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this bird has flown (part 1)

word count: 4k

dick grayson/ nightwing-centric

tw for mentions of suicide and injury!

a/n: this is my first dc fan fic and it has been sitting in my drafts for a while so pls be patient with me! if some of the characterisations seem a bit off (cough cough bruce) please be aware that it’s either for the plot or because it’ll make sense later on :) this fic is the product of me binge watching house md

When he stood on a ledge high enough, the gunfight sounded dull. All 165 decibels reverberated throughout the glowing streets of Gotham like the beating of a bat’s wings, raising the hair on the back of his neck. The suit the man ahead of him wore, he was sure he could wholly call his own, but his motivation, his money, his power… that’s where it became more complicated. Nobody gave him a cowl and told him that he had a duty.

That was where he found his autonomy.

Dick tore his gaze from the figure crouching on a further roof. He was waiting for a signal, a movement as insignificant as the rotation of a wrist, which would determine the timing and coordination of a potentially disastrous manoeuvre. Well, it sounded quite severe when he put it like that. His grapple hook got damaged in an explosive criminal pursuit the previous night, now tonight he was relying on Batman’s. Lucky him, right? He just needed to leap off his ledge, turn, and then propel himself off an adjacent rooftop so that he’d be in the correct position and angle for Batman to reach him. It was the classic ‘Batman and Robin’ trick, since apparently teenage sidekicks weren’t allowed sharp equipment. As it turns out, that rule only lasted one sidekick.

Oh, the perks of being the oldest child.

It was funny how often he faced death before even getting close to a weapon in these patrols. Well, he’d never die, but an unpracticed person could likely slip and fall whilst doing even the simplest of stunts. Dick couldn’t die from plummeting to his death though.

It just wasn’t what happened to vigilantes.

Except it did, and it happened to him.

Well, almost.

Vivid white walls and fluorescent lighting almost burned Dick’s retinas before he could process where he was. The ringing in his ears molded into a hurricane of instructions and beeping. Something about a Dr Markman upping the morphine and someone else needing to alert the something-ologist about his stats.

When he opened his eyes again, Bruce was standing over him with a hardened expression, evidently carved by the gentle blade of a severe lack of self preservation. He appeared to be speaking but the sounds which reached Dick’s ears were tangled and frayed like knotted wool. Dick must’ve blinked at him a few times, the void of his pupils glassy and blank, before he drifted into the fog of unconsciousness.

After some hours, or even days, he awoke to a nauseating pain as if he were hit by a freight train. A doctor- Dr Markman, who was seemingly on a mission to fill him to the ears with every nerve-numbing narcotic, explained that he was experiencing acute kidney failure from his medication, in an extensive, monotonous drawl. Without another word, a pair of gloved hands grasped Dick’s arm and a sedative was pushed into his bloodstream. As if it were routine, his vision faded to black before he could protest.

When it came time to deliver an explanation, the doctors informed him that his ‘suicide attempt’ left the bones in his pelvis, legs, and spine shattered. In a surprising change in events, Dick was made audience to conversation about his landing. Apparently most people would’ve died on impact. Quite frankly, he considered it a pretty appalling reaction to this so-called ‘suicide attempt’.

Bruce’s arrival was roughly thirty minutes after Dick’s briefing. The man had seemingly pushed through the door before he knew what he was doing, and the moment his pale, bloodshot eyes met Dick’s, he knew that Bruce had taken the emotional damage of the fall.

“What happened?” he spoke, his voice rough.

Hello. How are you? Are you ok? I’m so glad you’re alive. I was so worried. Save that one for the trampoline next time, yeah?

“Apparently I attempted suicide,” Dick shrugged, “God, don’t you hate it when that happens?”

Bruce thinned his lips, agitatedly pushing a hand through his dishevelled hair, “You’ve never failed that jump before, not even in training.”

“The art of spontaneity is that you don’t know it’s coming.”

“Dick.”

Dick frowned, his head falling onto his pillow with a soft ‘thump’.

“I don’t know, B.” he dragged his hand over his face, “I don’t know why I got it wrong. My body just…” Dick sighed dejectedly, “I was dizzy for a bit and then it just wouldn’t respond to me.”

The mattress dipped as Bruce sat on the end of the bed, his head hung in sullen contempt. The quietness that lingered in the wake of Dick’s confession wasn’t alien to them. Like the somber clanging of a church bell on remembrance day, the avoidance of eye contact, the resigned sigh and clasped hands of Bruce Wayne indicated a silent cry for solace and companionship. Dick knew it all too well, but he had no solution to this.

“Has it happened before?” Bruce spoke eventually in a softer tone. After a heartbeat, Dick shook his head.

“Sure, I’ve felt dizzy, but I’ve never just stopped moving like that.”

He lifted his head to look down at the bandages and metal supports on his legs.

“God, I hope I can still walk after this,” he muttered.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, “Did they tell you that you ended up falling five stories?”

“Only five?” Dick grimaced, he had fallen from a much higher height than that. , “How’d I manage that?”

“You fell onto the roof of a grocery store,” Bruce murmured, “you got lucky this once.”

Dick snorted, “Can’t wait for next time.”

An ambiguous silence settled in the room.

Dick understood it then that Bruce knew something he didn’t.

But that wasn’t the problem, Bruce’s secrets were inevitable like the passing of time. The issue was that Dick was in a few too many casts for anyone to feel optimistic about his recovery.

“I understand that I might not be Nightwing again,” Dick spoke gently, his voice impossibly fragile against the weight of the possibility.

Bruce raised his head, looking pained.

A sense of understanding settled in Dick’s mind, and he smiled softly. “If I can’t walk, I can hack. Babs can show me the ropes. Shit happens, just because you were there doesn’t mean you were supposed to do the impossible and stop it from happening.” he turned his head to stare at the ceiling, “I lost control of myself, I could’ve been a serious liability. Maybe it’s better for everyone if I man the tech instead.”

Bruce stood silently, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder in unspoken acknowledgment.

“I’ll let the others know that they can see you now.”

With that, he left the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft ‘click’.

🦇

Tim was the first to visit, hands clutching a bouquet of lilies.

“Bruce told me you… fell?” Tim frowned, scrutinising Dick’s bruised body.

“You wouldn’t be able to tell, would you?” Dick quipped, knocking on the thick surface of one of his casts.

Tim hummed as he sat on the side of the bed, “Yeah, real discreet.”

It was nice to have someone around him who smiled. His nurse, who he discovered was named Valerie, didn’t smile, and Bruce sure as hell didn’t. Despite Tim’s satirical tone, his face was riddled with concern and underlining confusion. It made sense, after all, Dick’s whole thing was acrobatics.

Tim reached behind Dick to adjust his pillows, allowing Dick to see him more clearly, before placing the lilies to the side. Faintly, behind the beeping of the monitors and the flapping of the curtains in front of the open window, a clock ticked quietly. Time seemed to slow down as Tim contemplated his brother’s injuries, his forefinger and thumb straddling his chin in intense thought. Dick was incredible at bullshitting, it was to him what the piano was to Ravel. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be honest, it was that the little lies here and there meant the little mishaps slid by easier.

The first time Dick lied to Bruce, it had been after a particularly harsh punch was delivered during training which Dick failed to dodge. Bruce had looked visibly concerned, kneeling down to check for bruises and tears. Dick told him it hadn’t hurt, swallowing the lump in his throat. Just like that, the stress seemed to melt from Bruce’s face like thawing ice.

Since then, the lies got bigger as the accidents got bigger. Dick was allowed to make mistakes, he never lied about what he got wrong, he just wasn’t allowed to be a burden. 16 years later, he still kept himself to that. He wasn’t sure how he’d bullshit his family about the severity of his accident, especially when he had a witness and empirical evidence of his injuries, but he’d bloody well try.

The last thing his family needed was distress because of something he did.

“If it helps, I don’t understand either.” Dick spoke.

Tim shook his head, “Something isn’t right…” he pushed a hand through his hair, “you don’t just… miss jumps. You’ve never done that. Ever.”

“You’d be impressed with what I’m capable of, Timbo,” Dick nudged his side with a bandaged hand, “watch me burn pasta the next time Alfred, God forbid, takes a vacation.”

Tim snorted, “You do that anyway, remember when you tried to make a birthday cake for Damian?”

Dick groaned, laughing despite himself, “That was an honest attempt, ok? And I’d never needed to bake before that.”

Amused, Tim patted Dick’s shoulder, “And you’ll never need to bake again,” he assured him, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Meanie.” Dick smiled.

Tim left after a while of chatter, his concern eventually forming into content and relief. Jason was out of state, but helpfully informed Dick that he could make a celebrity appearance if he so felt like it. It was a school night for Damian, and God knows where the girls were. Dick preferred it this way, less fuss, less stress. He’d be discharged soon anyway, there’s only so much healing the doctors can assist him with.

🦇

The next morning, Dr Markman arrived with news, and a small part of Dick wished Bruce had put him out of his misery when he had found him, limbs splayed and bent like a mosquito on a car windshield.

It was 8am, far too early to be bothered with anything other than hospital cafeteria jelly. The nurses had adjusted the pillows again the previous evening, so Dick had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling. Valerie had closed the window too, and suddenly the room felt dead again. No distant birdsong or chatter, no gentle breeze, just the buzz of the air conditioning and the humming of the monitors.

“With extensive physical therapy,” Dr Markman spoke boredly, “you may regain some of your mobility.”

“Wait, wait,” Dick strained his neck to see the woman at his door, “may? some? How extensive?”

Dr Markman frowned, squinting as she flipped a page in her binder, “You said you were an… acrobat, correct?”

Dick nodded, though he wasn’t sure if the woman would see it from her angle.

“Richard-”

“Dick,” he interrupted quickly, “the only person who called me Richard was my grandmother.” Weakly, he laughed.

“Dick.” Dr Markman sighed, “To put it plainly, you won't be performing again. There was too much damage to the pelvis and nerves in the surrounding area,” Dick closed his eyes, fighting back the rising dread in his chest, “but you could be able to gain some control of your lower limbs again.”

“Okay.”

Dick took a deep breath, concentrating on the thudding of his heart against his ribcage.

“Your father is in the waiting area, would you like me to inform him as well?”

Dick exhaled shakily.

“Okay.”

🦇

Beep.

Valerie hadn’t returned yet, and the window was still closed. There were 74 black specks per ceiling tile. You know who would know that? Someone who had been stuck staring at the ceiling since Valerie hadn’t returned to help him sit up. He’d eaten breakfast after Dr Markman had broken the news, and it had gone down as well as trying to push an inflatable ball to the bottom of a swimming pool. Most likely, he wouldn’t see another soul until lunchtime, unless his family decided to rock up.

Except, that was the issue. Dr Markman had told him that Bruce was outside.

That was 2 hours ago.

Where was he?

Dread curled and gripped Dick like talons. Had it upset Bruce that much? Did Bruce no longer want anything to do with him? Was he upset that he wasted so many years on him? That was it. Wasn’t it? Dick was a waste of time, and a waste of energy. Over the years, Bruce had poured his effort into making Dick strong enough to bring justice to people, and this is exactly how it turned out for him. Guilt gnawed at Dick until he felt bile deep up his throat. There was nothing he could do. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Pack it up, everyone. Time to go home! Nightwing was no more.

When darkness fell over Gotham that night, and Bruce still hadn’t turned up, Dick accepted that nothing would be the same again. Valerie insisted that he should face the ceiling at night and keep the pillows under his head. It was better for his spine, she said. Valerie didn’t get it though, and when the tears started flowing at around 1am, not stopping until Dick’s puffy, red, and weary eyes fluttered shut at 6am, the pillow became damp with the thought that he was no longer any man’s son.

🦇

Apparently Damian and Steph were on an overseas mission, or something like that. That’s what Jason told him, anyway.

Dick hadn’t heard from Bruce in 3 days. Almost too predictably, Jason had said, “Try 6 years.”

Yeah. Ok.

Jason had a new scar, just nicking his eyebrow. It was badass, and he seemed a little proud of it. It was strange to think that Dick was missing battle scars now.

His brother slumped into a seat near his bedside, groaning slightly as he stretched his legs out. “You look like shit, Dickiebird.” Jason muttered, resting his head on his hand.

Dick exhaled a humorless laugh, “Don’t worry, once these casts are off, I’ll outshine you.”

“Ouch,” Jason drawled, raising an eyebrow, “but I wasn’t talking about that.

They watched one another for a moment, letting each other orient themselves. Jason had always been the angsty one, Dick was always the go-to man. Things had never been this backwards before.

“You,” Jason jabbed a finger in Dick’s direction, “look like you haven’t slept a wink, and you look more deflated than a geriatric’s balls.”

“Gross.” Dick muttered, lips quirked in a small smile.

Jason grinned, “If you think that’s gross, you should see yourself.”

“Ouch,” Dick rolled his eyes, “can you just get to the part where you tell me Bruce gets over it?”

“He doesn’t.” Jason said it like it was obvious, receiving a scowl. “That doesn’t mean you can’t, though,” he added. Dick laughed softly, despite himself.

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Jason looked unimpressed, “You’re welcome to follow my lead, but with your whole sucking up to the Batshit ‘no killing’ thing, I didn’t think it’d tickle your fancy.”

“No, that… that makes sense.” Dick sighed.

It was weird being vulnerable around Jason, the questioning feeling that he could completely see through Dick and that he had no idea what he was doing switched in Dick’s mind like a pendulum. It was like Jason had well-meaning sympathy for him, with no clue of what to do with it. It was still more transparent than what Dick knew how to deal with. He guessed it was his turn to be the problem child. It was overdue, right?

Adults warned boys about taxes, girls, and money when he was growing up. Dick reckoned that inexplicably having an accident that leaves you practically immobile just had to make it on the list. Sure, death was the big one. Dangerous stunts can kill you! That was fine, that was the fun of it. Now, dangerous stunts can lose you everything, see that might’ve made him think twice. Guess all that was left for him was to pass it onto the next generation.

He’d tell Damian if he’d ever come over.

“I’ll be discharged in the next week or so, do you think he’ll pick me up?”

Jason snorted. “A little optimistic, don’t you think?”

🦇

“They called us the Flying Graysons…” Dick murmured as Valerie attached a blood pressure monitor to his arm.

She hummed dismissively as she watched the readings rise.

Dick laughed dryly, “Oh. I flew, alright.”

The arm band was being pulled off after a few minutes and Valerie busied herself with his heart rate with as much as a grunt in response. Dick scowled.

“Hey, what does a guy-”

Suddenly, his voice became caught in his throat and the lights became blinding as he jolted against the bed, a plethora of hands flying seemingly from nowhere to grasp his limbs and chest, pinning him to the bed. Bile rose up his oesophagus, foaming in his mouth and leaking from the corners of his lips, stinging where cracks had formed in the supple flesh. The alarms and monitors at his side wailed at the sudden spike of his heart rate, and various shouts sounded above him. Somewhere, a doctor stood at his side, a syringe of sedative in hand, and after five more agonising seconds, Dick’s body finally went limp.

When awoke, taking his first confused blinks, Dr Markman was already at his side, pushing a clear substance into his IV. Her eyes were hollow, frown lines bracketing her thin lips. It was nothing new, but by the way stray hairs hung by her cheeks, her bun sagging by her shoulders, he could tell it had been a sleepless night for her. She pushed her thin-framed glasses up the bumped slope of her nose as she fixed the blood pressure monitor on his right arm.

“How are you feeling, Dick?” Dr Markman spared him a glance as she noted down some readings.

Dick swallowed with a wince, his throat feeling as if he hadn’t touched water in days. As he sighed, he was surprised to feel his breath shudder, his eyes stinging with tears he couldn’t explain. He turned his head away from the eyes of Dr Markman, feeling a hot tear roll down his cheek. Disoriented, he wiped the tear away before hovering his hand before his blurry eyes to assess the wet sheen on his fingertips.

“I,” he swallowed again, wincing as the throbbing at the back of his head seemed to intensify, “I’m not sure… I feel like I’m having the worst hangover of my life.”

With a soft ‘tap’, Dr Markman placed her pen and clipboard to the side, clasping her veiny hands in her lap. Dick turned his head, watching as she furrowed her eyebrows, staring blankly at the heart rate metre at his bedside. It seemed like an hour before she returned her focus to him, leaning forwards in her seat to meet his eye.

“Sorry,” she muttered, clearing her throat, “you had a seizure, Dick. This symptom… does not align with your injuries or medication.”

“Oh.” Dick replied quietly.

Dr Markman squeezed his shoulder as she stood, “We’ll be keeping you here a bit longer until we figure out the cause.”

“Uh sure-” he propped himself up on his arms, “have you heard from my dad?” Dr Markman stopped in the doorway to give him a curious look.

“He said he had a business trip to attend, did he not tell you?”

Dick collapsed back onto his bed, gasping at the pain which tore through his body at the impact. He took a deep breath, staring pointedly at the ceiling, “I… guess the news never made it to me.”

🦇

Tim was back. He didn’t look too happy. Dick wondered if the Wednesday patrol was tough last night.

“A seizure?” Tim frowned as he approached the bed.

“I’ll do you one better,” Dick pressed, “a business trip?”

Tim winced, looking away. “Bruce has made himself… busy… recently. I’ve barely been able to reach him myself.”

“Did he excuse himself this time?”

“He said,” Tim sighed, seemingly in his own state of disbelief, “he had some ‘arrangements’ to make.”

“Arrangements.” Dick echoed, “D’you think he’s sweetening up a deal with Talia to line me up with a dip in the Lazarus pit?”

Tim choked a laugh, “Sure…”

“Hopefully not. Between you and me, I don’t think we can handle another Damian.” Dick huffed.

“There’s definitely something sinister in the interaction of the Wayne and Al Ghul genes.” Tim hummed in agreement, pulling up a chair at Dick’s bedside.

A moment of silence settled over them, rhythmically broken by the beeping of monitors.

Heftily, Dick sighed, “He’s breaking his personal record for neuroticness, isn’t he? Y’know, I thought Selina was joking when she said he doesn’t stop talking about his feelings, but for a disciplined knight of darkness, he’s very sensitive, huh?”

After a long look, Tim tittered, “I don’t think I’ve heard him described that way before.”

After a heartbeat, one perfectly indicated by the screen beside him, Dick’s features hardened, his eyebrows furrowing. Tim’s hair hung over his eyes as he watched him, guilt haunting his tired features. He was long overdue for a haircut.

“Does he know?”

When their eyes met, Dick instantly knew the answer.

“Fucking hell, Tim…”

“I tried, ok?” Tim raised his voice, knocking his chair over as he abruptly stood. “I… I tried, and he keeps brushing me off- I mean, holy shit Dick, even Alfred is at a loss for words. I don’t even think Bruce is doing anything productive, he’s getting his ass kicked almost every night. But is he telling me any of this? Of course not! He just allows me the blessing of stitching him up after- clearly- letting himself get thrown around like a rag doll. Shit, I even told him to let it all out in bed- you know, like normal people do? He walked out on me while bleeding out. When Alfred saw his sheets, he thought Bruce had been assassinated in the night.” He took a deep breath. “I’d usually be able to fathom something- shit, anything- to do with him- to make this less difficult than it has to be but Dick, I’m not good at this! I’m not good at being you and Bruce won’t accept my damn help because he knows it too.”

Defeated, Tim picked the chair off the floor and sat down, heavily.

“That’s rough,” Dick murmured, reaching out to place a hand on his knee, “really rough. I didn’t mean to be hard on you.”

Tim nodded, composing himself, “It’s fine- I mean, you didn’t know.”

“How’s Dami?” Dick’s voice was gentle, his tone cautious.

“Just like his father. He’s been keeping clear of the manor, I don’t see him often.”

“Is he ok?”

“Probably not.” Tim admitted hesitantly, “the manor hasn’t felt like home recently. Nobody has said anything, but I know we’re all feeling it.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “I see.”

“You, um,” Tim sat up, his tone lighter, “you saw Jason recently?”

Dick raised an eyebrow, “You know about that? Did he mention it?”

Tim waved his hand, “He didn’t exactly stop by. I saw him on patrol, I wondered if it had anything to do with you.”

“Ah.” Made sense. “He came by before my- um- you know…”

“Right.” Tim nodded, clearing his throat, “Did he make any useful contributions?”

Dick snorted, “Of sorts. He said that Bruce would never get over it. ‘That I need to find my own way around it.”

“Is that what he calls it?” Tim sounded amused.

Dick smiled weakly, “It seems so.”

🦇 to be continued…

#dc comics #nightwing #dick grayson #tim drake #jason todd #red hood #batman #bruce wayne #angst #fan fiction #batfam

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