Chapter Text
Day 291:
What if something bad had happened to him? What if McKernel was in a car accident and now Dick would be left down here to die on his own?
The panic was like a second nature to Dick by now, even as it consumed his logical thinking, leaving only fragments of worst-case scenarios in its wake.
Dick had woken up on the rug in front of the door, his back sore, his stomach tight. He was hungry. He was alone. But McKernel still didn’t show.
The anxiety living in his gut made friends with the gnawing hunger, alternating between crushing nausea and spikes of pain. It sent him spiraling. Not even the cold water from the faucet could help him calm down, his hands shaking as he dried his face with one of the towels.
Something must have happened.
Something horrible.
Something gruesome.
What if McKernel was dead? What would happen to Dick?
He couldn’t leave the basement! That would be madness!
(and God, how much Dick hated himself for thinking that – for believing that)
No, there had to be something else… Dick paced from one side of the room to the other, five measured steps in each direction, until he either hit the bed, the desk, the door, or the privacy screen separating the bathroom from the living space.
He searched for clues, a phone, something… but, of course, there was nothing. If there had been… well, Dick would have found it weeks ago, and all of this would have never happened.
Shit.
Desperation was growing inside Dick – and so did hunger. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
Day 293:
The hunger was all-consuming; his stomach was numb from pain.
McKernel had to be dead.
A sudden surge of grief pushed past Dick’s defenses, tears springing to his eyes. He didn’t want to cry for that bastard, he didn’t want to be sad… and yet here he was. Crying because his kidnapper was most likely dead. Crying because his only connection to the outside world was gone, and Dick was alone.
He didn’t want to be alone.
He craved the smell of sweat and chestnut that had always accompanied McKernel, and he craved the giant hugs that swallowed Dick whole. At least he had been safe in McKernel’s embrace, at least he had been cared for, when they cuddled and watched movies together.
No.
This was WRONG!
Dick shouldn’t think like this… he should… he should…
Another sob wrecked his body, his shoulders shaking from the force. McKernel was all Dick had known for so long… Dick could no longer remember Bruce’s voice, or the aroma of his childhood, but he could remember McKernel and how soft and warm his hands had been.
It didn’t matter that McKernel had been the one to force Dick to forget and rewire his brain… it didn’t matter, because the man had succeeded. And now Dick was crying, begging the empty air to return McKernel to him.
He wanted a hug.
He wanted food.
Water only did so much to keep the starvation at bay.
Day 295:
Dick had to survive.
Even if McKernel was dead, even if the hunger made him weak… Dick had to survive.
He stared at the door in front of him, at the menacing look of the handle mocking him and his failures. He could do it .
He could leave the basement and get help.
He could… he would be saved. He would be…
A sob threatened to spill past his lips, but Dick pressed them close. No, he wouldn’t cave. No, he wouldn’t fail…
Dick stumbled into the dark hallway behind the door, his muscles weak from the early stages of starvation. His hand trailed over the ridges in the wall, the cool sensation like balm for his fraying nerves.
He could do this.
Soon enough the ladder was in front of him, the wood the first sign that maybe Dick could actually escape. He could climb up there, and he would reach freedom.
Dick hadn’t thought about the sky in so long.
His heartbeat was in his throat, his chest heaving from the shallow breaths he managed to pull past the panic, when he pushed against the trapdoor. It opened. There was no extra weight keeping it down, no crest pushed over the entrance to make it harder for Dick to escape.
No.
It simply opened, and daylight flooded down the dark hallway.
Dick closed his sensitive eyes, the brightness too much for them. It hurt. But Dick… he pushed forward. He pushed forward and crawled out of the basement and into the openness of the upper floors.
His arms and legs were shaking, Dick wasn’t sure if it was due to the hunger or if it was the fear crawling up his spine. He was desperately trying to remain calm, to stay focused and… and escape. The goal was to escape.
But the living room was so giant. There were so many dangers waiting for him.
No.
This was just an irrational fear trying to control him.
Dick could escape. There was nothing evil waiting for him behind that door, and there were no monsters hidden in the corners of the high ceiling. Dick’s traitorous mind just thought that. Dick was just… delusional.
That could happen to the best of them. He would just push through and…
Above him a floorboard creaked, and a panicked whimper escaped Dick.
It’s just a floorboard. This is just an old house. Just an old house. Just normal creaky floorboards. Just an old house…
But no matter how much Dick told himself – promised himself! – that it was just a normal noise, produced by old wood shifting under the force of two-hundred years of existence, his heartbeat wouldn’t slow down. Neither would his breathing.
He was hyperventilating.
Again.
Fuck.
He…
Another creak, this time accompanied by dust falling from the ceiling… Dick tried to make himself as small as possible, and yet it wasn’t enough to keep the nightmares at bay. The open and bright space of the living room fell away, replaced by a dark and dingy alleyway and the stink of trash and rotten food.
No .
Not that alleyway.
Not again.
Tears ran down his cheeks as shadows morphed into people, as horrors became reality. No. nonononono … Dick hadn’t… he wasn’t… this couldn’t be real! It wasn’t allowed to be real! Dick had survived this alleyway! He had… had he?
His shoulders heaved from the strength of his sobs, the panic eating away on his heart.
He had to get out of here! He needed… he needed something safe! He needed McKernel!
His gaze tore itself away from his attackers only to see… daylight. High ceilings. A dusty floor. He was… he wasn’t… the alleyway was gone. The panic and the fear stayed.
As fast as the hunger and pain would let him, Dick crawled back to the door in the ground. He needed safety. Walls. His room. He needed his bed and the confines that brought with.
Dick Grayson didn’t escape. No, he only cried.
Day 297:
In a last effort to retain his strength, Dick had pulled his blankets and cushions into the bathroom. Even after all the things he had survived, all the horrors and pains the last year had brought him… Dick didn’t want to die.
But the hunger left him weak… so, Dick moved into the bathroom, to ensure he would at least get water, even if he was sick of the cool beverage flowing down his starved throat.
It was hard to think of anything besides food, even the horrible goulash and the boring take-out seemed mouth-watering now that his stomach was eating itself.
His gut clenched and gurgled and screamed in hunger, and yet Dick kept on remembering meals Alfred had made, even if he could no longer recall their taste.
Borscht, and latkes, and deep-fried crab cakes…
It was better to think of food than it was to think of McKernel.
Dick’s chest was sore from all the crying, and he was empty from all the grief he’d spilled. Even if McKernel wasn’t dead… he had abandoned Dick. Dick was too much work for him, probably; too much effort to keep alive.
It hurt almost worse to think of himself as a disappointment, than it did to think of McKernel as dead.
And yet… both possibilities sent spikes of pain through his heart. His head was thrumming with a headache, and Dick wasn’t sure if it came from the lack of nutrients, the rather forceful withdrawal of the anti-anxiety meds, or all the crying.
Probably all three.
Not that it mattered all that much anymore.
Dick let his head fall against the outsides of the shower, his neck muscles weak and tense at the very same time. The hunger was getting to him. He was tired and unfocused and just so… just so sad . There was a hole in his chest, and it was eating him alive… maybe it was grief, maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was relief.
Dick was too starved to tell anymore – he just wanted to survive, no matter how unlikely that was.
(no matter how much a part of his heart yelled at him to die)
Day 299:
Dick was blearily counting the tiles on the floor. He had to waste his time somehow, and it was hard to stay focused as the world slowly lost its definition.
Everything was just… slightly out of reach. His body was desperate for food, but Dick only had water. And even that was getting harder and harder to get… standing up felt impossible with his body this starved, and yet Dick forced himself to do just that three times a day to drink out of the faucet.
He was shivering. It was cold.
His blanket fort did little to protect him, the world too harsh for his thinning body. The world! Hah! This fucking semi-bathroom behind a privacy screen from Home Depot!
Dick was simply dying. And he wouldn’t even see the sky again… he would die in a hole in the ground, because the clouds were too far out of his reach. And he wasn’t even sad about it! Or he was… but not in the way he should be.
The stars no longer belonged to him, Robin just a faint memory of a bird singing on the first day of spring… and Dick missed those times, longed for them… but McKernel had made sure to chain him down, clipping his wings in the process.
Now, Dick belonged in small rooms without windows or the wind.
He belonged in places like this: small bathroom cubicles, no sunlight or hope.
He wasn’t crying when he closed his eyes, but that was most mostly due to exhaustion. He simply didn’t have the energy left, to cry himself to sleep.
Day ZERO :
“DICK!”
The yell tore him from his dream, the world shaking and twisting in front of him. He saw white, and it took too long for his tired brain to realize that he was looking at bathroom tiles, and not nothingness. He had… he had heard something?
Dick struggled to sit up. His arms shook from the weight of his upper body, and after a moment Dick allowed himself to fall down onto the blanket again. It was too much work to sit up… and he wasn’t even sure why he was trying to do so in the first place.
His throat was parched… maybe he should force himself to drink soon?
His eyes blinked close again, the white of the tiles following him into his dreams, when he heard the voice again, closer this time:
“Dick? Dick! Answer me! Please!”
He… He knew that voice.
At least Dick was pretty sure he did… It reminded him a bit of McKernel, the deep cadence familiar. It was screaming his name… why would anyone do that? He was safe in his basement, wasn’t he? Was this an attack? Or rescue?
His brain was so slow! Dick was trying to think, trying to remember, really, he was! But it was hard to focus, a headache building behind his eyes. Why was it so hard! It was unfair…
“Dick! What is this… a door… I found a trapdoor!”
There was the voice again. Dick knew it. He was sure…
Bruce .
That was Bruce’s voice.
How could he have forgotten the sound of his former guardian? How could he have forgotten Batman’s voice?
Dick shook his head to dislodge the guilt, only to send the room spinning as a consequence of his hasty action. Oh, yes. He was starving. He was dying. He was weak.
For just a moment Dick allowed his eyes to fall closed again, in an effort to collect his strength. But before he could open them again, before he could face the world and answer Bruce, the room exploded with noise and people and movement.
Dick’s eyes snapped open. And he couldn’t believe what he saw.
Bruce opened the door to Dick’s basement room with a crash, obviously not caring for damages done to the property. From his position on the floor, Dick had a great view of the room, his upper body laying in the doorway of the bathroom area.
Dick saw how Bruce’s gaze frantically wandered over the desk, the bed, the shelves, before finally settling on Dick.
The weight of the world fell off Bruce’s shoulders, the man visibly growing taller when he spotted his son. Ward. Whatever.
“ Dick…”
And then he was next to Dick, cradling his body, pulling him closer. Dick wanted to say something, wanted to mumble “Hello” or “I’ve missed you” or maybe just “Bruce”, but the ability to speak had left him. Silent tears were pouring down his cheeks.
Bruce had saved him.
Bruce was here.
Dick was going to survive .
His former guardian looked old, stress lines carved deeply into his face, gray hairs decorating his temple. There was something so desperate in Bruce’s gaze, as if he feared he would lose Dick again any moment… With his remaining strength Dick pulled Bruce closer, breathing in the previously forgotten scent, buried somewhere deep in his mind, behind walls of trauma and conditioning.
Sandalwood, motor oil, baked sweets.
Bruce smelled like home .
Dick let Bruce’s voice wash over him:
“Dick… you’re alive. Thank God, you’re alive. I am… I’m so sorry it took us this long… God, you’re alive! You’re ALIVE!”
Senseless laughter seemed to pour out of Bruce, even as he stood up, cradling Dick’s body against his chest as if he weighed nothing. Dick made no sound… he was too exhausted to speak, and even if he had the strength, he had no idea what to say. There were no words in the world for what Dick wanted to express.
How could Dick express how happy he was? How scared?
Bruce had saved him – but Dick had given up on him months ago.
Bruce had saved him – but a part of Dick wanted McKernel and his big, warm hands.
Bruce had saved him – but Dick could still feel death and fear clinging to his bones.
For the time being Dick pushed those thoughts away. He tried to invite happiness into his heart as he was cradled against Bruce’s giant chest. His eyes fell close, and his body relaxed, the warmth of another person the best thing Dick had felt in a long, long time.
Too late he realized what Bruce finding him truly meant.
Dick had to leave his basement.
Bruce was taking him outside.
Immediately his body tensed, panic surging through his veins. Bruce must have noticed something, because he stopped at the bottom of the step ladder, and looked at Dick:
“It’s alright, Dick. No matter… I’ll… I’ll make sure everything will be alright. I will protect you. The paramedics are waiting upstairs for us. Just… just a little bit longer.”
No ! Dick wanted to scream, but his body wouldn’t let him. Ten days without food, one day without water, taking their toll. He could do little more than squirm uncomfortably, when Bruce carried him upstairs.
Even from behind his closed eyes, Dick could see the shift in lighting, could feel the change of air. His pulse quickened; his breathing grew shallow. No . Not now. Not in front of Bruce…
But Dick couldn’t fight his body, and he couldn’t fight his panic.
It took Bruce too long to notice something was wrong. By the time they stepped outside the house, Dick was hyperventilating, terror like fire in his veins. He needed… He had to… It was…
Finally, the exhaustion keeping his throat locked up fell away, his survival instinct more important than what his body had left to give. He had to get away! He had to escape! And return to somewhere safe! Dick just wanted to be safe…
Wind touched his skin, Bruce’s concerned voice a silent backdrop to the realization that Dick was out in the open…
Dick was outside. Oh God. Dick was outside.
He opened his mouth to scream and scream and scream.
When the darkness came for him, Dick greeted it with open arms.
Day ONE:
It didn’t feel real. Bruce looked at Dick’s sleeping body underneath the hospital blanket and… he couldn’t believe his eyes. Couldn’t trust them.
It was Dick laying in front of him. Alive.
Dick. His son.
Who had been declared dead three-hundred and one days ago.
Bruce’s eyes followed every shallow rise and fall of Dick’s chest. His boy was too thin. When Bruce had found him… a shudder ran down his spine. Gordon had finally cracked Daniel McKernel and got a confession two days ago, and it had taken an additional twelve hours until the monster had told them where he’d kept Dick.
Bruce had fought tooth and nail to be allowed on the case as Bruce Wayne. To be allowed to join them when they went to check out the house. He must have looked desperate enough, considering Gordon had looked at him once, before he motioned for Bruce to get in the car with him.
When they’d entered the old villa in West Hill, Bruce had thought… well, he’d thought they were too late. It was too silent, too dusty.
Dick was movement, music, life , and this entire house had just smelled like decay and old rugs. But then Bruce had found the trapdoor, and the handprints on the dusty floor. Hope had surged through him – but also dread. What if… what if all Bruce would find was a body?
The body of his son.
Bruce shook his head. Dick was alive. He was right here, in front of him, at Gotham Memorial. Everything would be alright… they could start healing now.
(Dick’s screams still echoed in his mind, the desperation and blind panic on his son’s face like an acid shower to Bruce’s heart)
Bruce would take Dick home, and the boy would be allowed to recover – Jason would finally meet his older brother in earnest. Bruce had the feeling the two of them might like each other… Jason had cried at least, during Dick’s funeral.
It was impossible to shake the image from his head though, the small room Bruce had stumbled into after he had found the trapdoor, the way everything seemed so childish and tiny. And then… Bruce’s eyes had landed on Dick, on his sunken form in the bathroom area located on one side of the basement.
For a moment Bruce’s heart had stopped, sure that Dick was dead, that Bruce was too late.
And then he noticed the rapid rise and fall of his frail chest, noticed the intense gaze of Dick’s bright blue eyes. His son hadn’t spoken, but Bruce had seen the tears, the relief, the hope.
That was… until Bruce had carried him outside. And the screaming started. And the trashing. The seizing.
But… no. Everything was alright.
Dick was sedated, would stay so for at least another few days, until it was deemed safe to wake him up again. The doctors wanted to make sure Dick was alright. They wanted to check him for injuries, get an MRT and a CT, check his blood and his urines…
(Bruce would make sure they checked his hair as well – most drugs would be out of Dick’s system by now)
By then he would hopefully gain enough weight again. It was scary to see Dick’s cheekbones pronounced like this, to see the veins running through his body. Dick was so pale… Bruce doubted he had seen the sun even once in the entire duration of his capture.
Guilt grew like a hot coal in his chest.
He was Batman… and for the first two-hundred and fifty days he had believed the people telling him his son was dead. He had requested an autopsy, of course, and he had verified everything he could hope to verify… but those bastards faking his son’s death had been throughout.
(Bruce tried to ignore the voice inside his head, telling him that it was his fault… because some part of Bruce had always known that Dick would die on the beat as a cop – and the message of his son’s death had felt like a self-fulfilling prophecy)
In the end it’d been West and Harper who set Bruce’s head straight. The four of them – Jason firmly by his side – had met on accident on Dick’s birthday while visiting Dick’s grave. Bruce had never known a person as beloved as Dick, and his grave was the most visited grave in all of Gotham – it wasn’t a surprise to find someone else paying their respects.
What had surprised him, however, was the theory the two redheads presented him with.
They had searched through Dick’s files in Titans Tower, when they found an ongoing investigation into the precinct Dick worked at. Their theory at first hadn’t been that Dick was still alive – no, they told Bruce they thought Dick had been murdered.
Bruce investigated further with new fire behind his fists and found the first clues to what would become the goose chase which had haunted him the past fifty days.
And in the end… Bruce had found Dick.
His son was alive.
Clutching Dick’s hand tight, Bruce let his tears fall. His son was alive, and for now that was enough.
Day TEN:
After the third panic attack on Dick’s side, and the growing concern on the side of the doctors, Bruce proposed to take Dick home with him. The worst injuries had healed, the malnourishment was an idea of days past, and Alfred was perfectly capable of preparing a diet suitable for Dick’s weakened stomach.
At first the doctors wouldn’t agree, but Bruce Wayne was a name that carried weight, and nobody wanted to step in the path of the billionaire who had just found his dead son again.
Now… Bruce watched as Dick slept in his old room at the Manor, a slight sedative ensuring his rest would be peaceful.
The panic attacks worried Bruce, even if he tried to not let it show. Dick needed him to be strong, even if the boy hadn’t managed to stay awake long enough to talk to Bruce yet. The most he got was a mumbled and slurred “Bruce…” and even that had made his heart burst with love.
They hadn’t talked in… over two years.
Because of Bruce.
First because Bruce couldn’t control himself, couldn’t control his anger and his overprotective urges. They had fought a lot those last few months before Dick left, and if Bruce was honest… he couldn’t blame Dick for leaving him. Not after what Bruce had said, not after he tried to take Robin away, in an effort to keep Dick close.
And then… Dick had been gone for ten months. Kidnapped. Tortured. And Bruce… he hadn’t known ! The guilt was a burning furnace in his soul, and it just wouldn’t cease no matter how often Alfred told him, it wasn’t his fault.
Not even Jason’s concerned puppy dog eyes during dinner could calm Bruce down… another thing he failed at. In all his worry for Dick, it was hard to be a parent for Jason. Bruce just… he just hoped the boy could forgive him. Jason deserved a childhood.
God, Bruce took Dick’s hand in his, he was really just caught in an endless circle of self-flagellation , wasn’t he?
Day TWELVE:
Dick blearily blinked his eyes open, taking in the sight in front of him.
This was not the basement.
No, this was…
Faded images of day’s past passed through his mind, the memories old and worn… but, no, Dick knew this room. He was familiar with the smell of old socks long forgotten under a bed, and the laundry detergent only one person Dick knew used. Alfred.
Dick was… he was at the Manor. He was in his old room.
A curious glance through the room showed him that it was the exact same as Dick had left it. The same posters on the wall, the same clothes in the open closet to his right. It had to be night, the curtains over the giant window were drawn shut, the chair next to Dick’s bed empty.
He was home.
He was at the Manor.
Relief and panic battled in his heart, but for now Dick tried to enjoy it. The curtains were drawn shut. If he closed his eyes, it would be easy to pretend he was still inside, still in a locked room without windows. The high ceiling and giant diameters of the room were harder to ignore – but Dick tried to deal with one panic-inducing concept at a time.
Taking a few deep breaths, he noticed the IV line in his arm and the thick and heavy blankets covering him. Bruce had… Bruce was taking care of him.
Silent tears escaped his eyes, and suddenly Dick felt tired. He had the vague feeling that he had slept so much those past few days and yet… exhaustion was pulling him down. It was hard to know what to think. Bruce had saved him.
Dick missed McKernel.
He let the darkness pull him back under. It was better than dealing with the guilt. It was better than this urge to destroy something perfect. Dick just wanted to be happy – he just wanted to be home.
(he craved McKernel’s giant hugs and the easy way the man said “I love you”)
Day FOURTEEN:
The lab report came back during breakfast, Jason silent and brooding on the other side of the table, opposite Bruce.
Dick’s bloodwork showed Bruce what he had already suspected: there were no signs of drugs or poisons in his blood, just a horrid lack of nutrients and vitamins. Bruce would have to tell Alfred to add spinach and other iron-rich vegetables to Dick’s diet, once the boy stayed awake for longer than a couple of minutes.
It was the analysis of Dick’s hair, however, that had Bruce’s attention. Because while his blood had been clean, the roots of Dick’s hair certainly weren’t. Dick had consumed some sort of drug regularly over the past three-hundred days. The toxicology report indicated the presence of benzodiazepines, used until rather recently.
Anti-anxiety medication then.
Which could explain why Dick was so panicked whenever he stayed awake for too long, or why his heartbeat accelerated even in his sleep. It pained Bruce to think of Dick as someone scared, but right now this was their reality. And Bruce would deal with it. He would take care of it, just as he would take care of Jason.
“Do you have your oral report today? About Emily Bronte?”
The boy looked surprised at Bruce’s question, and another spike of guilt surged through his chest. Yes, he had to save Dick, but he would have to make sure not to forget Jason in the process. They were both his sons – even if only one of them belonged to him on paper.
“That was yesterday. Which you would have known if you cared.”
With these bitter words, Jason pushed his plate away, leaving the table and – shortly later – the Manor to go to school.
Okay.
So, maybe Bruce had to put more work into it than expected. Maybe Jason felt more alone than Bruce had known. He could still do this. He would still achieve his goal.
Bruce hadn’t heard Alfred step closer, but he most certainly heard the butler’s tired voice:
“Sadly, the world will not let us deal with its troubles one problem at a time. But do not despair, my dear boy, Master Jason will come around, especially when he sees you reach out. And Master Richard? He will be back on his feet in no time.”
Bruce did his best to believe in Alfred.
He would have to.
Day SIXTEEN:
Dick had been dozing, when Bruce entered the room. For a moment nothing happened, Bruce just standing in the doorway looking at him, and then his former guardian crossed the room, ready to pull the curtains open.
“No!”
Dick surprised himself with his yell. But what choice did he have? Bruce couldn’t open the window! Bruce couldn’t just make the outside world real!
Bruce immediately stopped in his tracks, his giant frame shocked and silent when he turned around to look at Dick:
“You’re… awake?”
“Don’t open the window, please. Don’t… the curtains have to stay closed.”
This was the most Dick had said since his rescue, words hidden somewhere in his chest, slowly shriveling away. But this… Dick would have another panic attack should Bruce open… should Dick see the sky. Just thinking about it made him want to hide, his blood pressure rising, his chest contracting in pain.
No.
Not now.
Not in front of Bruce.
“Um… okay. No window. I can… I can do that, chum. Can I sit with you?”
Dick nodded, even as he struggled to pull his legs towards his chest. He wanted to make himself small, just in case the ceiling came crashing down. Just in case Bruce said something horrible, and Dick would long for McKernel.
His arms and legs were so thin, so small, and Dick felt weak when he noticed how much strength it cost him just to sit up. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Bruce reach out, only to retract his offer, before he could accidentally offend Dick by offering him a pillow.
Dick’s heart panged, and it felt different from the panic, different from the terror. It felt like… longing. Longing for a different time, when things had been easier, when Dick had been ruled by passion and not by fear.
Bruce and Dick had been partners once.
And then they fought.
Dick had no idea what they were now.
“How… how long was I asleep?”
His voice was barely there at all, thirst making it rough and scratchy, but Dick… he needed to know. He needed some sense of control.
“We brought you home six days ago. You were pretty heavily sedated while you were in the hospital, and Alfred has been slowly weening you of the drugs ever since then. You woke up a few times, I think…”
At that Dick nodded. He remembered waking up a few times, thankfully always in the dark. Thankfully, always tired enough to simply continue to sleep before the panic could claim him.
Dick looked at Bruce again, noticing the grey shadows underneath his eyes, the exhaustion pulling his shoulders down. They might not have talked in ages, but Bruce’s body still spoke the same language it had for years.
“Why so tense? Shouldn’t you be… happier now that you’ve found me?”
Dick wasn’t sure why this was the question he asked, why he wanted to know something like this. Maybe it was a test – if Bruce fucked up, at least Dick’s heart would be broken now, and not months down the line.
Maybe it would be easier that way.
Bruce’s voice was soft and calm when he answered, his deep baritone not even once turning cruel:
“I’m so sorry. Dick… I am so sorry for not finding you sooner, for not… for believing them as I did. I should have known… I should have… I should have been there for you.”
If Dick didn’t know better, he would assume Bruce was crying. But Batman didn’t cry. Or did he?
Dick had no answer to Bruce’s guilt. It was stifling. It was heavy. It sat on top of Dick’s chest and pressed down, down, down. How Bruce could carry it around with him all the time, Dick had no idea.
When Dick stayed silent, Bruce continued to talk:
“I… when we got the call, when the officer showed up at our front door… I believed them. They had… they were good. Too good. And then… and then later, when I knew where to look, David McKernel was the last person we thought to check. His background… he lost-“
“He lost a son. I know. He told me. Mike, who wanted to study English and Art, but went to the Academy instead. Mike, who was bright eyed and bushy tailed. Mike, who died.”
Silence bathed the entire room in shadows, and Dick was grateful for it. He didn’t know what to do, he was unsure what to say. He felt on edge – and it wasn’t just the size of the room that made him uncomfortable.
No, his skin fit wrong.
Dick was supposed to be happy, and on some level, he was, but… Dick wanted to be overjoyed to see Bruce again, overjoyed to have left the basement behind, overjoyed to be free of McKernel and yet… he was tired and sad and angry.
At the world. At Bruce. At himself.
Neither of them spoke until Dick could no longer bear not knowing:
“Is he dead?”
“What?”
“Is McKernel dead?”
Dick wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear. His heart was at odds with his mind, his soul split in two.
“No… I- Batman almost threw him off the roof, when he caught him… but, no, he was brought in alive. We needed him to tell us… where you were.”
Relief washed over Dick – apparently that was his answer. He didn’t want to see McKernel dead. He wanted him to live. It hurt to be betrayed by his heart like this. Dick cared for his captor, missed his smell and his hugs and his hands.
“Good…”
The word was supposed to stay inside, but Dick let it escape. He could almost watch it float through the room, until it reached Bruce, and his guardian reeled back:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But Bruce had heard him, and Dick wasn’t dumb. He knew his guardian had felt his relief, had seen his pain – but also his care – when his ex-partner’s name had been spoken. Dick buried his face in his knees – he was too tired to deal with the disappointment on Bruce’s face.
Day TWENTY :
Bruce was paging through a book on Lima Syndrome when he heard the telltale sound of Dick having a nightmare.
As fast as his feet would carry him, Bruce crossed the hallway, until he stood in front of the closed door to Dick’s room. That had been another one of Dick’s requests, now that he talked to them: closed doors, drawn shut curtains, and no sudden moves.
Bruce could taste the name of Dick’s problem on the tip of his tongue, but the last puzzle pieces were still missing.
He was careful when he opened the door, the hinges silent courtesy to Alfred.
Dick was crying in his bed; Bruce could see the IV link shaking in time with Dick’s sobs. Sorrow filled Bruce’s heart. He wanted to hug Dick and offer him comfort, but it was hard to know when he was welcome in his son’s room, and when he was just another burden for Dick’s thin body to carry.
It hurt to know that Dick was still suffering, even now, after they had saved him. It hurt to know that healing was a process that took time.
Bruce just wanted to make it easier for Dick. He wanted to be there for him, where he had failed to be before.
With new resolve Bruce raised his fist, ready to knock and ask for allowance to enter, when a shadow left Dick’s en suite bathroom, the light staying turned off. For a moment Bruce wasn’t sure what he was seeing, and then it clicked.
Jason.
His little boy.
His son.
As Bruce stood and watched, Jason carried a glass of water from the bathroom to the bed, and helped Dick drink it, even as the older boy’s shoulders shook from the last remnants of his dream. Before Bruce could accidentally reveal himself by asking if everything was alright, Jason’s young and quiet voice joined the rapid beat of his heart echoing in his ears:
“It’s okay. You can go back to sleep now. I’m here to look out for you.”
Dick’s answer broke Bruce’s heart:
“Why…? I’m sorry… I’m… so- sorry…. I… why are you here, Jason?”
It was a broken husk of a voice, barely reminding him of the Dick from before. Bruce had only worked with Nightwing once or twice, but he had always sounded strong, majestic, powerful. It had filled Bruce with pride, even if he’d been too much of a coward to look his son in the eyes.
Jason climbed onto the bed, pulling the blanket over his small shoulders. Bruce almost didn’t hear him, the boy’s voice just a faint whisper:
“It’s a secret… but I am Robin, and Robin protects everyone… even older birds who need help sleeping through the night. I’m sure you understand, considering you’re the one who gave me his blessing to fly.”
Dick’s sobs only grew louder. And yet… Bruce didn’t feel the need to interrupt, as he watched Dick pull Jason close against his chest, hugging the boy until Jason started to complain.
Bruce stepped back from the door, pulling it closed again. It would be alright. With the book still clutched in his hand, Bruce returned to his own room.
It would be alright.
He was sure of it.
Day TWENTY-FOUR:
It was Alfred who opened the curtains.
Dick was doing his best during physical therapy and lunch time, to forget that he was above ground, that there was a world beyond the window, a Manor beyond that door, and yet… in the end it didn’t matter how often Dick tried to talk himself down from a panic attack, or how often Jason snuck into his room at night to read him books and cuddle.
Alfred opened the curtains, and the windows, before Dick could stop him.
The sun was shining. It was early summer, and Bristol was far enough away to escape Gotham’s smog on days like this. It was beautiful out there, birds were singing, Dick could feel a soft breeze touch his sweaty skin.
His throat was closing up.
His eyes were watering.
Longing fought the monster called fear inside his chest, and with each beat of his heart, Dick could tell who was winning.
“No…”
It wasn’t safe.
The window was open.
He wasn’t safe. It was unsafe. He was in danger. He would die. He would get raped. He would suffer. He would… he would… he would… be alone. And dead. And empty.
The blue of the sky outside invaded his room, tendrils of horror making their way past Alfred – because they didn’t want him! They wanted Dick! – towards him. They were reaching for him! No! Dick couldn’t!
It was hard to breathe with the steel band constricting his chest more and more, but breathing wasn’t important. Escaping the danger was! He needed something… something small. Dark. No windows. Nothing the outside world could touch him from.
He basically fell out of the bed, scrambling back, the IV line going taunt, before it slipped from his arm. Dick couldn’t feel the pain, his pulse too loud in his ears, but he could see the blood.
Red.
Danger.
Maybe Alfred was saying something. Maybe the butler was even yelling… but the danger wasn’t interested in Alfred. It wanted Dick. It was Dick who was only safe inside a dark space, Dick who had to flee from this thing that had once been his home.
(at least nothing reminded him of the alley, just this once)
There was a wall behind him, but Dick didn’t dare to turn around. He would be vulnerable should he tear his gaze away from the danger. Away from the breach in security.
Numbness was spreading through his body as he searched for the door, distantly Dick registered that someone was begging him to stop hyperventilating. Hah! As if Dick had any control over his body, his life!
Dick found the door, and as fast as humanly possible, he crawled into the small bathroom attached to his room. The door fell shut with a bang, and before Dick could think about it, he turned the key, and locked it tight.
It was hard to breathe.
The world was swaying.
It was dark.
Small.
Cold.
No window.
No outside.
No sky.
Dick let some air escape, panting as his mind took stock. He was safe. Or as safe as he could be. The panic attack was… slowly unfurling its claws from his mind.
He just had to… he had to breathe. And count. And cry.
He just had to… he had to calm down.
After what felt like hours Dick noticed that he still had the key clutched in his hands… it wasn’t a conscious choice when he chucked it into the toilet and watched it being swept away.
Day TWENTY-FIVE:
It took Alfred, Bruce, and Jason twelve hours to coax Dick to… admit that he had flushed the key down the toilet. After that it had only taken another thirty minutes to jimmy the door open. Twenty-five of those minutes had been spent on reassuring Dick that the curtains were closed, and the room was dark.
Agoraphobia – the fear of wide-open spaces and uncontrollable public situations.
That was the last puzzle piece.
And it made sense.
Dick hadn’t been chained when Bruce found him, the door to the basement unlocked, the trapdoor simply shut. Dick could have escaped – only he couldn’t.
Because he was too scared. Controlled by fears he likely recognized as irrational, and yet could do nothing against.
His boy was sleeping now. Alfred had given him a sedative, the Dick who opened the door to the bathroom pale as a ghost, shaking like a leaf. The attack itself might have scared Dick more than the actual terror of the open window.
A reminder to all of them, that this was far from being over.
Bruce would have to call Dinah, see if she knew someone who could help – but first he needed to talk to Dick.
Day THIRTY:
It was night.
Once upon a time that had been Dick’s favorite part of the day, the silent hours before sunrise, when everything was so much crisper than it was when the sun shined and blurred the edges of the world.
Now, it left him uneasy. Then again… everything made him anxious, made him fear for himself and those he loved.
McKernel had made sure that not even leaving the basement would free Dick from his influence.
The days at the Manor were easier to deal with than the nights. During the day, Dick could do his best to play at being the perfect patient, to do the exercises with the therapists that came, to eat the soups and drink the teas Alfred had prepared in an effort to strengthen Dick’s body enough for him to stomach real food again.
He would smile, and talk, and… and try to be a person he could only faintly remember existed. Yes, he was quieter than before, yes, he was weaker and moodier and softer… but he tried. Dick tried so hard to be the person Bruce wanted to save.
But during the night… the walls fell down, the masks eroded off Dick’s face… and what was left, was him. A broken husk of the independent hero everybody loved.
A man so afraid of the sky, he had taken to hiding in the bathroom when Alfred insisted on airing the room out.
A man so broken he cried for his captor, because at least McKernel was familiar. At least McKernel understood what Dick needed.
A man so, so lost… he felt like a boy.
Dick was looking at the curtains, at the fabric protecting him from a truth he knew, and yet tried to trick himself to forget.
He missed the sky. Flying. Falling. He missed being awake and happy and well. He missed the sound of laughter, of joy, of being alive. He missed… chaos and logic and danger.
His fingers brushed over the heavy-weave cotton, toying with the idea of opening them, just to watch himself succumb to panic. Experience told him that knowing it would come, would do little to help keep it at bay.
Maybe tonight Dick wanted to suffer.
Maybe tonight Dick wanted to cry.
“Don’t.”
Bruce’s voice startled him, he hadn’t heard the man enter. But then again… nobody heard the Bat, if the Bat didn’t want to be heard. Dick turned, just to see Bruce stand in the doorway of his room, hand raised as if he thought about knocking.
Well, it was too late for that.
“Why? Maybe I just wanna see if I can open the window by myself.”
“You can’t.”
Okay, that hurt.
And Bruce must have seen it, because his face fell, and he stepped into Dick’s room, worry in his gaze:
“No… I didn’t… Dick.” – Bruce took a deep breath – “I know… I- I think, I’ve figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“What… what is happening to you.”
Dick couldn’t help himself, a cruel laugh escaped him:
“What is happening to me? Oh, please! Do tell!”
And Bruce did, his face so sad, his eyes so full of love:
“Agoraphobia. Lima Syndrome. A shitton of trauma, I can’t help you heal from. But… punishing yourself for being afraid, I don’t… I don’t want to see you hurt, Dick.”
Dick’s hand fell away from where it was still cradling the hem of the curtain, something heavy settling on his chest. So, Bruce had noticed, Bruce had found the puzzle pieces Dick had… well, he hadn’t tried to hide them, he had just hoped they could have stayed hidden for longer.
“What do you… what do you expect from me, Bruce? The last time I saw you, you told me to leave. And now I am here. And you saved me. And I am… I am grateful. I know I am, and yet half the time I just keep on waiting for you to send me away again. This is not a life I want to lead.”
It hurt.
But the room was dark, it was the middle of the night… if there was an hour of the day, in which secrets could become reality, and love could be put into words… it was 4am, curtains drawn shut.
“I made many mistakes when it came to you. As Batman and as Bruce. Sending you away… was probably the biggest. And I regret it every day since. I… I would love to make it up to you. I want to make it up to you. I want to be your father again.”
“Were you?”
“What?”
“My dad… I was never sure, while I lived here. And… and now I am back. And you call me chum, which reminds me of home. And you call me son, which reminds me of McKernel.”
A curse echoed through the room, and then Bruce was in front of him, hugging him, protecting him.
“I love you, Dick. I love you so, so much. And I am sorry I made you doubt that. And I am sorry an asshole like McKernel managed… managed to hurt you the way he did.”
Dick melted into the embrace. He felt vulnerable, tender, as if his soul had been scrubbed raw. Tears collected in his eyes, his heart seizing from the… emotions cursing through his veins. Dick wasn’t sure if they were good or bad, he just knew he felt so much .
“I hate it so much.”
“What?”
Again, it was Bruce who was trying to follow Dick. Again, it was Dick who offered an insight into his mind:
“I hate what McKernel did to me. I hate that I miss him. That I… that I dream about his hugs and his shitty ass food, and his… his dumb movie commentary and… and it’s not nightmares. It’s just… I hate that I miss him so much. He ruined me. He ruined the sky.”
“You’re not ruined. Nothing could ever ruin you.”
“But… I haven’t been on a trapeze in a year, Bruce! I haven’t flown! I am… my wings have been clipped! I… who is Dick Grayson, when he can’t fly? Who am I with my feet on the ground?”
“My son. My child. My… my very first Robin. I love you, Dick… and I will do everything to- to help you reclaim the sky.”
Dick was sobbing now, his tears seeping into Bruce’s shirt. Bruce’s arms around him tightened, and it felt freeing to… ease the pain from his heart out into the open. Dick grabbed Bruce’s shirt, just as desperate to hold onto something, someone, when he noticed that Bruce was shaking as well. Crying, just like Dick.
There was serenity in their sorrow, and the more they cried, the more Dick could hear himself talk. He had swallowed so many words in the past months, he had been silent where he wanted to speak, and now they poured out of him, freed by his grief:
“I am so sorry… I… I feel so guilty. And weak. I couldn’t escape, Bruce. I wanted to, I was so desperate to leave, but… I couldn’t…. I was so afraid. I’m still just… I want to stop being scared. It is… it is eating me alive. I can’t have the sky and I can’t even have the ground, because the fear makes… makes me… I am so sick of being afraid, Bruce.”
And Bruce held him. And Bruce listened. And when Dick finally calmed down enough to breathe, Bruce told him about the numbers Dinah had given him.
Bruce told him that everything would be okay.
Dick would fly again.
As long as Bruce believed that, Dick could try believing it as well.
Day TWO-HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR :
Dick opened the door leading into the hallway of his apartment building, dressed to the nines for his job interview at the homeless shelter downtown. They needed people. Dick was people. And he was slowly getting back into the groove of helping others.
Of helping himself.
A shiver ran down his spine when he stepped outside, but Dick took a deep breath (“Center yourself and your emotions, Dick. The panic can’t control you, as long as you’re aware of your surroundings and yourself. Tell me what you see?”) and looked both directions, before he took the stairs to get down to street level.
He was getting better.
He was healing.
He was taking back control.
It wouldn’t be long now, before Nightwing reclaimed the Blüdhaven Sky. It wouldn’t be long now, before Dick would once again spread his wings and fly.