Work Text:
Day 1
The room was 8 foot wide and 9 foot long. Dick had measured it carefully, pacing out the length that first day. 8 foot by 9 foot almost exactly. There were bigger cells in Blackgate's solitary confinement unit.
As well as measuring, Dick also inspected every inch. The room's walls were the sort of off white which occurred when you didn't bother to repaint for several decades and had the smoothness of plaster but a light knock revealed the solid thud of concrete. The ceiling was similar. The floor, however, was an odd checkered pattern of beige and olive green made of worn out lino. The entire place gave the vague impression of having once been a public washroom, a cheap one that had been decorated sometime in the early 70s. This was partially because the only things inside it, beside Dick, were a toilet and a sink.
There wasn't even a window. Dick would have really liked a window.
The door, however, must have been replaced. It was made of metal, several inches thick, and heavily reinforced. It was also deadbolted from the other side meaning Dick's fantastic lockpicking skills and the many lockpicks he had hidden throughout his Nightwing suit were completely useless. A laser cutting tool might have helped but it, along with all of Dick's weapons, had annoyingly been confiscated by the same people who had put him in there.
This was fine, though. It simply meant he had to be more creative.
He inspected the floor, peeling up a corner of the linoleum to reveal more concrete underneath.
He did a visual inspection of the light fixture—a standard industrial florescent lamp. One of the tubes was fainter than the other and looked like it might decide to die at any moment. It also made a rather loud hum.
He inspected where the sink and the toilet were attached and concluded that he could yank both out from the wall if he really wanted to but that it would only get him access to various pipes and potentially flood the entire room.
But this was also fine. All he had to do was wait until his captors came back and then find a way to overpower them. Simple. He wasn't worried. He'd been imprisoned plenty of times before in much worse places and in much worse states. His inspection hadn't even revealed any cameras or listening devices. Currently, the only danger was boredom.
He began going through a series of Tai Chi exercises, one of the only forms of meditation he'd ever been good at, and settled in to wait.
Day 2
His captors didn't come. They didn't even bother to do a quick visual inspection or toss in some food, much to the consternation of his rumbling stomach.
It was possible they were simply leaving him there to soften him up, assuming a few days of isolation and starvation would make him easier to deal with, but this gang wasn't like that. They weren't that patient for one thing. They weren't that smart either which made the fact they'd captured him rather embarrassing.
He blamed bad luck, bad timing, and the gang's surprisingly large supply of armour piercing rifles.
He wondered if something had happened to them. Maybe they'd been arrested. Maybe the cops had finally caught on to all the money laundering and drug smuggling they were doing. That would be ironic, wouldn't it—the gang getting carted off to prison while he was left alone in their cell.
An anxious energy pervaded him and he began pacing around the room, again and again, a rather dizzying exercise given the small space.
Things were still fine, he assured himself. Someone would come for him. He had a whole plethora of people who would miss him and some of them were the greatest detectives in the world. Babs. Tim. Bruce. Jason. Damian. Cass. Steph. Wally. Donna. Roy. They would find him, eventually. His communicator wasn't working but that didn't mean his trackers weren't still sending out a signal, and even if they weren't, it shouldn't be too hard for them to trace his movements.
Admittedly, he didn't know precisely where he was—they'd shoved him into the back of a van at some point and taken him on an hour long ride. Still, he wasn't that far from Gotham. It shouldn't take too long for them to find him.
Hopefully.
His stomach let out another growl of complaint.
"Shh," he told it. "I'll have you know people have survived over 70 days without food."
He stubbornly chose to ignore the fact that some hadn't survived longer than 3 weeks.
Isolation and sensory deprivation would also be an issue. Dick had read various accounts of prisoners who had spent a long time in solitary confinement, had heard about the reduction in cognitive function and emotional regulation, the depression, the paranoia, the PTSD, the psychosis. There was a reason Bruce had been fighting to get them phased out of Blackgate.
Already the walls surrounding Dick felt like a smothering weight as if they were slowly, imperceptibly closing in on him.
He shook off the feeling and took a deep breath.
The key to surviving isolation was finding a way to keep your mind occupied.
Dick lay down on the floor of his cell, fingers tapping idly as they rested on his stomach. "Bat protocol 1.001," he began, "in the case of communication loss..."
The Bat protocols had grown from a tiny booklet to a full sized set of encyclopedia since Dick had become Robin. Reciting all the ones he could recall would certainly keep him occupied for awhile. It was a bit dull but it was something. Refreshing his memory might even be beneficial in the long run. Hell. Maybe he was looking at this all wrong. Maybe this was a good thing. He should look at it as a type of vacation, a holiday. Heaven knows, he certainly deserved one.
A sigh escaped his lips.
He'd always been bad at vacations.
Day 3
Just because Dick was stuck in an 8 by 9 box didn't mean he couldn't keep up with his exercises and training. In fact, keeping physically active would help with the emotional effects of isolation and prevent muscle atrophy.
Of course, it would be a lot easier if there were a bit more room.
Dick went through a series of simple stretches and yoga exercises.
He went through every kata he knew that didn't require taking more than one step in any direction.
He went through every other kata, doing his best to find ways to adapt them to the small space.
He invented a completely new kata, and another, and another.
He went through some basic acrobatic moves he hadn't done since he was kid.
Then he did it all again but while only stepping on the green squares.
And then the beige.
It passed the time. It also kept him from thinking about the fiery hunger eating away at his belly.
Day 4
All that exercise had been a mistake.
Dick realized that when he woke up the next morning—at least he hoped it was morning—and felt the lethargy dragging at his limbs. He needed to start conserving energy before he used it all up. Given that no one had yet arrived to rescue him, his location must be more hidden than he'd thought, and there was no telling when his next meal would be. From now on, it would be only light stretching and short bouts of pacing.
Which meant Dick needed something more mental to occupy his time. More Bat protocol recital?
His face scrunched up in a grimace.
He was more than a little sick of Bat protocols and going over what to do in case of a city wide disaster wasn't the most cheerful of topics.
Sitting in a corner of the room, hands dangling over his knees, he began to hum idly. Soon it morphed into full out singing—a song he'd often caught Tim listening to, Times Like These by the Foo Fighters.
After that, he sang every other song by the Foo Fighters he could recall, then the Clash, OPM, Nirvana, Slipknot, Frank Sinatra, the Beatles, Taylor Swift.
Running out of pop and rock, he moved on to Disney tunes, cartoon themes, advertising jingles.
He forgot the lyrics half the time, his throat grew sore and his voice hoarse, but the room's acoustics were surprisingly good and the singing helped drown out the only other source of noise—the increasingly annoying hum of the florescent lights.
Eventually though, his voice faded, giving out completely, and he was forced to stop.
The room seemed ten times more quiet once he had. It was a heavy silence, the type you could feel weighing on your shoulders and pressing against your ears as if it were a physical thing.
Dick found himself, almost unconsciously, pressing further back into the corner.
It didn't make any difference.
Taking a deep breath, he began doing various word games in his head, then random mathematical calculations, then complicated ciphers. He kept going until the exhaustion in his body told him it was nighttime and he let himself sleep.
Day 5
Dick had been trapped in the tiny room for over four days. That meant he had been stuck in his Nightwing suit for over four days.
Four very long days.
And he was sick of it! The gradually increasing BO was bad enough but being bound in the tight kevlar weave, leather mask, gloves, and steel toe boots 24/7 while at the same time being bound by the same four walls... His skin practically itched to be free.
Normally, he loved his Nightwing suit. It was designed specifically for him and the way he moved, tough enough to slow down a bullet but flexible enough for his most acrobatic movements. Clearly, though, you can have too much of a good thing.
Dick eyed the sink.
It was a standard washroom sink, the white porcelain scratched in places and the metal of the tap slightly corroded.
It would have to do.
He strode over to the sink, yanking his gauntlets off and tossing them to the side as he did so, then he started on the rest. The cool air of the cell felt blissfully refreshing on his bare skin as he peeled off first the top, then the bottom of his suit. He didn't stop until he was wearing nothing but his mask.
There might not be any cameras and there was little chance of the gang coming back but some training was hard to let go.
Turning on the tap, he dipped his hands under the streaming water. It was cold. There wasn't any hot water—he'd learned that the first day—but he didn't care. He splashed it over himself starting from the top and continuing on down, drops spraying everywhere.
It was cold and messy and awkward and felt absolutely wonderful.
Once Dick was done—hair plastered to his head, tiny streams trickling down his body and creating a puddle at his feet—he realized he had a slight problem.
There was nothing to dry himself off with, not unless you counted the single roll of toilet paper which he was carefully rationing.
Dick stared at the pile of discarded clothes and grimaced. He didn't want to put them back on, especially when he was still wet.
So he didn't.
He began striding about the room, spreading the dampness even further. He revelled in the feeling of the floor against his bare feet and the air brushing his skin as he went around and around, completely ignoring the absurdity of the situation. If someone finally came to rescue him and saw him in all his glory, well, then it was their own fault for taking so long to find him.
He paced the room numerous times. He even did his stretches in the nude.
The feeling of freedom, however, didn't last long.
Soon it was replaced by shivers. They travelled up and down his spine causing his muscles to bunch up and tense as they fought against the cold. He wrapped his arms around himself but it made little difference.
Sighing, Dick gave in. He tiredly picked up the pieces of his suit. He dragged the smelly clothing back over his body, then locating the driest spot on the floor he could find, he curled into a ball and tried to find some warmth.
Day 6
Lasagna. Lasagna with three layers of noodles, ricotta, and Italian sausage, the top crispy, the insides gooey, tomato sauce dripping on to the plate.
Lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling of his cell, Dick could picture it perfectly. He could practically smell it.
A pork bun from the Chinese bakery around the corner from his apartment, the warmth of the pastry transferring through the paper bag to his fingers, the tender meat, the sweet, tangy sauce on his tongue.
A tiny pool of drool began to collect in the corner of Dick's mouth.
Crab stuffed mushrooms, the rich filling practically spilling out from the mushroom cap.
A steaming bowl of butter chicken, the creamy sauce soaking into jasmine rice.
A stack of buckwheat pancakes covered in whipped cream, strawberries, and maple syrup.
Dick clutched at his stomach and groaned. He needed to think of something else, anything else. Visions of every possible food imaginable danced in his head, their taste so tantalizingly close in his mind but his mouth achingly empty.
When he got out of there, he was going to order takeout from all his favourite places, all at once. He'd cover his kitchen table with them until there was no more room, then he'd cover the kitchen counters too. A heaping feast of food, enough to feed twenty people but all for him.
And something to drink other than lukewarm, vaguely metallic-tasting water—an ice cold Dr. Pepper or a creamy banana milkshake or a hot chocolate covered in tiny marshmallows.
Groaning again, Dick banged his head against the floor several times. He couldn't stop. It was like a compulsion.
He took several deep breathes and forced his muscles to relax, placing himself into a calm, meditative state.
Then he began planning exactly what he would order for his 'Freedom Feast'.
Day 7
The seventh day found him pacing the edges of the room again. He knew he shouldn't. He knew he should take it easy and continue to conserve his energy. Walking already took much more effort than it used to and a leaden fatigue weighed down his limbs, but there was an itch under his skin that wouldn't let him stop.
Every so often he would cast his eyes up at the florescent light shining above him. He swore the buzzing it made was getting louder, a mosquito-like buzz continuously drilling into his inner ear.
And it wouldn't stop!
The light wouldn't turn off either. Though he was practically a night owl, or rather bat, he never thought he'd miss the darkness, but he did. Frankly, anything other than that dull yellow glow would be welcome.
He turned around and continued pacing in the opposite direction. He needed to find something new to occupy his mind, to go back to reciting or singing or something. Maybe he could work on a new escrima design or plan what he'd do with each of his siblings when he saw them again. Yeah, he could do that.
Another glance at the light.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Or at least he could if that damn light would shut up and let him think!
His hands reached up to tug sharply at his locks of shaggy hair.
Why was it so hard to think? His brain felt slow, like it was made of mush. He needed keep his mind active. That was the plan, right? His siblings. When he saw them, he'd... When he saw Damian, he'd take him to the arcade for some Cheese Viking and then he'd take him out to eat at... at...
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Tim and he could go train surfing, ride all the way down to the east docks, and watch the sunrise off of... off of... What was that place called again?
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Jason and he would grab chili dogs from their favourite place and... and they'd...
Buzzzzzzzzz.
He, Steph, and Cas could go down to... to...
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Fire crackled through every single nerve in Dick's body. He turned towards the light, eyes narrowed.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
A crouch. A leap. And his arm rose to strike the buzzing florescent light, slamming against it with a violent smack.
The light flickered and its shade clattered to the floor.
Dick stared at the shade. Bending down, he slowly picked it up. It felt solid and weighted in his hands.
He stared at the nearest wall.
The light shade struck the wall with a loud crash, instantly shattering into a dozen plastic shards, but that wasn't enough for Dick. Next he struck the wall with his feet and his fists, over and over, shouting and screaming. He didn't even know what he was screaming. It was just wordless cries of rage.
Paint cracked and white dust showered down. Even some small dents began to appear.
Part of Dick's mind started to believe he might actually be able to create a hole, one big enough for him to get through. He began hitting harder and harder. More cracks and dents appeared. Something gave in his left hand during one of the hits and a shot of electric pain travelled up his arm, but he didn't stop. He didn't stop until a strike went wide and he felt his legs go out from under him.
His body collapsed to the floor finally having had enough.
He lay there among the dust and shattered plastic, breathing heavily while the wall remained standing bearing only a few blemishes.
Through a crack in the paint, the gray of concrete mocked him.
Dick sank back on the floor and closed his eyes.
Day 8
The ring finger of Dick's right hand was broken.
He lay on his side, staring at it as his hand rested splayed out on the floor. A spike of pain travelled from finger all the way down to his elbow every time he tried to move it. Even when he didn't, it ached, throbbing with every heartbeat.
And it was kind of nice. It was nice having something to focus on other than... everything else.
He hadn't gotten up that morning. Was it morning? Since he'd woken up, he hadn't moved from the corner of the room furthest from the toilet—the place he'd designated his sleeping spot for the sake of his nose. He hadn't done his stretches or his laps around the room. He hadn't even gotten up to drink some water despite his dry throat.
What was the point?
Broken shards of lamp shade were still scattered across the floor. Reaching for the nearest one, he picked it up. He turned the plastic over and over in his hand, gazing at its sharp edges and sharper corners. He pressed one of the corners against a beige square of lino. A long scratch appeared as he drew it across.
He spent several minutes using the plastic to make marks in the lino, watching the lines appear. He didn't draw anything or write anything. He just idly scratched away.
Eventually, even the energy to do that left him. He let the broken plastic fall to the floor and went back to staring at his throbbing finger.
Above him, one of the florescent tubes, the fainter one, flickered.
He glanced up just in time to see it go out completely.
The light in the room immediately dimmed.
He wondered if it had died because of him. He wondered what would happened when the other went out. He wondered what it would be like to die in the dark.
He wondered if it even mattered.
Another throb came from his broken finger and he turned to stare at it again, mind blissfully blank.
Day 9
A bat was hanging from what was left of the florescent light.
Dick did his best not to look at it. He kept his eyes on his knees as he sat in his corner, arms wrapped around his legs, and tried to think about other things.
Hallucinations were a natural consequence of both starvation and isolation. He shouldn't be surprised he'd started seeing things. It was fine. He'd hallucinated plenty of times before—a consequence of spending a lifetime fighting against villains who enjoyed pharmaceuticals a little too much. All he had to do was ignore the hallucination and it would go away.
He glanced up to see if it was still there.
The bat hung upside down, feet clinging to the remains of the light fixture. Its ears flickered slightly and it stretched out its wings as far as they could go, then it gave a large yawn and wrapped them around its tiny body once more.
Dick hurriedly looked away.
Nothing wrong with bats either. He'd grown up with bats. He had even helped Alfred nurse a couple back to health when they'd been injured. If you think about it, the fact he was hallucinating bats was very apropos, comical even. Here he was locked in a tiny room alone for a week and he still couldn't escape them.
Dick's fingers dug into his calf muscles as he resisted the urge to raise his head.
He should tell Tim about this when he got out. Tim would probably come up with some psychological reason why he was seeing bats. Maybe they were symbolic of some deep damage to Dick's inner psyche. Or maybe he'd just seen way too many of them and they were easy for his brain to conjure up.
He wasn't going to tell Jason, though. Jason would just laugh at him.
Dick decided to risk a tiny peek, raising his eyes a fraction of an inch.
Two bats now hung from the light fixture.
He swallowed.
But that was good, right? One bat for sorrow. Two for joy. No. Wait. That was crows.
Dick pressed his face to his knees and began rocking back and forth.
He needed to stop thinking about bats. That's what he had to do. He needed to clear them completely from his mind, think about video games or pizza. No. Not pizza. Definitely not pizza. He should think about riding his motorcycle—speeding along Bludhaven's streets, wind whipping past him as he leaned into the acceleration of the curves, the entire city laid out beneath his wheels.
Gradually, Dick's heartbeat and breathing slowed, the tension in his muscles eased, and his rocking stopped. Taking a deep breathe, he looked up at the light fixture.
The bats were gone.
Dick let out a sigh of relief, slumping back against the wall.
"Like I said," he mumbled to himself. "It's fine. Everything's fine."
Out of the corner of his eye, a blood-stained yellow cape flapped in an invisible breeze, and a voice in his ear said, "Is that what you really think, Grayson?"
Day 10
Ten days. Where were they? Why hadn't anyone come for him?
Across from Dick, leaning against the wall in his blood-stained Robin costume, Jason smirked. "You know for someone who's supposed to be one of the best detectives in the world you can be pretty dense."
Dick shrunk back but there wasn't anywhere to go. He was curled in a ball on his side, already pressed as far back into the corner of the room as the walls would let him.
"Haven't you figured it out yet, Grayson?"
Above them, the bats flitted back and forth. There were seven of them now. Unlike the bats in the Cave, they were completely silent. Dick would have preferred it if they made some noise. It would have given him something else to focus on.
"You seriously think they're coming?" the apparition continued. "You seriously think they care?"
Dick pressed his hands against his ears but it didn't make any difference. The words still came through, loud and clear.
"Grow up, Boy Wonder." Jason strode towards him, arms crossed, blood dripping down on to the floor. "They don't want you. They never wanted you. They're probably glad you're gone."
"No." The hoarse word slipped unbidden from Dick's mouth.
It wasn't true. He knew it wasn't true. His friends and family did care about him. He was simply being taunted by some dark part of his subconscious, the hallucination feeding off old anxieties.
And yet he couldn't help wondering...
"You honestly think they'd drop everything just to help you?"
Cold crept over Dick, sunk into his chest.
They all led such busy lives—fighting nefarious rogues, travelling the world, helping out various teams, leading them, foiling world-ending plot, dealing with all the shit that came with living a life as a vigilante, not to mention all the normal shit life threw at you too. There was always so much to do, so much to take care of. There were cases that needed investigating, friends which needed helping, injuries which needed tending.
Why would saving Dick's life of all things be anyone's priority?
Jason let out a snort. "Now he gets it. Took you long enough."
They wouldn't be glad but would any of his family or friends notice Dick was gone? How long would it be before anyone thought to check on him?
Air shuddered in Dick's chest as the realization fully hit him.
Ten days. Ten days trapped and alone. They weren't coming. Of course, they weren't coming. Dick should have realized the truth ages ago. Babs, Tim, Bruce, Jason, Damian, Cass, Steph, Wally, Donna, Roy—nothing would stop them from finding him if they wanted to find him.
So, obviously, they didn't.
Jason crouched low on his heels, shaking his head as he gazed down at Dick. "Poor Grayson. All alone again."
Dick closed his eyes, tears seeping from beneath his lids.
Day ?
Dick couldn't tell how long he'd been there anymore.
He slept. He woke. Sometimes he'd drag his weakened body across the floor to take a drink from the tap or use the toilet but mostly he just lay there, sprawled on the floor, mind blank. He knew at some point he'd no longer be able to move from that spot, that he'd no longer be able to find the strength, either mentally or physically, and each time he did, he wondered if it would be the last.
The bats were still there, hanging from the broken light.
Jason was there too. The younger had been joined by the older. They sat in the middle of the floor, playing poker with Batarangs as they argued over which Jane Austen novel was the best and who could eat the most chili dogs. The mixture of angry voices drifted in and out of Dick's awareness, an oddly comforting background noise.
Sometimes Alfred would appear as well. He'd stand beside the sink, look down at Dick, and shake his head before turning around and vanishing.
Dick really hoped that didn't hold some sort of hidden meaning, that his subconsciousness wasn't trying to tell him something. Hallucinations didn't always have meanings. Often they didn't but it was hard not to read more into them. Though why he kept seeing a dirty mop propped up in the corner and his old stuffed elephant hiding behind the toilet, he'd never know.
Once he saw Damian's katana lying beside him on the floor. Its blade glinted in the faint florescent light.
Dick ignored it until it went away.
He was also very carefully ignoring the trapeze.
It was strung from the ceiling, cables disappearing impossibly through the cement. It had the same thick wires and metal bar as the ones Dick had flown on when he was child.
And his mother hung from it.
Mary's knees were hooked over the bar as she hung upside down, swinging lazily back and forth. She was singing as she did so, but for some reason, Dick couldn't make out the words.
It was tempting to look her but he refused. He didn't want to see her face, scared he wouldn't recognize it or that she'd have no face, the memory of what she'd looked like having vanished so thoroughly from his memory he couldn't even conjure it up as a hallucination.
The singing and arguing soon lulled him back to sleep.
Day ?
Why was he there again? Dick couldn't seem to remember. Someone had trapped him in there. Right? Was it someone he knew? Maybe it was his family. They had finally had enough of him and decided to shut him away forever so they didn't have to deal with him anymore.
Dick's forehead wrinkled in confusion.
No, that wasn't right. They had abandoned him or forgotten him or lost him or something. He was lost, lost, lost. Nobody could find him. Not here. Not in this little nowhere place.
His mouth felt dry, his lips cracked. He should really get up and drink some water. His head lolled to the side and he gazed over at the sink. It seemed so far away. It hardly mattered, though. His body felt so leaden and detached he doubted he could even get off the floor.
Something moved out of the corner of his eye. He ignored it. There were always things moving about, things whispering in the corners. None of them were real.
Was the room even real? Was he?
A loud screech echoed through the room followed by the pounding of footsteps and the fluttering of fabric.
Dick ignored those too.
Would he be able to think if he wasn't real? No. He must be real. It was the room that wasn't real.
A shadow fell over him. "Nightwing!"
Or maybe it was the world outside that wasn't real. After all, when was the last time he'd seen it. Maybe it just existed inside his head. Maybe he had made the whole thing up to keep himself entertained.
"Dick, can you hear me?"
An odd sensation tickled his forehead, so unexpected and intense it almost hurt. Dick flinched back. The sensation went away.
"It's okay. It's me. Everything's okay now."
Could he have made up the world, his life? It felt like a silly life to make up. Who would make up something so dramatic and full of tragedy?
"I'm going to get you out of here."
But then did it even matter whether it was real or not when it was all he knew?
More odd sensations, pressure on his body, and Dick's surroundings lurched and began to spin. They did that sometimes but usually only when he tried to get up.
He closed his eyes and made a disgruntled noise.
"You're alright, Dick. I've got you."
The world continued to lurch. That seemed decidedly unfair. Even if the world were fake, the least it could do is stay still and follow its own rules.
Something niggled at the back of his brain. Something wasn't right. There was a familiar surface against his cheek, and a smell. He knew that smell. What was it?
Dick risked opening his eyes and immediately shut them again, letting out a cry at the sudden pain.
Light. Where had all that light come from? He could feel it surrounding him even with his eyes closed.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Darkness fell over Dick once more and he let out a sigh of relief.
"I'm so sorry. It should never have taken me so long to find you. If Tim hadn't..."
Dick didn't like this. It was too much. Everything felt off, even the air, and he couldn't latch onto anything.
The world tilted and lurched violently again. He flailed an arm out weakly but only succeeded in banging his broken finger against something. The pain shot up his arm overpowering everything else.
Then thankfully, the world grew still.
Dick's heart, which had been lurching along with the world, slowly began to calm down and his breathing evened out. Distantly he realized he was sitting up, propped against something, but he didn't dare open his eyes, not after what had happened the last time.
"Chum, I need you to drink this. Just a sip."
A hard edge nudged against Dick's lips. He tried to move away, but something dug into the sides of his face stopping him.
"Please. Just open your mouth."
The hard edge pushed more forcefully against him, pressing his bottom lip down, then liquid poured into his mouth, its intense flavour biting Dick's tongue. He tried to swallow and only half succeeded.
A hand rubbed his back as he coughed and convulsed.
"Easy. That's good. That's good. Now a little more."
The edge pressed against his lip again and this time Dick welcomed the liquid as it came, the soothing relief as it went down his sore throat. The flavour wasn't quite as intense the second time. It was creamy and oddly chalky with a hint of blueberry and banana.
And it was also familiar.
A memory hit him—working out in the Batcave, snatching the special power shake Alfred had made for Bruce right out of its owner's hand, making a face when he tasted the extreme amount of protein powder it contained.
Dick slowly cracked open an eyelid.
There was a blurry figure leaning over him—a pale smudge above a dark body.
Dick blinked several times.
The figure slowly came into focus. It was Bruce, Bruce in the Batsuit, the cowl down and bunched up behind his neck. There were bags under his eyes and worry etched deeply into every line of his face.
Dick's brain stuttered, unable to process what he was seeing. "B... Bruce?"
Bruce's shoulders sagged. "There you are."
"You... I..." Dick struggled to comprehend what was going on.
His surroundings suddenly registered. He was in the familiar confines of the Batmobile, seated in the passenger seat. The windows had been darkened but beyond them he could see a long line of buildings and a road going on and on and on into the distance and above that the sky... The sheer size and openness was overwhelming and threatened to start the world spinning again. It made Dick want to curl up in his seat and wrap his arms around his head.
He quickly looked away.
"I'm so sorry." Bruce sounded as rough as he looked. "You were here the whole time and... We thought the gang had taken you with them when they fled to Argentina. They have some sort of tech which disrupts all tracking signals. We wasted so much time trying to find them, searching all over the streets of Rosario. Cass and Jason are still over there. If Tim hadn't found... Well, it doesn't matter now."
All Dick could do is stare at Bruce, barely understanding his words.
"Dick?"
He continued to stare.
"Okay." Bruce ran a hand lightly across Dick's forehead. "It's okay." He moved away and reached over into the back seat where the compartment with all the first aid supplies lay. "I need to set up an IV. Your electrolyte levels—"
From somewhere Dick found the strength to reach out and grab a hold of Bruce's arm.
Bruce turned back, worry on his face once more. "Dick? What's wrong?"
"Are you..." Dick swallowed. "Are you real?"
He didn't recall hallucinating Bruce before but that meant nothing. This entire thing could just be another hallucination—the Batmobile, the buildings, the road, the sky. He was probably still lying on that worn out lino in his little room, longing for familiar places and faces.
But if he wasn't, that meant... that meant...
Bruce pulled off his gloves, then pulled off Dick's too so he could wrap bare hands around bare hands. Dick could feel the roughness of Bruce's scarred skin, the tightness as he squeezed.
"Listen to me," said Bruce, eyes piercing directly into Dick's. "I'm here. I'm real. You're safe now. I promise."
It certainly felt real. It felt more real than anything Dick had experienced in a very long time.
"You came for me?" he said, unable to hide the disbelief from his voice.
Bruce's hands squeezed Dick's even tighter. "I will always come for you."
Dick knew it to be true. He didn't understand how he could have ever doubted. Bruce had come for him as he would always come for him.
And that meant...
A trembling began, spreading from Dick's fingers and toes to his limbs and into his chest as it finally sank in.
"I'm... out?" He could hardly say the words, air catching in his throat.
Bruce nodded. "You're out. You're free."
"I'm out," Dick repeated, tears sliding down his face.
Bruce let go of Dick's hands and wrapped his arms around him, pressing him close.
Dick sunk into embrace as the tears continued to fall.
"I'm out," he whispered into his father's chest.