Chapter Text
Nightwing's body was no longer his.
This was a strange thought to have while hanging upside down from a trapeze. But he no longer had the body of an acrobat. He no longer was flexible until his last joint, no longer so agile and fast. He bad grown broad. Heavy. Slow. He was looking more like Batman than Nightwing. His body didn't belong into the slim suit anymore. It belonged into the armour. After one very long year, it was inevitable. And then he died, and his body reshaped again before he could get used to the change in the first place.
His mind was no longer his, either.
He had grown tense over time. Desperate. Closed off. Because the goal for him was always to fill the cowl. Always to be the one to make the hard call. Always to be the one to bury the seeds of fear onto the Gotham's villains. Even if he didn't want to. Even if he couldn't. It was the mission that plagued his mind, even after Batman took back the cowl, after he sent Dick off to the Spyral.
And now, with Dick back, everything was stripped from him again.
All of his family was supposed to be in the Manor, probably at the dinner table for a post patrol dessert. It was better for him not to be there, for all of them. Tim refused to talk to him. But Tim had been too angry, too fixated, too... too consumed with grief, when Bruce died. And when they made progress, Dick died. And Dick handled both situations poorly. And Jason had been angry, even more than Tim, and Dick handled that poorly too. He failed Cass by not pursuing her enough, Steph by not being there for her, Damian by not being enough.
Dick had not been enough for the cowl either, for Gotham and for the League.
Bruce's return and his removal from the picture for a while was for everyone's best interest. And his death was necessary for his family's secrets.
Still, Dick couldn't just brood where he hung upside down. It wasn't his thing. While the cowl expected cold and dark from him, hope and light were expected from Nightwing. And that part of him refused to let him drown in his misery. Because if he broke under pressure or gave in to the darkness, many people depending on him would crumble. Dick already had too many lives he failed.
His thoughts were disturbed as his phone started wibrating on the ground. Why was it on the ground? Why was Dick here, of all places, hanging down while all of his gear was on the floor?
Pulling himself up, Dick ignored the pain threatening to swallow his mind. He must have bruised his ribs. Or worse, he couldn't tell. But he could tell when his hands grabbed the trapeze. He pulled himself to his feet before his vision went black, possibly because of the sudden movement. He just hung onto the ropes and tried to breathe. Breathe and remember.
What was he doing?
The phone buzzed again. Right.
Crouching onto the trapeze, Dick grabbed it again and let himself down upright this time. It wasn't too high, and his joints were a lot stronger than of his family. So why did he fear dropping down?
Graysons didn't fear falling. Dick had never feared falling, even after his parents fell to their death. So he gave himself a little swing, breathed, and let go. Thrill of watching ground come close outweighed his fear reluctance, and he managed to flip over his good shoulder. Why he had a good and a bad shoulder was beyond him. Was he hallucinating? Why couldn't he remember how or why he came here?
Was he under some kind of magic? Was he drugged? Was he actually at the circus or captured, or at batcave or at a safehouse or—
Details didn't matter when he couldn't wrap his head around. And he could be compromised.
He came down for a reason. His phone was ringing. So he had to be a good soldier and pick himself up. March on before the enemy got to him.
His first attempt to grab the phone was a pathetic failure. Apparently, he couldn't trust both his mind and body. He swept his hand onto the floor to grab it, a little bit far to right than he was seeing. He grabbed it and tried to answer, only to curse his gloves and yanking the said glove with his teeth and finally answering.
"Bat," he tried. His voice was a little hoarse, and talking hurt. There was silence on the other end. Probably Bruce thinking how to address. But if his sight was off and if he couldn't remember how he got back to circus, he couldn't trust what he was seeing or hearing. There was no need to take risks. And Dick didn't plan on a long call. Phone signals were tracable, after all.
"Nightwing, are you alright?"
Dick could hear worry bleeding into Bruce's voice. It wasn't apparent, and the man was trying, but Dick could always tell when Bruce was overwhelmed by emotions.
Always overwhelmed or underwhelmed. Never simply whelmed. Tch.
"I don't know what got me," Nightwing confessed. "I'm compromised." And injured, as a less important detail, but it wasn't his biggest concern. As long as he didn't try anything extreme.
"Your signal got cut when you went into the building, and you stayed half an hour there before you left a pile of knocked out goons. We tried to get to you, but you ran away telling you won't fight us."
"Scarecrow?"
"No sign of fear toxin. Also no sign of any other chemicals, at first glance. Where are you?"
"That I can't tell, B. I can't even trust if I'm actually on the phone. I'll find my way home, though. Or crash at one of the safehouses. I'll make sure the intruder alarm goes off if I do. Bump the house with gas when you get me, or get someone I can't harm. No one red or robin, or bat. Except you. After gassing the room. I'd never forgive myself if I hurt any of them."
"Nightwing, you're rambling. Stay where you are and tell—"
Dick swept his hand on the floor, grabbing his sticks that are now at more left than it seemed. He buzzed it right at the center of the burner phone, frying it inside out.
He grabbed his gear, and with a little bit of struggle, he put all on. He stood up to leave, but weakness washed over him suddenly, leaving him on his knees. His vision went out again, and all Dick could do was let it get to him.
Dick was a good soldier. He would to pick himself up.
Opening the eyes he didn't realise he had closed, he stood slowly this time. His limbs were heavy, and it hurt to move, but he gave Bruce a plan, and if he didn't want his family to frantically run through Gotham, he had to stick to it.
Or crash here. If Babs was on the computer, she would have already narrowed, and Bruce would know where to look. If Bruce stopped to think, which was never the case when someone from the family was down.
Think, boy wonder, he scolded himself. What had you gotten yourself into?
His knees shook as he started walking. His heart pounded in his skull. He wasn't breathing right at all, even though it wasn't too bothering. He was out of touch with his senses and body. And he was on the ground, in the streets of Gotham. Which was never a good idea. Nightwing had too many enemies who were ready to take him down.
Even if no enemy found him, whoever got him high was still out there.
So he grabbed his hook with both hands and aimed to the tallest building's roof, firing at the center and not taking chances with the edges. His head spinned as he jumped, the rope pulling him up. But the motion turned his stomach, his vision blurring. He gripped the closest rooftop, pulling himself on top of it. His vision darkened again and he felt sick and shaky. He was supposed to be able to fly. He was a Flying Grayson. He was Robin. He was Nighting and Batman. Flying wasn't supposed to make him sick.
Gasping for breaths, Nighteing barely heard the footsteps.
"Looks like your wings are broken, little bird," someone said. Duck couldn't make out who it was, but through the blurred vision he could see silver shining under moonlight. A gun.
Not taking any chances, Dick gathered strength for a moment and bolted. He still felt terrible, felt wrong, but he wouldn't let anyone watch him die. He heard two gunshots before his fist found the chin of the attacker, and the next moment they were both on the floor.
It took Dick embarrassingly long to gather strength to sit up. He didn't know if he was shot, pain was distant and it could have been from former injuries. He couldn't focus on and run a diagnosing on himself. So he grabbed the edge of the roof and stood. The faster he got to a safehouse the faster he could drop dead on a bed or a couch or on the floor, he wasn't picky.
If Dick hesitated before flying again, no one was there to see. He would fly and fly high if needed to, he would fly with no regards to his state. So he did. He didn't stop when his stomach twisted, his vision swarming and head spinning too much that he couldn't even see. But flying was familiar. Angles were unchanged. So he didn't need his eyes to swing. And he could stop himself from throwing up by holding his breath.
Despite all his tries, his fall to his stop was less than graceful. He fell on his feet first with a momentum for forward, which he was supposed to use to roll, but his knees gave up on him. His hands went up instinctively to protect his face, and before he could even grasp he wasn't falling like he was supposed to, he was on the ground like a slapped mosquito.
It didn't even hurt anymore.
Picking himself up was harder, and he yelped when he was thrown to the dumpster in the alley he landed. He was supposed to go under them, not... not this.
"You angered the clown big this time. He's on a bird hunt, specifically in blue."
Dick didn't recognise the voice. Ot heard the tune. The words registered but not the sound.
"I always anger him," and want to anger him, he didn't say. He wished the villain was obsessed with Nightwing instead of Batman, so Dick could drive him as far away as possible.
Dick had to get up, though. Get up and fight so he could slip to the safe house. Another kick made him cry out, his breath knocking out of him. He scrambled to his feet with a rush, but he couldn't focus on the fists coming for him. He took a few hits and miraculously kept standing. And after that he let his fists talk, his mind drifting as adrenaline rushing through his veins took everything else away.
He slipped through dark alleys next until he found a back door and dragged himself to the basement, making sure he didn't put in the code for the alarm he knew Batman installed in every single house. He got to the darkest corner, curled up and started waiting. Waiting to rest enough to patch himself up, waiting for the drug to wear off, or to wake up. He didn't have any preference about what this was supposed to be about. In any way he was banged up and was in need of time.
At some point, he fell asleep, only to wake up to door closing.
Dick couldn't open his eyes. But he had told B to gas this place until Dick was out, so this was most likely an intruder. A loud intruder.
And if Dick, high on adrenalin, jumped from his place and used table as a support to deliver a double knee drop, it was to no one's concern.
The intruder fell with him, but it was only Dick who was on the ground in the next moment. Deck felt his arm being pressed on his back, keeping him in place without hurting. It eas no use fighting with a steel grip—
"Super?" Dick tried.
"Bruce called. I wasn't expecting a welcome like this, though," Clark chuckled. He still didn't let go. Perhaps they both have seen and been through too many mind control or possession to fully be at ease after an - even if a very sloppy - attack.
Dick felt bad for the greetings.
"Sorry," he murmured, letting himself relax. "I'm not really feeling myself."
"Can I let you go?" Clark asked. Dick hummed.
"Yeah. I'll stay put."
And he did. He had no strength left. He simply stayed still and breathed. But when he finally calmed his heart, he was no longer on the floor but laying down on... kitchen table. Did he pass out?
"I have him, Bruce. He's quite banged up."
Dick flinched. He didn't like that tone.
"Back with us, big bird?"
"I guess," Dick groaned as he tried to move. Neither pain nor Clark let him have his way.
"Tell me he's not trying to run away," came a stern voice.
"I'm not, big bat," Dick chuckled, or at least tried. It turned to a cough in halfway, but he managed himself. "I just wanted to sit up."
"Humour me for not believing you after the greetings. I understand that you're winded up, but you need to stay still before you make things worse," Clark pressured Dick to stay still, sighing.
"Now you mentioned," Dick smiled. "You definitely heard me coming. You should've stepped aside."
"And let you fall? Never."
It meant worlds to Dick. Even if he didn't know if it was real or not. Clark was the best, always.
But he didn't need to worry about Dick, of all people, when he had too many things to deal with already.
"I teach how to fall to everyone I train with. I can take a tumble."
"Still, you—"
"Did you check hin for any broken bones, Clark?" Bruce's voice stopped the argument before they could even start. Since when earpieges had speaker function?
"Last three ribs are broken, and six notably cracked. Two bullet wounds that doesn't seem to go through anything, one at his tight and bullet still in and other at his shoulder, but it looks clean in and out."
"Well, looks like I'm in for a tailor job," Dick joked, because that was what he did so he wouldn't panic. "Or burning. I'm sure you can cauterise faster than you stitch.,
"I'm not molding your flesh," Clark pressed bandages on his leg, probably dealing with the bleeding. He sounded disgusted. Dick wouldn't suggest again. Probably. Until he needed a reaction again.
Dick huffed. "Then better start patching me up or find someone to patch me up."
"We can't let him lose more blood. Patch him and leave the bullet in, we will deal with it when you get him to the cave.
"I still don't know what got me," Dick muttered. He didn't eat to go to the Cave. He was the reason of the conflict.
"We found traces of Joker. It was hard to spot in the mess you left behind."
"Tell me I killed him," Dick forced out.
"You did not, and you will not. You won't do anything you'll regret again."
"He killed my blue jay. I only regret that I didn't have a crowbar," Dick spat out. The hand holding his arm flinched. "I mean, I regret, but it's more like fear. Fear that it would be the first of many. But it wasn't. It'll never be. But Joker needs to be stopped once and for all. He can't be contained. He can't be rehabilitated. And I'll proudly do it again if it comes to that," Dick mumbled after a breath, his words growing rushed as he felt his breath stuck. The explanation was to himself. It had taken him long to come in terms of what he did, just because of what he felt while doing it.
"When the fuck were you going to tell me golden boy avenged me? Dick, come back home. I owe you for all the shit I gave you."
"I'm definitely dead," Dick murmured as the response. There was no way Jason would simply forgive him. They were past that point very long time ago. "I don't want to hear Bat's 'you made me watch you die' lecture and beating, just to get sent off to who knows where."
"He didn't fake his death?!" Came another voice. It hurt his head. Why were there too many choices. Dick closed his eyes with a whimper, and ignored his name being called.