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Legend of Zelda / Linked Universe
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Ao3
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Fanart for @jinmukangwrites's Birds in a Line fic!
Not scene accurate, this was just supposed to be a study on the different heights but I wanted to also mess around with clip studio so idk~ it was fun.
Welcome to Dick Grayson Anniversary Week 2026! From April 6th to 12th, we’ll be celebrating 86 YEARS OF DICK GRAYSON 🐦 with the following amazing prompts you voted for:
💙 DICK GRAYSON ANNIVERSARY WEEK 2026 PROMPTS 💙
Day 1: Identity Porn | Batfam vs Spyral Crew vs Titans | Court of Owls
Day 2: Royalty AU | Dick Adopts Damian | The Heart of the DCU
Day 3: Circus | Dick & Damian & Stephanie as Dynamic Trio | Wings
Day 4: Touch-Starved | Haley as a Service Dog | First Responder AU
Day 5: Underestimated | Reverse Robins!Dick | “I like being tied up!”
Day 6: Earth-Two/Earth 2 | Unplanned Baby Acquisition | Undercover
Day 7: Canon Divergence | A Celebration of 86 Years | Hallucinations
‘A Celebration of 86 Years’ is the free prompt. You have 3 months to create your works. 🥁
🤺OPTIONAL EXTRA CHALLENGE🤺
Eldest Daughter Syndrome
A few words from the bingo blackout winner: While Dick is a decidedly male character despite some feminine or androgenous traits in canon, fandom has been treating him as the eldest daughter since at least Battle for the Cowl by putting him under emotional pressure, high expectations, and making him responsibile for any bad actions perpetuated by other male characters. If Dick does not meet impossible standards, he is infantilized and vilified. I'm challenging my fellow participants to instead showcase the resilience and strength Dick has in common with the eldest daughters of the DC Universe.
The optional extra challenge can be used throughout the 2026 event.
18+ and interested in discussing Dick Grayson? Join the Green Booty Shorts Discord Server.
Summary: "Robin," Tim breathes his conclusion. "We're all Robin."
-oOo-
Or, the main four find themselves kidnapped, shrunken to their respective early years of their Robin careers, and are forced to put aside their differences if they want to escape.
Tags: Crack Treated Seriously, Age Regression/De-Aging, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Unreliable Narrator
Ask to tag.
---
When they shove Dick in the locked room, Tim wishes not for the first time that he wasn't as observant and smart as he was.
He could have convinced himself that the boy pacing nervously next to him wasn't Jason freaking Todd but Tim's same age, or that the bratty kid that was the spitting image of Bruce definitely wasn't some future wielder of the Robin mantle (why would Tim ever pass it on?), but it's impossible to not recognize Dick goddamn Grayson in the prime of his Robin career. Tim knew the features of the boy gracefully catching his footing with a glare at the locking heavy door in his sleep.
He couldn't be more than 9. The boy who couldn't possibly be Jason (he's dead!) stood tallest at what Tim would guess was 13. The Bruce look-alike could have been 13 too, but he was shorter. Tim himself was nearly 12, the second shortest in the group.
Of course, Tim hasn't voiced his theories to the other boys yet that they're all Robins. The Bruce look-alike was the only one in here when Tim woke up shaking on a grungy cot with vague memories, and the can't-be-Jason arrived about an hour later looking dazed. Tim had spent the entire time convincing himself out of thinking it's actually Jason (because he knew everything about Jason, of course he knew Jason, but he's dead, at an age just barely older than this undeniable visage), but now it's a little harder.
Tim hasn't asked for any of their names, but neither have they. It could be protocol, none of them knew if they were kidnapped as Robin or as civilians, it's not a good idea to give either right now when there's a camera at the corner of their cell. They can't even guess off the clothes they're wearing, they've been stuffed into cottony one-size-fits-all sleeping gowns. One-size-fits-all is a loose definition, the strings around Dick's waist wrap three times before tying into a sloppy double knot.
Dick Grayson (that's totally him, as a kid), regards the group with narrowed blue eyes. He's a little scuffed up. The most scuffed up out of all of them. He probably fought the kidnappers the second they took off the restraints. After a thoughtful, pregnant pondering, Dick squares his little shoulders and probably deems himself as the main protector of the group. Of course he does, he's Dick. As far as he knows, he's the only Robin and the most qualified to do the group protecting. (He's so... Small. Has he always been small?)
"Hi," Dick smiles, showing his teeth. "I'm Johnny. Anyone know what's going on?"
Johnny looks at each boy, and the Bruce look-alike tuts his tongue and rolls his eyes.
"Hi, Johnny," Jason smiles back, hesitantly. "I'm... Jay. I dunno what's going on, I just woke up here. You okay?"
Great, it seems Jay has deemed himself Johnny's specific protector. It's hard not to look at such a small child and not feel protective over them, but Dick Grayson is so much larger than life, he's Dick.
"We have obviously been experimented on," Bruce-alike says, haughty and accented. It's a very... blunt way to say something potentiallyscary for smaller children, but Dick only tilts his head and Tim's Robin and Jason is the biggest and strongest...
Oh boy, none of them are going to be normal about this, are they?
"What's your name?" Jason asks the Bruce-alike, giving a soft smile.
The mystery boy narrows his eyes at Jason. "... Richard."
There's no way that's his actual name. For Dick's credit, the boy only looks skeptical for a second before smoothing his expression over.
"I'm Kyle," Tim speaks up, a little disappointed that he's the only Robin who's thought to not use a name somehow actually connected to him.
Dick opens his mouth to say something more, but the door suddenly unlocks and he steps away, putting his small body between him and the opening doorway where way too many big thugs await.
The guy in front is obviously the big boss, the leader of this operation. Tim doesn't recognize him from his short stint at the cot, or the drag back to the cell, but the way he holds himself and sneers down at each of his captives says enough.
Richard (there's no way he's a Richard) tenses, dangerously, like some sort of predator, and meets the smug look head on.
"Well, now that we have all our birds in a row, we can finally get this started."
Birds.
Dick tenses, probably just an instinctual thing, he has no reason to think the word applies to potentially everyone here. Jason looks a little startled at the word, though Tim hasn't gotten the impression that he knows the identity issues going on any better than Dick does. Richard (hah) growls slightly, nose wrinkling at the bridge. Tim doesn't think Richard knows anything either, Tim doesn't think Richard has really bothered to study his fellow captives.
And Tim? Tim meets the gaze of the leader.
"What did you do to us?" Tim asks, deciding it would do no one good to keep quiet. The others don't know just how strange their situation is, Tim can't let anyone else lead the conversation. He needs to figure out for them if they're here as civilians, or Robins.
The leader smirks, looking almost gleeful as he keeps Tim's gaze. "Oh, you were always said to be the smart one. What do you think we did to you?"
"We're not the ages we're supposed to be," Tim says cooly, ignoring how all three of the other boys startle to look at him. Tim tries not to swell with pride. "Magic? Or a drug?"
The boss grins. "A little of A and B. A good investment, if I do say so myself. Capturing you four wasn't easy, but you being this small and helpless will make proceedings much easier."
He looks away from Tim, and nods at his company of goons. Dick lashes out first, the moment one of them steps into their small dark room, but he doesn't throw like Robin, they still don't know if they can. He's easily grabbed and dragged away, and Jason is soon to follow with a hand wrapping around his bicep. One goes for Tim, and Tim lets his hands be yanked behind his back.
Jason looks like he's about to show some of the moves he can justify as growing up on the streets with, but it's Richard who reacts violently first.
"Unhand me, filth!"
He lashes out with deadly prediction, striking the goon reaching out for him straight in the throat. The goon gags, stumbling back right as Richard kicks out to knock his feet out from under him.
The grasp on Tim tightens as more goons rush in to subdue the mystery Robin who clearly doesn't have the same goals of keeping it low-key.
He takes down another goon, who shouts "this one's more violent, boss!" as he falls, and is about to break the wrist of a third when Dick shouts, suddenly in the grasp of the leader with his hands bound behind his back, arms twisting at an angle that not even acrobats should have them twisted. Richard pauses in his attack, but keeps an offensive posture in case anyone tries to get close to him. His eyes flicker to Dick, then up to the boss with unwavering steel in his gaze.
Is he really Robin? Tim would think he's a shrunken Bruce, but his skin is too dark, his eyes too green.
"Stand down or I'll break this one's wings," the boss threats.
"I'll snap your neck," Richard snarls back.
"You don't want to aggravate me. You may not recognize him, but surely you don't want Nightwing paying for your violence?"
That gets everyone freezing, though Dick more in confusion, his shoulders tensing in the strain.
Jason's mouth falls open, his wrists bound too, as he gives a wide eyed oh in Dick's direction. Richard practically turns into stone, stunned just enough for two goons to manhandle him into submission. Tim stares at Dick until his eyes meet Tim's in a frantic attempt to get answers.
Tim provides.
"Robin," Tim breathes his conclusion. "We're all Robin."
"Nightwing...?" Jason asks, stunned, while Richard is restrained and the four of them are held still. Dick just stares at Tim in complete shock, eyes bright with a sort of fire that Tim can't name.
"Now that we have that settled," The boss cuts in, "let's get this started."
-oOo-
The kidnappers don't do much, just rough them up a little and take pictures, intending to taunt Batman. With a few extra bruises, the four of them are stuffed back in the small cell, each looking at each other with just a little bit more between them.
"So..." Jason asks, the first to speak up with a split lip. "You're both also Robin...?"
He means Tim and "Richard"... or more-so Red Robin and Robin. The kidnappers referred to them as whatever code names their adult bodies used. Jason was Red Hood, which... he doesn't know what to make of that. It's a heavy mantle with a lot of concerning history. He obviously now recognizes Dick enough to not need to confirm his identity, but it was natural to wonder why there's two more after him using the name.
"I'm the only worthy Robin," Richard snaps. "The rest of you are embarrassments to my father's mission."
Richard really didn't share the same resolve to keep certain things more guarded and unsaid when it came to the camera blinking in the room. Bruce is Richard's biological father... of course he is. They look so alike. Tim wonders when Bruce has Richard, and who his mother is. How much further down the line does Tim have to start sharing the manor with a baby...?
"No, I'm Robin," a shockingly icy tone snarls out of Dick's throat. He looks livid... and scared. "I don't know what's going on, but there's no way Robin will ever be anyone but me. Who the hell are you freaks? What joke is this?"
Such a stark difference from the softer, more protective persona he had previously put on. It's almost startling. It's almost like Dick suddenly hates them for calling themselves with his name.
"You're Nightwing," Jason replies softly, frowning, going into a kinder and more shy version of himself. He clearly holds Dick in high regard, but Jason was always the best out of the three of them when it came to comforting kids. Tim doesn't think Bruce-spawn would be good at this either. "You grew up."
Something flashes in Richard's eyes, and suddenly he's shooting his hand forward and yanking Jason to the other side of the room. "Do not speak to him, villain. If you're truly Red Hood, then you have no right to stand with us. Even less right than Red Robin over there, and believe me it is a very low bar."
"I don't know what you mean," Jason argues, finally beginning to look frustrated. Richard snarls at him, grabbing Dick's arm, but Dick flinches so hard out of the way and sends a livid look at the both of them.
Tim bites his lip. He really doesn't want to drag any attention to himself, especially because after Richard had clued out Tim's adult identity, he keeps shooting glances at him like he's scum. He's trying to hide it, but Dick is the only one he respects here.
But someone has to keep cool.
"Clearly," Tim speaks up, trying not to let his voice squeak, "we all have baggage with each other. Now's not the time to argue with ourselves, we have to find a way to help Batman get us out and back to our right ages."
Richard frowns and glances at Dick, then bites his lip.
It's the first time he's looked hesitant.
"We may have to escape on our own," Richard says softly, lowering his voice and turning from the camera. "Batman... Will not come for us."
Tim blinks, shocked, and Jason squawks. "What?"
Richard looks hesitant, then sighs and glares at the corner of the cell. "He's dead, you idiots. We're on our own."
Tim feels his breath get knocked out of him.
"But-" Jason starts. Dick just goes still.
"The kidnappers are mistaken, it is by design. Nightwing is Batman, and I'm his Robin. We've made the transition to fill in for father without letting the public know Batman is... gone."
"But if Nightwing is Batman, why do they think he's Nightwing?" Tim asks, wheezing.
"Because we're still transitioning," Richard snaps. "R- Nightwing patrols Blüdhaven every so often to keep the illusion that Batman and Nightwing are still separate people. They must have caught him then."
Dead. Bruce is dead.
"What do we do...?" Jason whispers, fidgeting and giving sympathetic looks at Dick who's still frozen.
"We let them think Batman might come," Richard says, still quietly, "and wait for a chance to escape. As much as I loathe to team up with you imbeciles... we're all we got."
Dick looks at the ground, swallowing visibly.
"Okay," Jason says, sounding shaken.
Tim clenches a fist.
This... is so bad.
"Look," Tim speaks up, surprising himself. "Obviously, we have some baggage between each other. Nightwing doesn't know who any of us are, Red Hood has a reputation he doesn't know about, I don't even know why he's Red Hood and why that's good or bad, and you don't like any of us which makes all of us not like you... but if you're right, we have to put all that behind us and get along. We can't let time travel bull-shit get us killed. Put whatever we know or think about each other aside, and let's hash it out later, okay?"
"I agree," Jason says, immediately, and gives Tim a thankful smile. Tim feels himself blush, before turning away.
Jason was always his favorite Robin, he can't believe he's actually talking to him.
He looks at Richard, trying to give his best hard look, but Richard rolls his eyes. However, he thankfully doesn't argue. Perhaps because oddly enough, he's the one who initiated the team-up. "Truce. For now."
"Nightwing?" Tim asks, and Dick startles.
"Y-yeah. Whatever."
Tim resists sighing. This is not going to be easy, is it?
But Richard (can he please choose a different name?) is right, if Batman isn't coming (he can't be dead, he can't), then the four of them are all they got.
Summary: "Robin," Tim breathes his conclusion. "We're all Robin."
-oOo-
Or, the main four find themselves kidnapped, shrunken to their respective early years of their Robin careers, and are forced to put aside their differences if they want to escape.
Tags: Crack Treated Seriously, Age Regression/De-Aging, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Unreliable Narrator
Ask to tag.
---
When they shove Dick in the locked room, Tim wishes not for the first time that he wasn't as observant and smart as he was.
He could have convinced himself that the boy pacing nervously next to him wasn't Jason freaking Todd but Tim's same age, or that the bratty kid that was the spitting image of Bruce definitely wasn't some future wielder of the Robin mantle (why would Tim ever pass it on?), but it's impossible to not recognize Dick goddamn Grayson in the prime of his Robin career. Tim knew the features of the boy gracefully catching his footing with a glare at the locking heavy door in his sleep.
He couldn't be more than 9. The boy who couldn't possibly be Jason (he's dead!) stood tallest at what Tim would guess was 13. The Bruce look-alike could have been 13 too, but he was shorter. Tim himself was nearly 12, the second shortest in the group.
Of course, Tim hasn't voiced his theories to the other boys yet that they're all Robins. The Bruce look-alike was the only one in here when Tim woke up shaking on a grungy cot with vague memories, and the can't-be-Jason arrived about an hour later looking dazed. Tim had spent the entire time convincing himself out of thinking it's actually Jason (because he knew everything about Jason, of course he knew Jason, but he's dead, at an age just barely older than this undeniable visage), but now it's a little harder.
Tim hasn't asked for any of their names, but neither have they. It could be protocol, none of them knew if they were kidnapped as Robin or as civilians, it's not a good idea to give either right now when there's a camera at the corner of their cell. They can't even guess off the clothes they're wearing, they've been stuffed into cottony one-size-fits-all sleeping gowns. One-size-fits-all is a loose definition, the strings around Dick's waist wrap three times before tying into a sloppy double knot.
Dick Grayson (that's totally him, as a kid), regards the group with narrowed blue eyes. He's a little scuffed up. The most scuffed up out of all of them. He probably fought the kidnappers the second they took off the restraints. After a thoughtful, pregnant pondering, Dick squares his little shoulders and probably deems himself as the main protector of the group. Of course he does, he's Dick. As far as he knows, he's the only Robin and the most qualified to do the group protecting. (He's so... Small. Has he always been small?)
"Hi," Dick smiles, showing his teeth. "I'm Johnny. Anyone know what's going on?"
Johnny looks at each boy, and the Bruce look-alike tuts his tongue and rolls his eyes.
"Hi, Johnny," Jason smiles back, hesitantly. "I'm... Jay. I dunno what's going on, I just woke up here. You okay?"
Great, it seems Jay has deemed himself Johnny's specific protector. It's hard not to look at such a small child and not feel protective over them, but Dick Grayson is so much larger than life, he's Dick.
"We have obviously been experimented on," Bruce-alike says, haughty and accented. It's a very... blunt way to say something potentiallyscary for smaller children, but Dick only tilts his head and Tim's Robin and Jason is the biggest and strongest...
Oh boy, none of them are going to be normal about this, are they?
"What's your name?" Jason asks the Bruce-alike, giving a soft smile.
The mystery boy narrows his eyes at Jason. "... Richard."
There's no way that's his actual name. For Dick's credit, the boy only looks skeptical for a second before smoothing his expression over.
"I'm Kyle," Tim speaks up, a little disappointed that he's the only Robin who's thought to not use a name somehow actually connected to him.
Dick opens his mouth to say something more, but the door suddenly unlocks and he steps away, putting his small body between him and the opening doorway where way too many big thugs await.
The guy in front is obviously the big boss, the leader of this operation. Tim doesn't recognize him from his short stint at the cot, or the drag back to the cell, but the way he holds himself and sneers down at each of his captives says enough.
Richard (there's no way he's a Richard) tenses, dangerously, like some sort of predator, and meets the smug look head on.
"Well, now that we have all our birds in a row, we can finally get this started."
Birds.
Dick tenses, probably just an instinctual thing, he has no reason to think the word applies to potentially everyone here. Jason looks a little startled at the word, though Tim hasn't gotten the impression that he knows the identity issues going on any better than Dick does. Richard (hah) growls slightly, nose wrinkling at the bridge. Tim doesn't think Richard knows anything either, Tim doesn't think Richard has really bothered to study his fellow captives.
And Tim? Tim meets the gaze of the leader.
"What did you do to us?" Tim asks, deciding it would do no one good to keep quiet. The others don't know just how strange their situation is, Tim can't let anyone else lead the conversation. He needs to figure out for them if they're here as civilians, or Robins.
The leader smirks, looking almost gleeful as he keeps Tim's gaze. "Oh, you were always said to be the smart one. What do you think we did to you?"
"We're not the ages we're supposed to be," Tim says cooly, ignoring how all three of the other boys startle to look at him. Tim tries not to swell with pride. "Magic? Or a drug?"
The boss grins. "A little of A and B. A good investment, if I do say so myself. Capturing you four wasn't easy, but you being this small and helpless will make proceedings much easier."
He looks away from Tim, and nods at his company of goons. Dick lashes out first, the moment one of them steps into their small dark room, but he doesn't throw like Robin, they still don't know if they can. He's easily grabbed and dragged away, and Jason is soon to follow with a hand wrapping around his bicep. One goes for Tim, and Tim lets his hands be yanked behind his back.
Jason looks like he's about to show some of the moves he can justify as growing up on the streets with, but it's Richard who reacts violently first.
"Unhand me, filth!"
He lashes out with deadly prediction, striking the goon reaching out for him straight in the throat. The goon gags, stumbling back right as Richard kicks out to knock his feet out from under him.
The grasp on Tim tightens as more goons rush in to subdue the mystery Robin who clearly doesn't have the same goals of keeping it low-key.
He takes down another goon, who shouts "this one's more violent, boss!" as he falls, and is about to break the wrist of a third when Dick shouts, suddenly in the grasp of the leader with his hands bound behind his back, arms twisting at an angle that not even acrobats should have them twisted. Richard pauses in his attack, but keeps an offensive posture in case anyone tries to get close to him. His eyes flicker to Dick, then up to the boss with unwavering steel in his gaze.
Is he really Robin? Tim would think he's a shrunken Bruce, but his skin is too dark, his eyes too green.
"Stand down or I'll break this one's wings," the boss threats.
"I'll snap your neck," Richard snarls back.
"You don't want to aggravate me. You may not recognize him, but surely you don't want Nightwing paying for your violence?"
That gets everyone freezing, though Dick more in confusion, his shoulders tensing in the strain.
Jason's mouth falls open, his wrists bound too, as he gives a wide eyed oh in Dick's direction. Richard practically turns into stone, stunned just enough for two goons to manhandle him into submission. Tim stares at Dick until his eyes meet Tim's in a frantic attempt to get answers.
Tim provides.
"Robin," Tim breathes his conclusion. "We're all Robin."
"Nightwing...?" Jason asks, stunned, while Richard is restrained and the four of them are held still. Dick just stares at Tim in complete shock, eyes bright with a sort of fire that Tim can't name.
"Now that we have that settled," The boss cuts in, "let's get this started."
-oOo-
The kidnappers don't do much, just rough them up a little and take pictures, intending to taunt Batman. With a few extra bruises, the four of them are stuffed back in the small cell, each looking at each other with just a little bit more between them.
"So..." Jason asks, the first to speak up with a split lip. "You're both also Robin...?"
He means Tim and "Richard"... or more-so Red Robin and Robin. The kidnappers referred to them as whatever code names their adult bodies used. Jason was Red Hood, which... he doesn't know what to make of that. It's a heavy mantle with a lot of concerning history. He obviously now recognizes Dick enough to not need to confirm his identity, but it was natural to wonder why there's two more after him using the name.
"I'm the only worthy Robin," Richard snaps. "The rest of you are embarrassments to my father's mission."
Richard really didn't share the same resolve to keep certain things more guarded and unsaid when it came to the camera blinking in the room. Bruce is Richard's biological father... of course he is. They look so alike. Tim wonders when Bruce has Richard, and who his mother is. How much further down the line does Tim have to start sharing the manor with a baby...?
"No, I'm Robin," a shockingly icy tone snarls out of Dick's throat. He looks livid... and scared. "I don't know what's going on, but there's no way Robin will ever be anyone but me. Who the hell are you freaks? What joke is this?"
Such a stark difference from the softer, more protective persona he had previously put on. It's almost startling. It's almost like Dick suddenly hates them for calling themselves with his name.
"You're Nightwing," Jason replies softly, frowning, going into a kinder and more shy version of himself. He clearly holds Dick in high regard, but Jason was always the best out of the three of them when it came to comforting kids. Tim doesn't think Bruce-spawn would be good at this either. "You grew up."
Something flashes in Richard's eyes, and suddenly he's shooting his hand forward and yanking Jason to the other side of the room. "Do not speak to him, villain. If you're truly Red Hood, then you have no right to stand with us. Even less right than Red Robin over there, and believe me it is a very low bar."
"I don't know what you mean," Jason argues, finally beginning to look frustrated. Richard snarls at him, grabbing Dick's arm, but Dick flinches so hard out of the way and sends a livid look at the both of them.
Tim bites his lip. He really doesn't want to drag any attention to himself, especially because after Richard had clued out Tim's adult identity, he keeps shooting glances at him like he's scum. He's trying to hide it, but Dick is the only one he respects here.
But someone has to keep cool.
"Clearly," Tim speaks up, trying not to let his voice squeak, "we all have baggage with each other. Now's not the time to argue with ourselves, we have to find a way to help Batman get us out and back to our right ages."
Richard frowns and glances at Dick, then bites his lip.
It's the first time he's looked hesitant.
"We may have to escape on our own," Richard says softly, lowering his voice and turning from the camera. "Batman... Will not come for us."
Tim blinks, shocked, and Jason squawks. "What?"
Richard looks hesitant, then sighs and glares at the corner of the cell. "He's dead, you idiots. We're on our own."
Tim feels his breath get knocked out of him.
"But-" Jason starts. Dick just goes still.
"The kidnappers are mistaken, it is by design. Nightwing is Batman, and I'm his Robin. We've made the transition to fill in for father without letting the public know Batman is... gone."
"But if Nightwing is Batman, why do they think he's Nightwing?" Tim asks, wheezing.
"Because we're still transitioning," Richard snaps. "R- Nightwing patrols Blüdhaven every so often to keep the illusion that Batman and Nightwing are still separate people. They must have caught him then."
Dead. Bruce is dead.
"What do we do...?" Jason whispers, fidgeting and giving sympathetic looks at Dick who's still frozen.
"We let them think Batman might come," Richard says, still quietly, "and wait for a chance to escape. As much as I loathe to team up with you imbeciles... we're all we got."
Dick looks at the ground, swallowing visibly.
"Okay," Jason says, sounding shaken.
Tim clenches a fist.
This... is so bad.
"Look," Tim speaks up, surprising himself. "Obviously, we have some baggage between each other. Nightwing doesn't know who any of us are, Red Hood has a reputation he doesn't know about, I don't even know why he's Red Hood and why that's good or bad, and you don't like any of us which makes all of us not like you... but if you're right, we have to put all that behind us and get along. We can't let time travel bull-shit get us killed. Put whatever we know or think about each other aside, and let's hash it out later, okay?"
"I agree," Jason says, immediately, and gives Tim a thankful smile. Tim feels himself blush, before turning away.
Jason was always his favorite Robin, he can't believe he's actually talking to him.
He looks at Richard, trying to give his best hard look, but Richard rolls his eyes. However, he thankfully doesn't argue. Perhaps because oddly enough, he's the one who initiated the team-up. "Truce. For now."
"Nightwing?" Tim asks, and Dick startles.
"Y-yeah. Whatever."
Tim resists sighing. This is not going to be easy, is it?
But Richard (can he please choose a different name?) is right, if Batman isn't coming (he can't be dead, he can't), then the four of them are all they got.
If you can’t find your exact submission, it's because similar prompts have been combined and prompts overlapping too much with the 2025 Week have been removed.
You may vote for as many prompts as you like! But please only vote once. 📢
The 20 most voted for prompts are going to be chosen for the week. Voting closes by the end of January 1st.
If you have questions about the process or the prompts, feel free to ask. 💙
Tags: Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Self-Sacrificing Dick Grayson, Kidnapping, Torture, Hostage Situations, Drug Use, Near Death Experiences, Asphyxiation, Medical Inaccuracies, Hurt/Comfort, Sensory Deprivation
Ask to tag.
Please check out the AO3 link for better formatting, inspired by all i can by emavee
---
"Tell us where the kid is, and we won't hurt yours."
Bruce has never been more proud of Dick, seeing him square his jaw with an icy glare and silently dares Bruce to give them what they want.
He's never been more sick of his pride.
"The kid" refers to a whistleblower in the Penguin's latest scheming. Cobblepot's getting more and more skilled at acting like a reformed villain, so the night one of his downstairs employees practically begged Red Robin to catch them so they could spill the details was a very very useful night. Batman got all the information he needed to confirm that the Penguin was back to scheming bank heists and drug deals, but before he could form a proper sting with the police to storm the Lounge... the Penguin laid a trap for the next bat that came near.
And that happened to be Batman and Nightwing.
One thing led to another, and the two of them woke up, somewhere deep in the Iceberg Lounge, chained and shackled to sturdy masonry walls by their wrists on opposite sides of a small dingy room — both laid sprawled on the cement flooring below, heavy cuffs circling their ankles as well with little slack in the connecting chains.
Bruce grinds his jaw at the demand, hating how clever Cobblepot always proves himself to be. He had properly disarmed both of them, properly removed all ways of picking themselves out by making the thick cuffs tight and welding metal into the locking mechanism. They placed Bruce and Dick just far enough away that Bruce couldn't reach, kicking out when a handful of Penguins employees crowded Dick and grabbed him by the jaw and hair.
Bruce couldn't give up the whistleblower, no matter what. Cobblepot had a wide and reliable reach, the second Bruce gave the kid's location up, they were as good as dead.
They were just a scared kid who got caught up in the wrong business.
Cobblepot sees his silence, his grinding jaw as answer. He tuts his tongue and nods at the thugs holding Dick. Bruce watches in disguised horror as they tilt his head back, fear rising in his gut that he's about to watch his eldest be waterboarded, but something else happens, something that has Bruce shifting his feet by a minuscule amount. One pinches Dick's nose shut, and the other clamps a hand over Dick's mouth.
The angle that they force Dick's head back doesn't allow him to see Cobblepot reach into the inside pocket of his expensive tuxedo jacket.
But Bruce does. He watches as a plastic baggie is retrieved, its contents filled with a white powder. He hands it over to another employee, and begins to speak as the goon opens the bag and scoops a concerning heap of the contents onto a small, ornate cocktail spoon.
"Mm, Batman, I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," he says, not sounding apologetic at all, more-so eager and pleased with how the night is going for him. Bruce glares at him, and at the cocktail spoon as the third employee holds the small domed end under Dick's immobilized nose.
Dick doesn't see what's happening, and he certainly can't breathe. Bruce knows what's going to happen the second Dick's lungs begin to fight back.
They have eight minutes before Dick's body would begin to struggle for air against his willpower. Eight minutes for Bruce to get them out of this.
"I'm sure you're wondering what that is," Penguin continues, adjusting his monocle. "Have you heard of Little Death? It's a new treat on the streets, its effects not quite perfected. It's meant to be a new date-rape, but it's ending up being less than satisfying for both parties involved in its usage. I've banned it from the Lounge, as I do with most substances that I don't provide myself, my security confiscated this," he nods towards Dick, "from someone trying to break the rules."
Yes. Yes of course Bruce has heard of Little Death. It's rare and imperfected. It's not unsatisfying because it doesn't work as it's intended, but because it works too well.
"They say, if dosed, your sense of smell will be nullified first, hmm, naturally it takes your taste too," Penguin continues, as Dick's fists clench into balls above his head. He's clocked what they're doing, and he fruitlessly jerks his head in the iron grasps pinning him still. "It's a steep slope from there. Once the victim realizes they can't taste the drink they're sipping, it's already too late. Their bodies start to go numb, and their vision begins to blur. The sound of the music will grow muffled. The order of which changes per person, but the sense of touch is always taken last. In the matter of minutes, each sense will be completely taken, and the user will find themselves trapped in the darkness of their own mind.
"There's been plenty of victims who forget to breathe and would asphyxiate during the following assault, not feeling how much it hurts to hold their breath in terror. Many buyers would complain that it felt like fucking a corpse, though some prefer Little Death for that reason exactly. I can't say what the man I confiscated this from thought of it, I heard his body was found in the harbor just a week ago. Hmm. Well, anyway, I'd say a dose like that would affect someone in, say, fifteen minutes? Maybe thirty, if they had Nightwing's considerable resilience."
Penguin doesn't mention the comedown, the slow fade back to reality, as all your senses return to you like wires shoved directly into a wall socket. Everything would be too loud, too bright, too strong. Every nerve would feel ablaze with white-hot fire, the experience of surviving the drug often bringing the strongest post-trauma responses.
Dick twitches in the grasps on him, attempting to twist and kick out. His ankles remain tethered to the floor, no give and no momentum.
"Give me the location of the kid, Batman, and I won't have to do anything drastic."
Do Not Proceed, one of Dick's hands firmly and immediately sign. It's in a simple, one-handed language Bruce made up and taught only to his children and Alfred years ago. Mission statements condensed into singular motions, it's purpose to give direction in case verbalizing communication was impossible or risky; and full ASL risked being seen and understood.
Bruce grinds his jaw, the pressure so dense he might crack a tooth.
"Always the stubborn one, aren't you," Cobblepot sighs, adjusting his monocle again before tutting and removing it completely from his face. Another employee quickly hands him a kerchief, and he begins to clean the glass, looking bored.
Penguin puts his monocle back on and turns towards Dick, standing there passively and a little uninterested - like this all is just an inconvenience to him - seeping the whole room in tense and gut churning silence.
Too soon, Dick's stomach begins to jolt, hands struggling against restraints, the tendons in his neck bursting as his body desperately tries to squirm out of the suffocating holds on him.
Desperate sounds begin to pierce through Dick's chest, his throat bobbing, eyes probably blown wide behind the mask.
And just when his struggles begin to weaken, the hold on his nose is released.
And Bruce is forced to watch Dick uncontrollably inhale the fine powder waiting for him.
Dick gasps, and chokes, every goon stepping away from him wearing smirks. The one who held the spoon rubs their shoulder, like it had been so much work to force a dangerous substance into an unwilling victim's respiratory system. It's not particularly more dangerous to receive the drug through inhalation compared to swallowing in spiked drinks, but the effects do come quicker, and they burn the entire nose and throat until, eventually, the drug robs the ability to feel it.
"They say," Penguin finally says as Dick chokes and gags, "there may be an experimental antidote that negates the effects, perhaps I'll tell you about it if you decide to be cooperative before Nightwing there needs a second dose. In the meantime, holler if you need anything."
And just like that, he leaves the room with his colony of employees, locking the door behind them with looming chuckling.
Bruce turns his attention to Dick, a frantic stabbing in his gut, an unquenchable urge to scramble to his eldest and do whatever he can to make sure none of this ever happened. Right now, Dick's just wheezing, wincing with every inhale, frantically wiping his nose on his shoulder, trailing a leftover streak of white powder across the black of his suit. His nose is red, either from the irritation of Little Death, or the pressure of which the thug had squeezed his nostrils shut, or a bit of both. There's definitely irritation there, the space between Dick's nose and his upper lip has little to no hue change.
"Nightwing?" Bruce asks, as Dick finally gets himself somewhat accustomed to the discomfort of the whole situation.
"Fine," Dick bites out, and Bruce frowns. "I'm fine. Just... just give me..."
He takes deep breaths, squeezing his eyes shut and curling up as far as the chains would allow. Bruce stays silent as he works himself through his grounding techniques, trying not to pay too much attention to the pure tension and stress running through his body and expressions in waves.
Nightwing would seem composed to anyone else, but to Bruce, he sees those flickers, feels them like nails scraping down a chalkboard.
Dick's scared. He's scared in a way that can fool everyone but his dad.
Cass and Damian too, maybe.
But they're not here, Bruce is.
If he could stand and tear the chains from the wall keeping him tethered so far-away, he'd scramble over and gather Dick as tightly as he could in his arms, blanket him in his cape, the one he'd long since designed to be bulletproof. He told Lucius, Alfred, anyone who asked, that a bullet proof cape was useful to his fighting style. It needed to be as reinforced, if not more, than his own suit. The real reason is much simpler, Dick had used to hide underneath it every chance he got back then.
"How long did he say until I lost my smell?" Dick suddenly asks.
Bruce doesn't frown, he doesn't blame Dick for not catching the entire conversation, or knowing the information all off the top of his head already like Bruce does. Little Death hasn't had any significant expansion from Gotham yet, making Blüdhaven safe from its reaches for now. "He didn't specify," Bruce answers, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing. "With the dose he gave you, he suggested fifteen to thirty minutes before all senses are... smothered. Fifteen for an average man, thirty was a guess for your general immunity towards substances."
"Oh," Dick says, his head raising, and giving Bruce a broken smile. "I was worried that 15 minutes was a lot quicker than I remembered."
"You can't smell? Already?"
"Nope," he says, popping the p. "Dunno if it's, ya know, the forced inhalation, or..."
Bruce scrambles for a way to full the following unsettling silence with any kind of reassurance, any kind of plan. He needs to get out of his restraints, but he's already surveyed them and he knows they're out of his capabilities without tools.
"How... how long will everything be... smothered?" Dick asks, a frightened tilt to his voice. Again, something only Bruce and maybe Damian would hear. Cass has more trouble picking up on verbal expressions of emotion.
"Depends on the dosage," Bruce replies helplessly, honestly. "Based on what I saw, I'd assume the range is between six to eight hours. Probably less for you. Granted, you've taken a large dose..."
Dick releases a shaky breath, fingers twitching in his restraints.
"Nightwing, a known side effect of the drug is that breathing can become manual. Keep your wits about you, remember to breathe. You will not feel pain to remind you if you forget. I'm... I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Dick mumbles, "it's all we can do to make sure Penguin doesn't get what he wants."
Dick takes a deep breath.
"Will you keep talking? About anything?" He asks, suddenly, voice choked.
"Of course," Bruce says. "Please give me updates on your symptoms so I can track them. We'll get through this, chum."
Dick laughs wetly, and nods his head. "Just no smell. So far."
Bruce smiles at him, it's a painful thing. "How about I tell you about how, during my time training to become Batman, a rogue group of Tibetan monks hunted me for forty days across the Himalayas until a group of Sherpas helped me shake them off?"
"That sounds made up, B," Dick laughs.
"I wish I was making it up. I was nearly desperate enough to climb Everest. At the time, I was traveling between teachers in every corner of Asia that I could get to, when suddenly, in the middle of the night, the monks attacked..."
-oOo-
"B, can you speak up?" Dick asks as Bruce is describing how one of the rogue monks had, no joke, ran across the river Bruce had previously desperately swam through.
So far, they've been left to their own devices, he hasn't even heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Just him and Dick, one losing his senses, the other fearful that he'll lose his mind watching it happen.
Bruce swallows thickly. "Of course. How're you holding up?"
"Smell and taste is completely gone. It's getting harder to hear. I dunno if my fingers are getting numb because of blood flow or not. Sight is still good as far as I can tell- wait..."
Bruce tenses, then Dick clicks his tongue with a shit-eating grin.
"That's just you being all doom and gloom over there."
"Chum..."
"I'm fine, just talk louder for a little while. I'm not about to keel over, grumpy. How long has it been?"
"Twelve minutes and forty six seconds," Bruce supplies.
"Ah," Dick says, sniffing. "Is Ozzie's prediction of thirty minutes looking likely to you?"
"Most victims with a similar dosage would have more extreme deterioration by now, so... it's looking likely."
"So the time I spend smothered will be shorter than 6 hours, you think?"
He asks it casually. Bruce hears the fear.
He wants to be gentle. He wants to lie.
But Dick needs to be prepared for the worst case scenarios. He needs to know what to expect, so he doesn't lose it when his time quote unquote smothered lasts longer than predicted.
"Everyone's bodies are different," Bruce says slowly, carefully. "It may be better to expect the worst case."
Dick's smile doesn't fall, it seems to freeze. "Okay."
I don't know if I can do eight hours, his smile screams.
You can. You must, Bruce hopes he manages to convey back.
All Bruce can hope is that Dick proves once again that he's the strongest person Bruce knows and holds on while they're forced to find a chance to escape, or more likely Tim notices they're missing soon if he hasn't already. Cass is in Gotham. With her, Tim, Damian, and maybe Jason (if Bruce is very hopeful) they could easily raid the building, especially with Alfred and Barbara organizing the charge.
They just need to wait.
"So what happened after the monk pulled a Jesus on you?" Dick asks, sharply, perhaps desperate to exist in a world that can reach his senses for as much time as he has left. It pulls Bruce out of his musing, and he hummed, realized he might have been too quiet, and nodded his head, raised his voice.
"Yes, so the monk ran across the water..."
-oOo-
Seventeen minutes.
"B? You think you could finger spell the story?"
"Yes," Bruce says, then stops, nods his head.
Yes, he signs instead.
-oOo-
Twenty-three minutes.
"Half the vision in my left eye is gone." His voice is choked. "I can't hear anything. I can't..."
Bruce stills, liquid dread pooling in his stomach.
You're okay, Bruce signs, using his left hand in big slow motions. Breathe.
"Don't tell me to breathe," Dick snaps, his voice straining in a nervous laugh, one that's openly raw and emotional, walls torn away by the loss of audio. Some of the words come out tilted, like they don't fit correctly in his mouth. "That's all I can think about. Stop reminding me please."
Ok, Bruce signs. What can I do to help?
Dick shrugs helplessly, face twisting as if he were in pain.
"I don't know," Dick replies. "I don't know. I... My right eye is also getting fuzzy. I can't feel up to my elbows and knees. B- B I'm scared."
Don't worry, Bruce signs, fighting to keep the tremors out of his hands at the admission. He switches from the limited signs and finger spellings that he can do with restrained hands to the signed code he taught Dick all those years ago. Hold Position. Wait For Reinforcements. Red Robin. Robin. Batgirl. Agent-A. Oracle.
Hood, Dick finishes with a flick of his wrist. The fingers didn't curl into the correct position, they moved slowly and uncoordinated.
Hood, Bruce agrees.
Dick sighs, something that sounds more like a whimper.
"We'll be laughing about this later, right?" Dick asks, voice so small.
Without question, Bruce returns to ASL finger spelling.
"Okay. Okay." Dick takes a deep breath, like he's afraid of it, and Bruce almost regrets pushing the issue so hard. "Keep... keep signing. I can still see."
-oOo-
Twenty-five minutes.
Dick scoffs, bitter and vicious. "You can stop now," he mumbles. "I can't see you."
Bruce freezes.
Then, frantically he stomps his boot on the ground, tap-tap-tapping.
A startled laugh tears out of Dick's throat. "Morse code?" He asks, baffled and thankful, he shifts as much as he can to press his lower body to the ground, his head falling back to the wall behind him with a soft thud. He doesn't react to it.
"Can still sorta feel, for... for a little while longer I think."
Bruce begins to tap out the story, but Dick interrupts him before he can make out the third word.
"B? I love you."
Bruce freezes, throat bobbing and something wounded escaping his chest.
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / - --- ---
-oOo-
Thirty-one minutes, on the dot.
"Can't... Feel... Much," Dick says, very carefully, but the words still slur. "M'sry. Just... j-just... chest. Jst'a little. I'm breathing. Don't wuh... worry. M'fine."
Dick sits slumped, practically boneless, against the wall. His diaphragm is the only part of him that moves more than weak twitching, Dick clearly putting a lot of focus into making sure he keeps it that way. Bruce can't imagine how terrifying it is, how alien it would feel, to drag air in and out and not feel the process.
It's terrifying to witness. Bruce has felt helpless many times in his life, and he's does not grow fonder of the emotion any time he encounters it.
But there's nothing he can do. Dick's entire world is pressed into some small portion of his chest, but that will be taken from him too, perhaps in a matter of moments, and soon Dick will be trapped in his own head, brutally disconnected from the world.
It's unnatural to witness. It's wrong to see Dick so uncoordinated, so disconnected in his own body.
Bruce, for the thousandth time, pulls on his restraints, and they go nowhere.
Tim, Bruce begs silently, where are you?.
Exactly one more minute passes, before Dick lets out a sob. "Can't... can't..." He breathes deeply, robotically, perhaps a bit too frequently out of desperation. "Fff-feel, B, B, I can't..."
He gasps, sobs again.
Bruce feels something in him shatter.
"Sorry..." he moans, "n-need to... to calm down... c-calm..."
"N-not even... that bad... Ah-honest-llly. Mm- I'm...." He gasps. "I c-can do this. I... can..."
Bruce closes his eyes, a tear escaping the seal of his cowl.
-oOo-
Dick begins crying twenty-six minutes into being deprived of all senses.
They're broken, warbled sounds, tears spilling.
Bruce can only watch as Dick desperately tries to keep breathing through his fear and sorrow.
"B," he chokes. "B, I'm... Done... I'm done... No more... B... Please... Please...."
And Bruce almost breaks.
Dick continues whimpering, mumbling, falling apart, choking on gasps and sobs, his slurred words becoming blunt claws, puncturing Bruce's ribs one by one.
"Stop- stop- please- no..."
"Chum," Bruce tries, the word warbled and strangled. He has no idea just what Dick is experiencing; has the drug also taken lucidity? Is he hallucinating? Is he floating in inescapable nothing with full knowledge that he has no power over what happens to his body from here, has no way to know if someone's messing with him, if his cries are as audible as they are, if his heart has stopped and maybe he's already dead? Survivors don't tend to remember the whole ordeal, but many of them describe entirely unique experiences for the bits they do remember.
"Chum, it's okay," Bruce continues, because how could he not?
It doesn't matter if he couldn't see or hear Bruce. Hell, it didn't matter if Bruce was free and Dick couldn't feel him rushing to him and gathering him in his arms. Sitting still and watching his son fall apart takes those claws and drags them down.
"You'll be okay," Bruce says again. "You're always okay," he says that more to himself, and he hates himself for it. "Remember the grounding techniques I taught you. Breathing patterns, first. If that doesn't work, try reciting those poems I taught you, take deep breaths at the end of every comma. You're strong, you're the strongest person I know. I know it hurts, I'm sorry, if I could trade places with you, I would. You don't deserve this, you don't. It's okay to be scared, I am too. Just hold on, hold on..."
Dick continues crying.
-oOo-
An hour in.
Besides Dick's ragged, almost robotic breathing, there's only silence.
He'd stopped crying, stuttering words of apology, a little while ago. He's talked himself through one of the breathing exercises, and thankfully seems to have reached some sort of mental flow-state.
The mental state Dick's dug himself into is one Bruce taught him to fall back into in cases of extreme and inescapable torture. It tears at Bruce, that this is torture. His son is being tortured in front of him.
And he can do nothing but sit there and count Dick's breathing too.
-oOo-
An hour and a half, roughly.
The heavy door suddenly opens, startling Bruce from his own flow-state, of sorts. He'd been meditating with Dick's thankfully steady breathing, floating in terror and pride. Because he's proud of Dick, he always is. He's surviving this better than Bruce could imagine himself doing, and that's including the palpable fear as each sense faded, that's including the long and agonizing breakdown thirty minutes in.
Selfishly, he hopes it's because Dick should know, should remember, that Bruce is here. He's not really alone, even if it feels like it.
But he startles out of these thoughts, twisting his head towards the opening door, hope fluttering in his chest...
But it's a Lounge employee. Three of them, actually.
Bruce glares at them.
And his glare sharpens as Penguin waddles in, his cane clinking on the cement floor with every limping step. Penguin meets Batman's narrowed eyes, and grins.
"How's the accommodations? Comfortable?" He asks.
Bruce growls.
"Mm," he continues. "Not very grateful. Perhaps, I should remind you of the stakes here."
Dick's handling this better than Cobblepot expected, which spells all sorts of things. He nods at his employees, and the three of them chuckle and go to his helpless son.
One of them has a bolt cutter, and Bruce feels his entire body seize up.
"Your fight is with me," Bruce snarls, as the tool is twisted over one of the rings keeping Dick's wrists hanging limply above his head. Dick doesn't react to the crowding around his body, he bonelessly rolls with each jostle, every brush against his body. The lenses of his mask just stare sightlessly into some far off distance. "Whatever you have planned, it's me you want."
"Actually," Cobblepot replies as the first ring snaps, "my fight is with your other bird brat. Red Robin. Seems not all of us can get what we want tonight."
"What are you doing with him?" Bruce demands, digging deep for his anger, his batglare as Dick has so lovingly named so long ago.
The next ring snaps, Dick's left arm flops down and Dick doesn't even twitch, his breathing doesn't stutter. He has no idea what's happening.
Bruce was so foolish to think nothing would happen while Dick was under, that Cobblepot wouldn't raise the stakes.
"Perhaps, I should demonstrate what I'm going to do to that rat you're protecting," Cobblepot replies smoothly, meeting Bruce's glare without flinching, almost like this is all one annoying headache for him and nothing more. He's always been one of Bruce's smarter villains, his downfall usually brought by using his own ego and self-importance against him.
He wasn't afraid of a chained and shackled bat.
But he should be afraid of what Bruce would do to him the second he's freed, especially if he touches one more hair on Dick's head.
"Killing Nightwing won't get you the information you're after," Bruce snarls. "You'll be losing your bargaining chip."
Penguin smirks.
"Oh I won't kill him. It's not every day you have a Nightwing who's finally shut up and still, completely at your mercy - there's ways to hurt him, hurt you without killing him."
The intended purpose of Little Death isn't lost on Bruce. Bruce yanks on the restraints, snarling, as the chains on Dick's legs are snapped.
Completely open and untethered, the larger goon roughly grabs Dick's ankle and drags him away from the wall. Dick's unresisting, vulnerable, as he's positioned on his side.
And then, with a click of Penguin's cane on the cement, one of the goons kicks Dick brutally in the stomach.
Dick doesn't react, doesn't flinch, nothing but his body jolting with force and gravity and his breath being forced out against his pattern.
But the pattern corrects itself, probably without Dick even knowing. Hopefully without Dick even knowing.
"Penguin," Bruce snarls, straining. "I'll make you regret touching him."
"You'll put me in a body cast?" He laughs. Another kick. "You know what will happen, Batman?" Another kick, this time to Dick's shoulder. "Even if you make me regret, I'll still get what I want eventually. It's the same old game," The thug keeps kicking and Dick doesn't even know that his body is just taking it. "I'll be let out, my associates will find the rat, and we'll keep playing cat and mouse until something breaks. You can stop this, Batman," he nods at Dick, at the brutal beating, "I just want to know where the whistleblower is, and this can all be over. You'll be released, and you can take your boy back to your little cave and lick your pride. You think this is how I want to be spending my time? I'm not like those other freaks you fight, I'm a business man, and this is hindering progress."
Something snaps, something in Dick's chest, and Bruce screams.
"Stop it," he snarls.
Cobblepot raises his palm, and the thugs immediately stop. One of them has the nerve to look bored, as if they expected a lot more excitement from beating up a completely vulnerable, and totally incomprehensive body.
Dick breathes. He breathes. But they sound like they're being dragged through a grinder. There's a new labor on his lungs, and Bruce prays to God the broken rib hasn't pierced anything. Dick breathes through it, no regard for the state of his body. He doesn't know.
"I don't have all day, Batman," Cobblepot sneers.
Bruce grinds his teeth. "I won't tell you where the whistleblower is. You know I won't. Stop this pointless cruelty."
Cobblepot regards him for a moment, then his eyes narrow and his nose scrunches up. "You're right. I know you won't. Rmm. But if you won't, perhaps one of your birds will. Maybe I'll let Nightwing suffer the comedown before dosing him again, and he'll spill."
Bruce and Dick won't be here long enough for that to happen. They can't be.
Tim should know they're missing. He'll be here soon. Tim always finds Bruce.
Bruce glares at him - it's all he can do - and Cobblepot turns to his employees. "Let's leave Batman to stew in his stubbornness, and how Nightwing will continue to pay for it."
They make to leave, Cobblepot snorting in amusement when one of the thugs thoughtlessly steps on Dick's hand.
"We'll be back, Batman."
-oOo-
Three hours. Dick's body gives a full body jolt and an agonized gasp.
Bruce jerks, coming to full attention, hopeful and fearful that the effects of Little Death are waning, but Dick just continues to roughly and heavily pant.
"B...?"
"I'm here, I'm here, can you hear-"
"Am... Am I dead?"
Bruce freezes.
"Forgot, I... Was I breathing? I don't... remember, I..."
He takes deep breaths, filling his lungs with more air than he probably should, especially with his ribs, but when he releases his breath he just takes another.
"I can't... mmm'I breathing? I don't... I don't think... so?"
"Nightwing," Bruce calls, raising his voice, hopeful and scared.
Dick doesn't answer, just forces more and more air into his lungs, desperately, probably searching for that confirmation that he's doing something he can't feel, not finding it.
Dick begins to panic.
"I don't... B? B, please! How luh'long...?"
His breathing is getting worse, he's forgetting to inhale after his words.
"Please, please, please, please, nonononono," the pleading runs dry, no air to fuel.
Another gasp, small and weak. Dick's trying, he's trying so hard, and Bruce feels true terror. He can't... he can't watch Dick die in front of him.
Not again.
Dick's body twitches, his lips moving breathlessly, in the matter of seconds his lips begin to shift hue.
"Breathe," Bruce pleads, "DAMMIT."
He's not breathing, he's not breathing, he's not breathing. What went wrong? What triggered this? There's has to be something-
"Nightwing!" He shouts, he screams. "Breathe- oh God, chum please- Dick-"
The name slips out. Bruce very nearly doesn't care. Dick isn't breathing, his blue lips numbly shaping words that Bruce can't read.
Except a name. His name.
Bruce.
Dad.
"God no, god- COBBLEPOT!"
He twists against the restraints, he's sure his wrists and ankles are bruised and raw now under the suit. He doesn't care.
"COBBLEPOT!"
Why isn't he coming?!
Bruce can't do this. He can't do this. He'll have to find a way to protect the whistleblower before Penguin kills him. He'll worry about that later, he doesn't care right now-
Suddenly, the door bursts open, and-
And it's Tim.
And Jason.
And Cass.
They each look like they've been through a fight, but their wide eyed looks and tense bodies show that hearing Bruce scream had rattled them more than anything else.
They came. They came just in time.
"He's not breathing," Bruce says frantically, jerking his chin to Dick. "Help your brother first. Little Death."
Jason swears. Of course he knows what that is.
And they all spring into action. Tim runs to Dick first, already scrambling to breathe for him. Jason looks startled that Tim got there before him, but processes quickly that Tim made the decision that Jason could better handle getting the restraints off Bruce. He rushed towards Bruce, cursing and snarling under his breath, hands shaking as he notices the welded shut restraints and pulls out some bat-grade metal files. They wouldn't be as quick as bolt cutters, but they're damn near close.
"Penguin has a neutralizer," Bruce remembers out loud. He meets Cass's eyes, and she nods immediately, scrambling out the door.
In a matter of minutes, Jason saws through the final bits of metal keeping Bruce away from his eldest. He stumbles to his feet, and tries to bolt towards Dick, but Jason stops him.
"Let Red work," Jason says, sounding shaken.
Bruce gasps, then nods, then does the only thing he can do and drags Jason into a bone crushing hug. Jason shouts, surprised, stiff as a board, but hesitantly returns the embrace with a few awkward pats.
"Hood," Tim wheezes behind them, "switch."
Jason's out of Bruce's arms before Bruce can pull away himself.
Bruce forces himself to remain back while Jason trades places with an exhausted and winded looking Tim; his smart, beautiful boy, who has tear tracks running down his cheeks.
Jason picks up breathing for Dick, and Bruce feels himself stumble at the sickening sight of it. Tim, as if spurred by instinct alone, ducks under Bruce's arm and steadies him.
"Can we trust the antidote?" Tim asks.
Bruce doesn't know. He's willing to try anything if it means Dick will start breathing on his own again.
"Robin's outside with the batmobile," Tim continues when Bruce can't bring himself to answer. "If he doesn't start breathing on his own..."
They have to pray that the antidote works.
They have to pray the "antidote" doesn't finish Dick off.
"He's not breathing," Jason gasps, pulling away, "where's the shadow?"
"Back," Cass announces, rushing back into the room, a smear of blood across the jaw of her mask. Bruce supposes he's not going to be the one responsible for putting Cobblepot in a body cast this time.
In her hand is a vial of opaque, amber tinted liquid, and a syringe. Bruce remembers looking into the experimental antidote, it at least looks exactly how it should.
"Hand it over," Bruce demands, and she surrenders it quickly, her hands trembling as the lenses of her eyes turn towards Dick and pause there.
Jason continues breathing into Dick's still lungs. From the reports on the antidote, its nullification of Little Death spreads from its initial injection point, which means the most effective place to pierce the needle would be through Dick's chest, as close to his lungs as he could get.
Tim seems to understand the requirements, in a blink of an eye, Bruce has the antidote in one hand, and a batarang in the other. He slides heavily on his knees to Dick's side, careful not to interrupt Jason's focus, and slices through a patch of Dick's suit with the weapon. He kneels back and fills the syringe, feeling sick to his stomach that he has no idea how clean the needle is itself, and places it above Dick's chest.
Penguin wouldn't want to kill Nightwing, he wanted Bruce to suffer longer than this.
Cass wouldn't have picked up a dirty needle.
He plunges it in, right between two of Dick's bruised ribs.
The liquid goes in smoothly. It's almost anticlimactic how smooth the process is completed. He pulls out the syringe and holds onto it for dear life, breath baited as Jason pulls back and they both listen for just a heartbeat. A moment.
How quickly does the antidote work? Why can't he seem to think of a number?
His skull feels numb and far away.
It feels like he's watching a part of his soul flicker out, wither away.
His lips are too blue.
"Shit," Jason keens, moving to breathe for Dick again-
When Dick finally inhales.
It's a pained, agonized sounding thing.
It sounds like pure magic.
"B?" Dick asks, still limp, voice weak and slurred, but breathing. "B- I- I my chest- my skin- it- dad-"
Shit. The comedown.
"It hurts," Dick sobs.
And Bruce quickly gathers him up and rushes with the rest of his children back to the batmobile, not looking back for a second, as Dick begins to openly weep at the agony Bruce couldn't be happier to know he was feeling.
-oOo-
Bruce doesn't get to sit and brood at Dick's bedside for as long as he would have liked. Dick's in and out of lucidity for hours after their rescue, and most touches, sounds, and sights are immediately overwhelming as expected. Bruce would have been content to place a chair at the other side of his room - Alfred has deemed him worthy of bedrest upstairs once most the trashing settled down - and watch like one of the many gargoyles looming over Gotham...
But Dick's siblings wanted their turns.
It's always hard for them — seeing Dick like this. It's not lost on Bruce how much... larger than life Dick can appear. Perhaps it's the lingering hero-worship, particularly in Tim and Jason's cases. To them, he's the first Robin; untouchable and better. They've both seen Dick at his lowest plenty of times, but Dick does such a good job at making people not worry about him in the aftermath that you could almost forget how hurt he was in the first place.
Damian is a different story, he sees Dick as a steadfast parental figure. Parental being the stressed word that used to curl something selfish and guilty in Bruce's stomach, but after getting to know Damian, after learning the things he and Dick went through together, it's no doubt in Bruce's mind whose legacy Damian will most honor as he grows. Out of all Bruce's children, Damian has been the only Robin for Dick, who understands what Robin means to Dick. It's hard for the boy to see through the rose colored glasses and realize that sometimes his Batman is not immortal.
Cass sees through the cracks, same as Bruce, but she doesn't need the double decade of experience and the added context of what he'd been like as a child to be able to read through the facades. Dick tends to avoid her when he's struggling, and that's a weapon she proudly wields when she determines he's hurting and hiding it. She doesn't like to see anyone hurt, especially her brothers, but in times such as these, she will assign herself as the resident Dick Grayson lie detector until he admits what's hurting, physically and emotionally.
Once it's Bruce's next turn to sit and watch by Dick's beside, watching him sleep, restless, several hours have passed since they've left the ransacked Iceberg Lounge behind.
It was a dicey few hours. The first handful was filled with Dick screaming, sobbing, finding no relief as they couldn't risk any pain medicine or sedation. The slightest touches, the barest brushes, must have felt like fire. The lights have long since been dimmed, and a strict no talking rule has been ordered.
Now he's just... restless. He knocked out a bit back, but his body keeps twitching and jerking, whines escaping his raw throat beneath the nasal cannula supplying him the oxygen he's been so terrifyingly without for dangerously close to too long.
He doesn't know how much longer Dick will be out, but luckily it seems he's out of the darkest of the woods.
Bruce wishes he could lean forward and grasp his hand, squeeze and trace his thumb over his knuckles.
He doesn't want to risk it.
"Bruce...?"
His eyes snap up from Dick's hand to his bleary blues, narrowed not out of emotion, but probably because the near darkness is still somehow too bright. But his eyes are open, and they're meeting Bruce's.
"Hey, chum," Bruce practically hears himself coo, his body leaning forward as close as he can get without touching him, he keeps his voice very carefully lowered. "How're you feeling?"
Dick winces, eyes squeezing shut for a moment with a slight hiss. They open again, a bit more focused. "Penguin was right, the comedown is worse than the actual drug." His voice is hoarse, which makes sense as he'd been screaming it raw just a little while ago.
I disagree, Bruce wants to say. While you were smothered, I felt like I couldn't breathe with you. At least the agony of you leaving the woods meant you were alive.
He doesn't say so.
"You know when your leg falls asleep and the blood starts to come back and it's just like this numb tingling agony that makes you afraid to even twitch," Dick asks, and Bruce hums. "That's my whole body right now."
"I'm sorry, Dick."
"Nah," Dick smiles weakly. "It was the right thing to do. I barely remember most of it anyway. Things got fuzzy by the time you got to the part where you and the Sherpas lost the monks in a pass."
Roughly three minutes before Dick could no longer feel Bruce stomping out the story, letter by letter, with the heel of his boot.
"What do you remember?"
Dick shrugs, then freezes with a sharp huff of discomfort. "It's hard to describe. You know how blindness is like, the lack of sight, not blackness. I remember that kind of nothing, but it was everywhere, and... suffocating. I was drowning in it. I think I had enough wits to think to myself, but it's all just... flashes? I don't know, I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for-"
"I remember-" Dick continues suddenly, barreling on, like if he stops he won't say it "- feeling really scared, at the end. Nothing else, just scared. I was terrified I just died in front of you, that I failed you. I couldn't tell nothing apart from being dead which fucking sucked, you know?"
Bruce feels like he's taken a punch to the gut. "Dick, please don't say that," he gasps before he can think better. "Don't tell me you were more afraid that you died in front of me than the possibility you've died at all."
Dick freezes. A deer caught in headlights. His face goes careful, his voice level. Bruce can see the panic, he always sees Dick's panic.
"It's not like that."
Bruce wants to crumble.
"It's not, Bruce. Don't put words in my mouth."
He wants to gather up his aching, hurting boy, and never let the word touch him ever again. He wants to stand up and trash the whole cave in a rage, let the boiling failure tear everything apart, because how has he done this to his boy? How has that perfect little child that loved so loudly and protected so fiercely turned into a brave and wonderful young man who forgot to learn how to love and protect himself the same way?
"B, not now, please," Dick pleads, and Bruce blinks a few tears from his eyes. He hasn't realized he'd gone still, retreating in his thoughts and allowing the emotions to leak out of his eyes. "Don't do this to yourself, don't blame yourself. Of course I was afraid I was dead, of course, I just- Bruce can you stop looking at me like that?" He looks frantic, close to tears. Dick's eyes always glowed whenever he cried, the blue so piercing and raw, it's electric. "Dad, can you just hug me already?"
Dick wields that title like a weapon, similar to how Bruce wields chum.
It works every time.
"I'll hurt you," Bruce tries fruitlessly to reject the request.
"Dad."
Damn him.
Bruce carefully gathers Dick into his arms, mindful of sudden moves for both the lingering effects of the comedown, as well as Dick's cracked ribs; the world slots into place. Dick flinches at the touch, no matter how slow and gentle Bruce goes, but his hands grasp at Bruce's back like bars, a refusal to let Bruce pull away.
"I'm okay," Dick says, when they're both wrapped in each other's arms, Dick stiff as a board but slowly relaxing the longer they sit without moving. "I'm okay. We're okay."
"I almost lost you."
"Never. You'll never get rid of me."
"I couldn't do anything."
"But you did," Dick says, clutching to Bruce firmly, not allowing them to part, his words brushing against Bruce's neck while Bruce's breaths comb through his tangled bed-ridden hair. "I was so scared, Bruce, I remember nearly giving up, but then I felt something, a pinprick in my chest, and I knew it was you, and I was safe."
"Cass found the antidote, it was your brothers who kept you breathing-"
"You can't seriously be trying to convince me that you abandoned me for a second," Dick laughs wetly. Bruce can feel tears on the collar of his shirt.
"I'll never abandon you, but I failed you," Bruce confirms, "I will not allow it to happen again."
Dick hums, surrendering. "Okay, Batman. God, you're worse than I am."
Bruce feels a smile twitch on his lips. "A difficult feat."
"Asshole."
Bruce laughs.
It's a choked, sobbing thing, but neither of them acknowledge it.
They just hold each other, the world pinpointing on the non-existent space between them.
After a few minutes, both have collected themselves enough for Dick to ask hesitantly: "You gonna finish that story?"
"Hmm," Bruce grunts. "Shall I start at or before you last remember?"
"At. Wait, maybe slightly before. Before the Morse code. I can't believe you thought to do that."
Bruce hums. "Move over, my old man back can't handle this position."
"Ugh," Dick groans, finally letting Bruce pull away, his eyes sparkling. "Fine."
He scoots over to the opposite side of the mattress, an extra wide one to be clear. For a bunch of Gotham vigilantes, it would surprise anyone to learn how often they ended up curled up together after days like this. Bruce has more than enough room to make himself comfortable at Dick's side. In fact, there's enough room for him to lay next to him without touching.
But Dick doesn't allow that. He wraps around Bruce's arm, lays his head on Bruce's shoulder, and sighs in pain tinted content. The contact hurts, but he's going to push through it to get the exact kind of comfort he wants.
Only Dick Grayson.
"Alright, so, let's start at where I, half frozen and delirious from exhaustion ran into the group of Sherpas, or well, when they came across me nearly buried in a mound of snow..."
Tags: Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Self-Sacrificing Dick Grayson, Kidnapping, Torture, Hostage Situations, Drug Use, Near Death Experiences, Asphyxiation, Medical Inaccuracies, Hurt/Comfort, Sensory Deprivation
Ask to tag.
Please check out the AO3 link for better formatting, inspired by all i can by emavee
---
"Tell us where the kid is, and we won't hurt yours."
Bruce has never been more proud of Dick, seeing him square his jaw with an icy glare and silently dares Bruce to give them what they want.
He's never been more sick of his pride.
"The kid" refers to a whistleblower in the Penguin's latest scheming. Cobblepot's getting more and more skilled at acting like a reformed villain, so the night one of his downstairs employees practically begged Red Robin to catch them so they could spill the details was a very very useful night. Batman got all the information he needed to confirm that the Penguin was back to scheming bank heists and drug deals, but before he could form a proper sting with the police to storm the Lounge... the Penguin laid a trap for the next bat that came near.
And that happened to be Batman and Nightwing.
One thing led to another, and the two of them woke up, somewhere deep in the Iceberg Lounge, chained and shackled to sturdy masonry walls by their wrists on opposite sides of a small dingy room — both laid sprawled on the cement flooring below, heavy cuffs circling their ankles as well with little slack in the connecting chains.
Bruce grinds his jaw at the demand, hating how clever Cobblepot always proves himself to be. He had properly disarmed both of them, properly removed all ways of picking themselves out by making the thick cuffs tight and welding metal into the locking mechanism. They placed Bruce and Dick just far enough away that Bruce couldn't reach, kicking out when a handful of Penguins employees crowded Dick and grabbed him by the jaw and hair.
Bruce couldn't give up the whistleblower, no matter what. Cobblepot had a wide and reliable reach, the second Bruce gave the kid's location up, they were as good as dead.
They were just a scared kid who got caught up in the wrong business.
Cobblepot sees his silence, his grinding jaw as answer. He tuts his tongue and nods at the thugs holding Dick. Bruce watches in disguised horror as they tilt his head back, fear rising in his gut that he's about to watch his eldest be waterboarded, but something else happens, something that has Bruce shifting his feet by a minuscule amount. One pinches Dick's nose shut, and the other clamps a hand over Dick's mouth.
The angle that they force Dick's head back doesn't allow him to see Cobblepot reach into the inside pocket of his expensive tuxedo jacket.
But Bruce does. He watches as a plastic baggie is retrieved, its contents filled with a white powder. He hands it over to another employee, and begins to speak as the goon opens the bag and scoops a concerning heap of the contents onto a small, ornate cocktail spoon.
"Mm, Batman, I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," he says, not sounding apologetic at all, more-so eager and pleased with how the night is going for him. Bruce glares at him, and at the cocktail spoon as the third employee holds the small domed end under Dick's immobilized nose.
Dick doesn't see what's happening, and he certainly can't breathe. Bruce knows what's going to happen the second Dick's lungs begin to fight back.
They have eight minutes before Dick's body would begin to struggle for air against his willpower. Eight minutes for Bruce to get them out of this.
"I'm sure you're wondering what that is," Penguin continues, adjusting his monocle. "Have you heard of Little Death? It's a new treat on the streets, its effects not quite perfected. It's meant to be a new date-rape, but it's ending up being less than satisfying for both parties involved in its usage. I've banned it from the Lounge, as I do with most substances that I don't provide myself, my security confiscated this," he nods towards Dick, "from someone trying to break the rules."
Yes. Yes of course Bruce has heard of Little Death. It's rare and imperfected. It's not unsatisfying because it doesn't work as it's intended, but because it works too well.
"They say, if dosed, your sense of smell will be nullified first, hmm, naturally it takes your taste too," Penguin continues, as Dick's fists clench into balls above his head. He's clocked what they're doing, and he fruitlessly jerks his head in the iron grasps pinning him still. "It's a steep slope from there. Once the victim realizes they can't taste the drink they're sipping, it's already too late. Their bodies start to go numb, and their vision begins to blur. The sound of the music will grow muffled. The order of which changes per person, but the sense of touch is always taken last. In the matter of minutes, each sense will be completely taken, and the user will find themselves trapped in the darkness of their own mind.
"There's been plenty of victims who forget to breathe and would asphyxiate during the following assault, not feeling how much it hurts to hold their breath in terror. Many buyers would complain that it felt like fucking a corpse, though some prefer Little Death for that reason exactly. I can't say what the man I confiscated this from thought of it, I heard his body was found in the harbor just a week ago. Hmm. Well, anyway, I'd say a dose like that would affect someone in, say, fifteen minutes? Maybe thirty, if they had Nightwing's considerable resilience."
Penguin doesn't mention the comedown, the slow fade back to reality, as all your senses return to you like wires shoved directly into a wall socket. Everything would be too loud, too bright, too strong. Every nerve would feel ablaze with white-hot fire, the experience of surviving the drug often bringing the strongest post-trauma responses.
Dick twitches in the grasps on him, attempting to twist and kick out. His ankles remain tethered to the floor, no give and no momentum.
"Give me the location of the kid, Batman, and I won't have to do anything drastic."
Do Not Proceed, one of Dick's hands firmly and immediately sign. It's in a simple, one-handed language Bruce made up and taught only to his children and Alfred years ago. Mission statements condensed into singular motions, it's purpose to give direction in case verbalizing communication was impossible or risky; and full ASL risked being seen and understood.
Bruce grinds his jaw, the pressure so dense he might crack a tooth.
"Always the stubborn one, aren't you," Cobblepot sighs, adjusting his monocle again before tutting and removing it completely from his face. Another employee quickly hands him a kerchief, and he begins to clean the glass, looking bored.
Penguin puts his monocle back on and turns towards Dick, standing there passively and a little uninterested - like this all is just an inconvenience to him - seeping the whole room in tense and gut churning silence.
Too soon, Dick's stomach begins to jolt, hands struggling against restraints, the tendons in his neck bursting as his body desperately tries to squirm out of the suffocating holds on him.
Desperate sounds begin to pierce through Dick's chest, his throat bobbing, eyes probably blown wide behind the mask.
And just when his struggles begin to weaken, the hold on his nose is released.
And Bruce is forced to watch Dick uncontrollably inhale the fine powder waiting for him.
Dick gasps, and chokes, every goon stepping away from him wearing smirks. The one who held the spoon rubs their shoulder, like it had been so much work to force a dangerous substance into an unwilling victim's respiratory system. It's not particularly more dangerous to receive the drug through inhalation compared to swallowing in spiked drinks, but the effects do come quicker, and they burn the entire nose and throat until, eventually, the drug robs the ability to feel it.
"They say," Penguin finally says as Dick chokes and gags, "there may be an experimental antidote that negates the effects, perhaps I'll tell you about it if you decide to be cooperative before Nightwing there needs a second dose. In the meantime, holler if you need anything."
And just like that, he leaves the room with his colony of employees, locking the door behind them with looming chuckling.
Bruce turns his attention to Dick, a frantic stabbing in his gut, an unquenchable urge to scramble to his eldest and do whatever he can to make sure none of this ever happened. Right now, Dick's just wheezing, wincing with every inhale, frantically wiping his nose on his shoulder, trailing a leftover streak of white powder across the black of his suit. His nose is red, either from the irritation of Little Death, or the pressure of which the thug had squeezed his nostrils shut, or a bit of both. There's definitely irritation there, the space between Dick's nose and his upper lip has little to no hue change.
"Nightwing?" Bruce asks, as Dick finally gets himself somewhat accustomed to the discomfort of the whole situation.
"Fine," Dick bites out, and Bruce frowns. "I'm fine. Just... just give me..."
He takes deep breaths, squeezing his eyes shut and curling up as far as the chains would allow. Bruce stays silent as he works himself through his grounding techniques, trying not to pay too much attention to the pure tension and stress running through his body and expressions in waves.
Nightwing would seem composed to anyone else, but to Bruce, he sees those flickers, feels them like nails scraping down a chalkboard.
Dick's scared. He's scared in a way that can fool everyone but his dad.
Cass and Damian too, maybe.
But they're not here, Bruce is.
If he could stand and tear the chains from the wall keeping him tethered so far-away, he'd scramble over and gather Dick as tightly as he could in his arms, blanket him in his cape, the one he'd long since designed to be bulletproof. He told Lucius, Alfred, anyone who asked, that a bullet proof cape was useful to his fighting style. It needed to be as reinforced, if not more, than his own suit. The real reason is much simpler, Dick had used to hide underneath it every chance he got back then.
"How long did he say until I lost my smell?" Dick suddenly asks.
Bruce doesn't frown, he doesn't blame Dick for not catching the entire conversation, or knowing the information all off the top of his head already like Bruce does. Little Death hasn't had any significant expansion from Gotham yet, making Blüdhaven safe from its reaches for now. "He didn't specify," Bruce answers, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing. "With the dose he gave you, he suggested fifteen to thirty minutes before all senses are... smothered. Fifteen for an average man, thirty was a guess for your general immunity towards substances."
"Oh," Dick says, his head raising, and giving Bruce a broken smile. "I was worried that 15 minutes was a lot quicker than I remembered."
"You can't smell? Already?"
"Nope," he says, popping the p. "Dunno if it's, ya know, the forced inhalation, or..."
Bruce scrambles for a way to full the following unsettling silence with any kind of reassurance, any kind of plan. He needs to get out of his restraints, but he's already surveyed them and he knows they're out of his capabilities without tools.
"How... how long will everything be... smothered?" Dick asks, a frightened tilt to his voice. Again, something only Bruce and maybe Damian would hear. Cass has more trouble picking up on verbal expressions of emotion.
"Depends on the dosage," Bruce replies helplessly, honestly. "Based on what I saw, I'd assume the range is between six to eight hours. Probably less for you. Granted, you've taken a large dose..."
Dick releases a shaky breath, fingers twitching in his restraints.
"Nightwing, a known side effect of the drug is that breathing can become manual. Keep your wits about you, remember to breathe. You will not feel pain to remind you if you forget. I'm... I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Dick mumbles, "it's all we can do to make sure Penguin doesn't get what he wants."
Dick takes a deep breath.
"Will you keep talking? About anything?" He asks, suddenly, voice choked.
"Of course," Bruce says. "Please give me updates on your symptoms so I can track them. We'll get through this, chum."
Dick laughs wetly, and nods his head. "Just no smell. So far."
Bruce smiles at him, it's a painful thing. "How about I tell you about how, during my time training to become Batman, a rogue group of Tibetan monks hunted me for forty days across the Himalayas until a group of Sherpas helped me shake them off?"
"That sounds made up, B," Dick laughs.
"I wish I was making it up. I was nearly desperate enough to climb Everest. At the time, I was traveling between teachers in every corner of Asia that I could get to, when suddenly, in the middle of the night, the monks attacked..."
-oOo-
"B, can you speak up?" Dick asks as Bruce is describing how one of the rogue monks had, no joke, ran across the river Bruce had previously desperately swam through.
So far, they've been left to their own devices, he hasn't even heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Just him and Dick, one losing his senses, the other fearful that he'll lose his mind watching it happen.
Bruce swallows thickly. "Of course. How're you holding up?"
"Smell and taste is completely gone. It's getting harder to hear. I dunno if my fingers are getting numb because of blood flow or not. Sight is still good as far as I can tell- wait..."
Bruce tenses, then Dick clicks his tongue with a shit-eating grin.
"That's just you being all doom and gloom over there."
"Chum..."
"I'm fine, just talk louder for a little while. I'm not about to keel over, grumpy. How long has it been?"
"Twelve minutes and forty six seconds," Bruce supplies.
"Ah," Dick says, sniffing. "Is Ozzie's prediction of thirty minutes looking likely to you?"
"Most victims with a similar dosage would have more extreme deterioration by now, so... it's looking likely."
"So the time I spend smothered will be shorter than 6 hours, you think?"
He asks it casually. Bruce hears the fear.
He wants to be gentle. He wants to lie.
But Dick needs to be prepared for the worst case scenarios. He needs to know what to expect, so he doesn't lose it when his time quote unquote smothered lasts longer than predicted.
"Everyone's bodies are different," Bruce says slowly, carefully. "It may be better to expect the worst case."
Dick's smile doesn't fall, it seems to freeze. "Okay."
I don't know if I can do eight hours, his smile screams.
You can. You must, Bruce hopes he manages to convey back.
All Bruce can hope is that Dick proves once again that he's the strongest person Bruce knows and holds on while they're forced to find a chance to escape, or more likely Tim notices they're missing soon if he hasn't already. Cass is in Gotham. With her, Tim, Damian, and maybe Jason (if Bruce is very hopeful) they could easily raid the building, especially with Alfred and Barbara organizing the charge.
They just need to wait.
"So what happened after the monk pulled a Jesus on you?" Dick asks, sharply, perhaps desperate to exist in a world that can reach his senses for as much time as he has left. It pulls Bruce out of his musing, and he hummed, realized he might have been too quiet, and nodded his head, raised his voice.
"Yes, so the monk ran across the water..."
-oOo-
Seventeen minutes.
"B? You think you could finger spell the story?"
"Yes," Bruce says, then stops, nods his head.
Yes, he signs instead.
-oOo-
Twenty-three minutes.
"Half the vision in my left eye is gone." His voice is choked. "I can't hear anything. I can't..."
Bruce stills, liquid dread pooling in his stomach.
You're okay, Bruce signs, using his left hand in big slow motions. Breathe.
"Don't tell me to breathe," Dick snaps, his voice straining in a nervous laugh, one that's openly raw and emotional, walls torn away by the loss of audio. Some of the words come out tilted, like they don't fit correctly in his mouth. "That's all I can think about. Stop reminding me please."
Ok, Bruce signs. What can I do to help?
Dick shrugs helplessly, face twisting as if he were in pain.
"I don't know," Dick replies. "I don't know. I... My right eye is also getting fuzzy. I can't feel up to my elbows and knees. B- B I'm scared."
Don't worry, Bruce signs, fighting to keep the tremors out of his hands at the admission. He switches from the limited signs and finger spellings that he can do with restrained hands to the signed code he taught Dick all those years ago. Hold Position. Wait For Reinforcements. Red Robin. Robin. Batgirl. Agent-A. Oracle.
Hood, Dick finishes with a flick of his wrist. The fingers didn't curl into the correct position, they moved slowly and uncoordinated.
Hood, Bruce agrees.
Dick sighs, something that sounds more like a whimper.
"We'll be laughing about this later, right?" Dick asks, voice so small.
Without question, Bruce returns to ASL finger spelling.
"Okay. Okay." Dick takes a deep breath, like he's afraid of it, and Bruce almost regrets pushing the issue so hard. "Keep... keep signing. I can still see."
-oOo-
Twenty-five minutes.
Dick scoffs, bitter and vicious. "You can stop now," he mumbles. "I can't see you."
Bruce freezes.
Then, frantically he stomps his boot on the ground, tap-tap-tapping.
A startled laugh tears out of Dick's throat. "Morse code?" He asks, baffled and thankful, he shifts as much as he can to press his lower body to the ground, his head falling back to the wall behind him with a soft thud. He doesn't react to it.
"Can still sorta feel, for... for a little while longer I think."
Bruce begins to tap out the story, but Dick interrupts him before he can make out the third word.
"B? I love you."
Bruce freezes, throat bobbing and something wounded escaping his chest.
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / - --- ---
-oOo-
Thirty-one minutes, on the dot.
"Can't... Feel... Much," Dick says, very carefully, but the words still slur. "M'sry. Just... j-just... chest. Jst'a little. I'm breathing. Don't wuh... worry. M'fine."
Dick sits slumped, practically boneless, against the wall. His diaphragm is the only part of him that moves more than weak twitching, Dick clearly putting a lot of focus into making sure he keeps it that way. Bruce can't imagine how terrifying it is, how alien it would feel, to drag air in and out and not feel the process.
It's terrifying to witness. Bruce has felt helpless many times in his life, and he's does not grow fonder of the emotion any time he encounters it.
But there's nothing he can do. Dick's entire world is pressed into some small portion of his chest, but that will be taken from him too, perhaps in a matter of moments, and soon Dick will be trapped in his own head, brutally disconnected from the world.
It's unnatural to witness. It's wrong to see Dick so uncoordinated, so disconnected in his own body.
Bruce, for the thousandth time, pulls on his restraints, and they go nowhere.
Tim, Bruce begs silently, where are you?.
Exactly one more minute passes, before Dick lets out a sob. "Can't... can't..." He breathes deeply, robotically, perhaps a bit too frequently out of desperation. "Fff-feel, B, B, I can't..."
He gasps, sobs again.
Bruce feels something in him shatter.
"Sorry..." he moans, "n-need to... to calm down... c-calm..."
"N-not even... that bad... Ah-honest-llly. Mm- I'm...." He gasps. "I c-can do this. I... can..."
Bruce closes his eyes, a tear escaping the seal of his cowl.
-oOo-
Dick begins crying twenty-six minutes into being deprived of all senses.
They're broken, warbled sounds, tears spilling.
Bruce can only watch as Dick desperately tries to keep breathing through his fear and sorrow.
"B," he chokes. "B, I'm... Done... I'm done... No more... B... Please... Please...."
And Bruce almost breaks.
Dick continues whimpering, mumbling, falling apart, choking on gasps and sobs, his slurred words becoming blunt claws, puncturing Bruce's ribs one by one.
"Stop- stop- please- no..."
"Chum," Bruce tries, the word warbled and strangled. He has no idea just what Dick is experiencing; has the drug also taken lucidity? Is he hallucinating? Is he floating in inescapable nothing with full knowledge that he has no power over what happens to his body from here, has no way to know if someone's messing with him, if his cries are as audible as they are, if his heart has stopped and maybe he's already dead? Survivors don't tend to remember the whole ordeal, but many of them describe entirely unique experiences for the bits they do remember.
"Chum, it's okay," Bruce continues, because how could he not?
It doesn't matter if he couldn't see or hear Bruce. Hell, it didn't matter if Bruce was free and Dick couldn't feel him rushing to him and gathering him in his arms. Sitting still and watching his son fall apart takes those claws and drags them down.
"You'll be okay," Bruce says again. "You're always okay," he says that more to himself, and he hates himself for it. "Remember the grounding techniques I taught you. Breathing patterns, first. If that doesn't work, try reciting those poems I taught you, take deep breaths at the end of every comma. You're strong, you're the strongest person I know. I know it hurts, I'm sorry, if I could trade places with you, I would. You don't deserve this, you don't. It's okay to be scared, I am too. Just hold on, hold on..."
Dick continues crying.
-oOo-
An hour in.
Besides Dick's ragged, almost robotic breathing, there's only silence.
He'd stopped crying, stuttering words of apology, a little while ago. He's talked himself through one of the breathing exercises, and thankfully seems to have reached some sort of mental flow-state.
The mental state Dick's dug himself into is one Bruce taught him to fall back into in cases of extreme and inescapable torture. It tears at Bruce, that this is torture. His son is being tortured in front of him.
And he can do nothing but sit there and count Dick's breathing too.
-oOo-
An hour and a half, roughly.
The heavy door suddenly opens, startling Bruce from his own flow-state, of sorts. He'd been meditating with Dick's thankfully steady breathing, floating in terror and pride. Because he's proud of Dick, he always is. He's surviving this better than Bruce could imagine himself doing, and that's including the palpable fear as each sense faded, that's including the long and agonizing breakdown thirty minutes in.
Selfishly, he hopes it's because Dick should know, should remember, that Bruce is here. He's not really alone, even if it feels like it.
But he startles out of these thoughts, twisting his head towards the opening door, hope fluttering in his chest...
But it's a Lounge employee. Three of them, actually.
Bruce glares at them.
And his glare sharpens as Penguin waddles in, his cane clinking on the cement floor with every limping step. Penguin meets Batman's narrowed eyes, and grins.
"How's the accommodations? Comfortable?" He asks.
Bruce growls.
"Mm," he continues. "Not very grateful. Perhaps, I should remind you of the stakes here."
Dick's handling this better than Cobblepot expected, which spells all sorts of things. He nods at his employees, and the three of them chuckle and go to his helpless son.
One of them has a bolt cutter, and Bruce feels his entire body seize up.
"Your fight is with me," Bruce snarls, as the tool is twisted over one of the rings keeping Dick's wrists hanging limply above his head. Dick doesn't react to the crowding around his body, he bonelessly rolls with each jostle, every brush against his body. The lenses of his mask just stare sightlessly into some far off distance. "Whatever you have planned, it's me you want."
"Actually," Cobblepot replies as the first ring snaps, "my fight is with your other bird brat. Red Robin. Seems not all of us can get what we want tonight."
"What are you doing with him?" Bruce demands, digging deep for his anger, his batglare as Dick has so lovingly named so long ago.
The next ring snaps, Dick's left arm flops down and Dick doesn't even twitch, his breathing doesn't stutter. He has no idea what's happening.
Bruce was so foolish to think nothing would happen while Dick was under, that Cobblepot wouldn't raise the stakes.
"Perhaps, I should demonstrate what I'm going to do to that rat you're protecting," Cobblepot replies smoothly, meeting Bruce's glare without flinching, almost like this is all one annoying headache for him and nothing more. He's always been one of Bruce's smarter villains, his downfall usually brought by using his own ego and self-importance against him.
He wasn't afraid of a chained and shackled bat.
But he should be afraid of what Bruce would do to him the second he's freed, especially if he touches one more hair on Dick's head.
"Killing Nightwing won't get you the information you're after," Bruce snarls. "You'll be losing your bargaining chip."
Penguin smirks.
"Oh I won't kill him. It's not every day you have a Nightwing who's finally shut up and still, completely at your mercy - there's ways to hurt him, hurt you without killing him."
The intended purpose of Little Death isn't lost on Bruce. Bruce yanks on the restraints, snarling, as the chains on Dick's legs are snapped.
Completely open and untethered, the larger goon roughly grabs Dick's ankle and drags him away from the wall. Dick's unresisting, vulnerable, as he's positioned on his side.
And then, with a click of Penguin's cane on the cement, one of the goons kicks Dick brutally in the stomach.
Dick doesn't react, doesn't flinch, nothing but his body jolting with force and gravity and his breath being forced out against his pattern.
But the pattern corrects itself, probably without Dick even knowing. Hopefully without Dick even knowing.
"Penguin," Bruce snarls, straining. "I'll make you regret touching him."
"You'll put me in a body cast?" He laughs. Another kick. "You know what will happen, Batman?" Another kick, this time to Dick's shoulder. "Even if you make me regret, I'll still get what I want eventually. It's the same old game," The thug keeps kicking and Dick doesn't even know that his body is just taking it. "I'll be let out, my associates will find the rat, and we'll keep playing cat and mouse until something breaks. You can stop this, Batman," he nods at Dick, at the brutal beating, "I just want to know where the whistleblower is, and this can all be over. You'll be released, and you can take your boy back to your little cave and lick your pride. You think this is how I want to be spending my time? I'm not like those other freaks you fight, I'm a business man, and this is hindering progress."
Something snaps, something in Dick's chest, and Bruce screams.
"Stop it," he snarls.
Cobblepot raises his palm, and the thugs immediately stop. One of them has the nerve to look bored, as if they expected a lot more excitement from beating up a completely vulnerable, and totally incomprehensive body.
Dick breathes. He breathes. But they sound like they're being dragged through a grinder. There's a new labor on his lungs, and Bruce prays to God the broken rib hasn't pierced anything. Dick breathes through it, no regard for the state of his body. He doesn't know.
"I don't have all day, Batman," Cobblepot sneers.
Bruce grinds his teeth. "I won't tell you where the whistleblower is. You know I won't. Stop this pointless cruelty."
Cobblepot regards him for a moment, then his eyes narrow and his nose scrunches up. "You're right. I know you won't. Rmm. But if you won't, perhaps one of your birds will. Maybe I'll let Nightwing suffer the comedown before dosing him again, and he'll spill."
Bruce and Dick won't be here long enough for that to happen. They can't be.
Tim should know they're missing. He'll be here soon. Tim always finds Bruce.
Bruce glares at him - it's all he can do - and Cobblepot turns to his employees. "Let's leave Batman to stew in his stubbornness, and how Nightwing will continue to pay for it."
They make to leave, Cobblepot snorting in amusement when one of the thugs thoughtlessly steps on Dick's hand.
"We'll be back, Batman."
-oOo-
Three hours. Dick's body gives a full body jolt and an agonized gasp.
Bruce jerks, coming to full attention, hopeful and fearful that the effects of Little Death are waning, but Dick just continues to roughly and heavily pant.
"B...?"
"I'm here, I'm here, can you hear-"
"Am... Am I dead?"
Bruce freezes.
"Forgot, I... Was I breathing? I don't... remember, I..."
He takes deep breaths, filling his lungs with more air than he probably should, especially with his ribs, but when he releases his breath he just takes another.
"I can't... mmm'I breathing? I don't... I don't think... so?"
"Nightwing," Bruce calls, raising his voice, hopeful and scared.
Dick doesn't answer, just forces more and more air into his lungs, desperately, probably searching for that confirmation that he's doing something he can't feel, not finding it.
Dick begins to panic.
"I don't... B? B, please! How luh'long...?"
His breathing is getting worse, he's forgetting to inhale after his words.
"Please, please, please, please, nonononono," the pleading runs dry, no air to fuel.
Another gasp, small and weak. Dick's trying, he's trying so hard, and Bruce feels true terror. He can't... he can't watch Dick die in front of him.
Not again.
Dick's body twitches, his lips moving breathlessly, in the matter of seconds his lips begin to shift hue.
"Breathe," Bruce pleads, "DAMMIT."
He's not breathing, he's not breathing, he's not breathing. What went wrong? What triggered this? There's has to be something-
"Nightwing!" He shouts, he screams. "Breathe- oh God, chum please- Dick-"
The name slips out. Bruce very nearly doesn't care. Dick isn't breathing, his blue lips numbly shaping words that Bruce can't read.
Except a name. His name.
Bruce.
Dad.
"God no, god- COBBLEPOT!"
He twists against the restraints, he's sure his wrists and ankles are bruised and raw now under the suit. He doesn't care.
"COBBLEPOT!"
Why isn't he coming?!
Bruce can't do this. He can't do this. He'll have to find a way to protect the whistleblower before Penguin kills him. He'll worry about that later, he doesn't care right now-
Suddenly, the door bursts open, and-
And it's Tim.
And Jason.
And Cass.
They each look like they've been through a fight, but their wide eyed looks and tense bodies show that hearing Bruce scream had rattled them more than anything else.
They came. They came just in time.
"He's not breathing," Bruce says frantically, jerking his chin to Dick. "Help your brother first. Little Death."
Jason swears. Of course he knows what that is.
And they all spring into action. Tim runs to Dick first, already scrambling to breathe for him. Jason looks startled that Tim got there before him, but processes quickly that Tim made the decision that Jason could better handle getting the restraints off Bruce. He rushed towards Bruce, cursing and snarling under his breath, hands shaking as he notices the welded shut restraints and pulls out some bat-grade metal files. They wouldn't be as quick as bolt cutters, but they're damn near close.
"Penguin has a neutralizer," Bruce remembers out loud. He meets Cass's eyes, and she nods immediately, scrambling out the door.
In a matter of minutes, Jason saws through the final bits of metal keeping Bruce away from his eldest. He stumbles to his feet, and tries to bolt towards Dick, but Jason stops him.
"Let Red work," Jason says, sounding shaken.
Bruce gasps, then nods, then does the only thing he can do and drags Jason into a bone crushing hug. Jason shouts, surprised, stiff as a board, but hesitantly returns the embrace with a few awkward pats.
"Hood," Tim wheezes behind them, "switch."
Jason's out of Bruce's arms before Bruce can pull away himself.
Bruce forces himself to remain back while Jason trades places with an exhausted and winded looking Tim; his smart, beautiful boy, who has tear tracks running down his cheeks.
Jason picks up breathing for Dick, and Bruce feels himself stumble at the sickening sight of it. Tim, as if spurred by instinct alone, ducks under Bruce's arm and steadies him.
"Can we trust the antidote?" Tim asks.
Bruce doesn't know. He's willing to try anything if it means Dick will start breathing on his own again.
"Robin's outside with the batmobile," Tim continues when Bruce can't bring himself to answer. "If he doesn't start breathing on his own..."
They have to pray that the antidote works.
They have to pray the "antidote" doesn't finish Dick off.
"He's not breathing," Jason gasps, pulling away, "where's the shadow?"
"Back," Cass announces, rushing back into the room, a smear of blood across the jaw of her mask. Bruce supposes he's not going to be the one responsible for putting Cobblepot in a body cast this time.
In her hand is a vial of opaque, amber tinted liquid, and a syringe. Bruce remembers looking into the experimental antidote, it at least looks exactly how it should.
"Hand it over," Bruce demands, and she surrenders it quickly, her hands trembling as the lenses of her eyes turn towards Dick and pause there.
Jason continues breathing into Dick's still lungs. From the reports on the antidote, its nullification of Little Death spreads from its initial injection point, which means the most effective place to pierce the needle would be through Dick's chest, as close to his lungs as he could get.
Tim seems to understand the requirements, in a blink of an eye, Bruce has the antidote in one hand, and a batarang in the other. He slides heavily on his knees to Dick's side, careful not to interrupt Jason's focus, and slices through a patch of Dick's suit with the weapon. He kneels back and fills the syringe, feeling sick to his stomach that he has no idea how clean the needle is itself, and places it above Dick's chest.
Penguin wouldn't want to kill Nightwing, he wanted Bruce to suffer longer than this.
Cass wouldn't have picked up a dirty needle.
He plunges it in, right between two of Dick's bruised ribs.
The liquid goes in smoothly. It's almost anticlimactic how smooth the process is completed. He pulls out the syringe and holds onto it for dear life, breath baited as Jason pulls back and they both listen for just a heartbeat. A moment.
How quickly does the antidote work? Why can't he seem to think of a number?
His skull feels numb and far away.
It feels like he's watching a part of his soul flicker out, wither away.
His lips are too blue.
"Shit," Jason keens, moving to breathe for Dick again-
When Dick finally inhales.
It's a pained, agonized sounding thing.
It sounds like pure magic.
"B?" Dick asks, still limp, voice weak and slurred, but breathing. "B- I- I my chest- my skin- it- dad-"
Shit. The comedown.
"It hurts," Dick sobs.
And Bruce quickly gathers him up and rushes with the rest of his children back to the batmobile, not looking back for a second, as Dick begins to openly weep at the agony Bruce couldn't be happier to know he was feeling.
-oOo-
Bruce doesn't get to sit and brood at Dick's bedside for as long as he would have liked. Dick's in and out of lucidity for hours after their rescue, and most touches, sounds, and sights are immediately overwhelming as expected. Bruce would have been content to place a chair at the other side of his room - Alfred has deemed him worthy of bedrest upstairs once most the trashing settled down - and watch like one of the many gargoyles looming over Gotham...
But Dick's siblings wanted their turns.
It's always hard for them — seeing Dick like this. It's not lost on Bruce how much... larger than life Dick can appear. Perhaps it's the lingering hero-worship, particularly in Tim and Jason's cases. To them, he's the first Robin; untouchable and better. They've both seen Dick at his lowest plenty of times, but Dick does such a good job at making people not worry about him in the aftermath that you could almost forget how hurt he was in the first place.
Damian is a different story, he sees Dick as a steadfast parental figure. Parental being the stressed word that used to curl something selfish and guilty in Bruce's stomach, but after getting to know Damian, after learning the things he and Dick went through together, it's no doubt in Bruce's mind whose legacy Damian will most honor as he grows. Out of all Bruce's children, Damian has been the only Robin for Dick, who understands what Robin means to Dick. It's hard for the boy to see through the rose colored glasses and realize that sometimes his Batman is not immortal.
Cass sees through the cracks, same as Bruce, but she doesn't need the double decade of experience and the added context of what he'd been like as a child to be able to read through the facades. Dick tends to avoid her when he's struggling, and that's a weapon she proudly wields when she determines he's hurting and hiding it. She doesn't like to see anyone hurt, especially her brothers, but in times such as these, she will assign herself as the resident Dick Grayson lie detector until he admits what's hurting, physically and emotionally.
Once it's Bruce's next turn to sit and watch by Dick's beside, watching him sleep, restless, several hours have passed since they've left the ransacked Iceberg Lounge behind.
It was a dicey few hours. The first handful was filled with Dick screaming, sobbing, finding no relief as they couldn't risk any pain medicine or sedation. The slightest touches, the barest brushes, must have felt like fire. The lights have long since been dimmed, and a strict no talking rule has been ordered.
Now he's just... restless. He knocked out a bit back, but his body keeps twitching and jerking, whines escaping his raw throat beneath the nasal cannula supplying him the oxygen he's been so terrifyingly without for dangerously close to too long.
He doesn't know how much longer Dick will be out, but luckily it seems he's out of the darkest of the woods.
Bruce wishes he could lean forward and grasp his hand, squeeze and trace his thumb over his knuckles.
He doesn't want to risk it.
"Bruce...?"
His eyes snap up from Dick's hand to his bleary blues, narrowed not out of emotion, but probably because the near darkness is still somehow too bright. But his eyes are open, and they're meeting Bruce's.
"Hey, chum," Bruce practically hears himself coo, his body leaning forward as close as he can get without touching him, he keeps his voice very carefully lowered. "How're you feeling?"
Dick winces, eyes squeezing shut for a moment with a slight hiss. They open again, a bit more focused. "Penguin was right, the comedown is worse than the actual drug." His voice is hoarse, which makes sense as he'd been screaming it raw just a little while ago.
I disagree, Bruce wants to say. While you were smothered, I felt like I couldn't breathe with you. At least the agony of you leaving the woods meant you were alive.
He doesn't say so.
"You know when your leg falls asleep and the blood starts to come back and it's just like this numb tingling agony that makes you afraid to even twitch," Dick asks, and Bruce hums. "That's my whole body right now."
"I'm sorry, Dick."
"Nah," Dick smiles weakly. "It was the right thing to do. I barely remember most of it anyway. Things got fuzzy by the time you got to the part where you and the Sherpas lost the monks in a pass."
Roughly three minutes before Dick could no longer feel Bruce stomping out the story, letter by letter, with the heel of his boot.
"What do you remember?"
Dick shrugs, then freezes with a sharp huff of discomfort. "It's hard to describe. You know how blindness is like, the lack of sight, not blackness. I remember that kind of nothing, but it was everywhere, and... suffocating. I was drowning in it. I think I had enough wits to think to myself, but it's all just... flashes? I don't know, I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for-"
"I remember-" Dick continues suddenly, barreling on, like if he stops he won't say it "- feeling really scared, at the end. Nothing else, just scared. I was terrified I just died in front of you, that I failed you. I couldn't tell nothing apart from being dead which fucking sucked, you know?"
Bruce feels like he's taken a punch to the gut. "Dick, please don't say that," he gasps before he can think better. "Don't tell me you were more afraid that you died in front of me than the possibility you've died at all."
Dick freezes. A deer caught in headlights. His face goes careful, his voice level. Bruce can see the panic, he always sees Dick's panic.
"It's not like that."
Bruce wants to crumble.
"It's not, Bruce. Don't put words in my mouth."
He wants to gather up his aching, hurting boy, and never let the word touch him ever again. He wants to stand up and trash the whole cave in a rage, let the boiling failure tear everything apart, because how has he done this to his boy? How has that perfect little child that loved so loudly and protected so fiercely turned into a brave and wonderful young man who forgot to learn how to love and protect himself the same way?
"B, not now, please," Dick pleads, and Bruce blinks a few tears from his eyes. He hasn't realized he'd gone still, retreating in his thoughts and allowing the emotions to leak out of his eyes. "Don't do this to yourself, don't blame yourself. Of course I was afraid I was dead, of course, I just- Bruce can you stop looking at me like that?" He looks frantic, close to tears. Dick's eyes always glowed whenever he cried, the blue so piercing and raw, it's electric. "Dad, can you just hug me already?"
Dick wields that title like a weapon, similar to how Bruce wields chum.
It works every time.
"I'll hurt you," Bruce tries fruitlessly to reject the request.
"Dad."
Damn him.
Bruce carefully gathers Dick into his arms, mindful of sudden moves for both the lingering effects of the comedown, as well as Dick's cracked ribs; the world slots into place. Dick flinches at the touch, no matter how slow and gentle Bruce goes, but his hands grasp at Bruce's back like bars, a refusal to let Bruce pull away.
"I'm okay," Dick says, when they're both wrapped in each other's arms, Dick stiff as a board but slowly relaxing the longer they sit without moving. "I'm okay. We're okay."
"I almost lost you."
"Never. You'll never get rid of me."
"I couldn't do anything."
"But you did," Dick says, clutching to Bruce firmly, not allowing them to part, his words brushing against Bruce's neck while Bruce's breaths comb through his tangled bed-ridden hair. "I was so scared, Bruce, I remember nearly giving up, but then I felt something, a pinprick in my chest, and I knew it was you, and I was safe."
"Cass found the antidote, it was your brothers who kept you breathing-"
"You can't seriously be trying to convince me that you abandoned me for a second," Dick laughs wetly. Bruce can feel tears on the collar of his shirt.
"I'll never abandon you, but I failed you," Bruce confirms, "I will not allow it to happen again."
Dick hums, surrendering. "Okay, Batman. God, you're worse than I am."
Bruce feels a smile twitch on his lips. "A difficult feat."
"Asshole."
Bruce laughs.
It's a choked, sobbing thing, but neither of them acknowledge it.
They just hold each other, the world pinpointing on the non-existent space between them.
After a few minutes, both have collected themselves enough for Dick to ask hesitantly: "You gonna finish that story?"
"Hmm," Bruce grunts. "Shall I start at or before you last remember?"
"At. Wait, maybe slightly before. Before the Morse code. I can't believe you thought to do that."
Bruce hums. "Move over, my old man back can't handle this position."
"Ugh," Dick groans, finally letting Bruce pull away, his eyes sparkling. "Fine."
He scoots over to the opposite side of the mattress, an extra wide one to be clear. For a bunch of Gotham vigilantes, it would surprise anyone to learn how often they ended up curled up together after days like this. Bruce has more than enough room to make himself comfortable at Dick's side. In fact, there's enough room for him to lay next to him without touching.
But Dick doesn't allow that. He wraps around Bruce's arm, lays his head on Bruce's shoulder, and sighs in pain tinted content. The contact hurts, but he's going to push through it to get the exact kind of comfort he wants.
Only Dick Grayson.
"Alright, so, let's start at where I, half frozen and delirious from exhaustion ran into the group of Sherpas, or well, when they came across me nearly buried in a mound of snow..."
Dick and Damian Week 2026 Prompt Submissions are Open!
For our first week, we had prompts set up in advance, but from now on, we’ll be taking submissions for prompts you’re interested in seeing and/or want to create for!
Fill out the form with your ideas, even if you only have one in mind - if you have more than the requested five on the form, feel free to submit another!
💙 Prompt Submission Form 💚
Here’s the previous list if you need inspiration or would like to see certain prompts added again!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
you're such a sweet birdie (when you're not playing) (1 of ?)
Summary:
It happened on some God-forsaken normal Friday night.
"We were patrolling," Damian croaked, his father at the medical cot, cowl pulled down and eyes flaming with worry. "We passed Robinson Park. That's when I felt the tranquilizer dart hit my neck. I heard... Robin shout."
Hi! I just want to say I read through a lot of your batfam fics and oh my gosh you write the characters so well! 😭😭 the comfort I’ve been wanting to find about them for a long time
Omg thank you!!!
These characters have been haunting me for years, and I always have Thoughts about them that I just have to get down. It's always a treat to hear people enjoy what I write. Thank you for telling me!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
too old to cry, too young to die, too rabid for the pack
(1 of 4) and (2 of 4)
Summary:
"If you're trying to make me hate you, Damian, that's not going to happen. What happened to Alfred and that boy wasn't your fault-"
Anger swells in Damian's belly. Familiar, back to the beginning.
"Then you're as stupid as you look."
-
Whumptober Day(s) 21, 26, 29, 31
Realized I forgot to post the link to this fic here, like before, if you want to read but don't have an ao3 account, you can ask me to reblog with the full chapters here.
Also, please, consider rebloging and leaving a comment. Likes mean a lot but fanfiction isn't what it used to be on Tumblr, and the best way to show appreciation for it is to share it around and say so! This isn't a pressure for comments or reblogs, just a reminder that any author will tell you that those make warmer feelings.
Fourth chapter of too old to cry may not come out today, I had planned to write it on the bus yesterday, but the bus came late and I ended up sleeping the entire ride lmao
too old to cry, too young to die, too rabid for the pack
(1 of 4) and (2 of 4)
Summary:
"If you're trying to make me hate you, Damian, that's not going to happen. What happened to Alfred and that boy wasn't your fault-"
Anger swells in Damian's belly. Familiar, back to the beginning.
"Then you're as stupid as you look."
-
Whumptober Day(s) 21, 26, 29, 31
Realized I forgot to post the link to this fic here, like before, if you want to read but don't have an ao3 account, you can ask me to reblog with the full chapters here.
Also, please, consider rebloging and leaving a comment. Likes mean a lot but fanfiction isn't what it used to be on Tumblr, and the best way to show appreciation for it is to share it around and say so! This isn't a pressure for comments or reblogs, just a reminder that any author will tell you that those make warmer feelings.
too old to cry, too young to die, too rabid for the pack
(1 of 4) and (2 of 4)
Summary:
"If you're trying to make me hate you, Damian, that's not going to happen. What happened to Alfred and that boy wasn't your fault-"
Anger swells in Damian's belly. Familiar, back to the beginning.
"Then you're as stupid as you look."
-
Whumptober Day(s) 21, 26, 29, 31
Realized I forgot to post the link to this fic here, like before, if you want to read but don't have an ao3 account, you can ask me to reblog with the full chapters here.
Also, please, consider rebloging and leaving a comment. Likes mean a lot but fanfiction isn't what it used to be on Tumblr, and the best way to show appreciation for it is to share it around and say so! This isn't a pressure for comments or reblogs, just a reminder that any author will tell you that those make warmer feelings.
