertion of keeping moving to waste breath on trying to speak.
He wants to ask,You know where you're going, right?, and maybe, Does Alfred still have that ultra-strength washing detergent, because these stains are going to be a bitch to wash out of my suit and what the hell are we even stepping in here?. He wants to be on the rooftops, not the gutter. He wants to be flying beside Batman, not leaning on him. The best he can do is to try to take more of his own weight, trying to manoeuvre his one working leg more quickly, trying to stay out of Batman's way.
They turn left, turn again, then right. Whatever path or tunnel they're following curves around and Dick feels like they're going around in circles. He imagines they're in some kind of maze. Trapped rats. Which is kind of appropriate considering the rats he knows are down here with them. Occasionally he can hear their scuttling and their squeaking.
This place is full of echoes; running water, a clicking that Dick can't work out, a dull roar that could be the street overhead or maybe a subway train below them. Voices join the sounds. Whatever Batman did to hold off the bad guys it didn't stop them for long. From the way Batman picks up the pace- or at least tries to- he's concerned they'll catch up with them too. But this is Batman's domain. This is a world of shadows and hidden corners, enclosed and controllable. They have a better chance down here than they did out in the warehouse or factory or wherever they were. Dick's memory is still kind of hazy on the details, but odds are on warehouses or abandoned factories as the hang out of choice for Gotham's criminal element.
"We're headed for Seventh Street," Batman tells him, unprompted. Dick guesses it's good to know that he has a plan. And knows where he is. But then, Batman could navigate Gotham's extensive sewer network with his eyes closed. Which, Dick thinks, is exactly what he'd be doing if he didn't have Batman with him. It reminds Dick of long nights as Robin spent finding his way through these old, crumbling drains with his legs wet and exposed and freezing. At least he gets to wear pants now, he guesses. Not that his legs feel any warmer right now than on any one of those long, winter nights. There's an icy numbness in his limbs that feels all wrong.
Batman goes on, "It's not much further. Just a little further."
It's not like Batman to lie, but Dick can hear the falsity of his words. He was taught by the best after all. He wonders how bad he must look for Batman to think he needs that kind of reassurance.
All of a sudden a deep booming fills Dick's ears, the ground shakes under them and for an instant Dick thinks it's another earthquake and wouldn't that just be his luck. The unsteadiness under their feet, a rush of air hitting from behind, knocks them to the ground. Dick splutters foul-tasting water from his mouth, realises he's face down in the stuff and has to arch his neck to the side to keep out of it. His arms are trapped beneath him and oh God his leg. He tries to twist, tries to get away from the pain reverberating through him and then someone- Batman- is pulling at him, turning him over and putting his back against a wall and tucking his head against his chest. The weight of heavy fabric- Batman's cape- settles around him. Another deafening boom. The world rocks again. Dick hears the sound of splitting, metal scraping against metal, brick cracking apart, splashing loudly into water.
An explosion, he realises. It's an explosion. Which is only marginally less bad than an earthquake. Batman holds on to Dick just a little tighter.
"We were too late," he hears Batman hiss under his breath. If Dick wasn't so close he would never have heard the comment, doubts Batman meant for him to, but it still makes Dick wonder if whatever they were too late for was his fault. For getting himself blinded and shot. For being a burden. That he'd held Batman back from stopping whatever this is. That maybe innocent people have been hurt and that would be on his head.
There's no time to try and work it out, to try and remember anything, because then there's another explosion and this time it's definitely closer; Dick can feel the heat of it even half-hidden under Batman's cape, half-covered by Batman's body. Choking dust fills the air and Dick feels debris falling against his back.
"Damnit," Batman curses. And that is so not a good sign.
A third explosion, and this time close enough that Dick hears the blast before the sewer around them starts to shake. No time for being gentle about it, Batman wrenches Dick to his feet, bundles him forward. The sides of the tunnel they've been taking shelter against are curved and the angle makes it impossible for Dick to get his feet under him. He falls, tipping sideways, arms reaching out, trying to find something to grab onto. Trying to break his fall. Batman half manages to catch him under the arms, Dick's legs trailing in cold water again. And just when he'd finally gotten out of the water.
Batman is trying to pull Dick up to standing again when a fourth blast hits them from behind. Dick hears Batman grunting in pain, burning air roaring past his ears, scouring the skin of his face. A weight falls on top of him and for one horrifying too-long second Dick thinks that Batman is down. That he's hurt; killed; dead. He doesn't care how much his leg feels like it's swollen up to twice its normal size, that his skin is just about ready to split open. No matter how bad a state he's in, Dick will drag Batman out of here himself if he needs to. Whatever it takes. Somehow. But then arms curl around Dick's head, Batman's body shifts, bringing them closer together, and the relief is enough, the exhaustion so great that Dick brings his arms up and grips tightly at Batman's sides. He doesn't think about how they aren't like this, how they don't cling to each other like this and never have done.
Dick holds on.
Part 2 >> Comments and concrit most welcome and appreciated.