Chapter Text

A sharp sting jolts him awake. It burns even as he huffs and sniffs, trying to expel the smell from his nostrils. His eyes fly open, blinking until he realises a blindfold obscures his surroundings. He stills; listening, feeling.

Someone else breathes. The breath of two someones. Metal around his wrists. His hands dangle by his ears. Ankles shackled too. He’ll have to test the distance later. If smelling salts were needed, that must've been some potent drug they dusted him with. Either strong enough to keep him out for days, or they only needed him out for an hour or two.

Fingers grip against his temples and for a moment he resists until they find purchase along the top edge of his blindfold. Roughly it’s pulled down, scraping over his chin and dangling from his neck. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, blurry shapes sharpening as Dick takes in the room around him.

Beaten combat boots, up to broad shoulders in a dark grey T-shirt, a beard peeking out from a ski mask— Dick blinks again, watching the man’s outline go fuzzy. Rough fingers pat his cheek.

"G'mornin' Nightwing," Ski-mask says. "I apologise, it's prolly not the luxury of Titans Tower you're used to."

Dick's head lolls to the side, feeling heavy. Bruce's voice rings in his ears, Nightwing, status report.

Two broken ribs, Bruce.

Possible concussion: too fuzzy to accurately assess. Broken wrist, maybe? A shallow cut along his ribs. Just one more on the canvas his body became when he first donned the red and green.

Not good enough. Where are you?

Knocked unconscious. No idea.

Not good enough. Who has you?

Older. Likely early forties to fifties if his choice of beard has anything to say bout it. No identifiable markers, tattoos, piercings, scars, or logos on clothing. He's come in once, sometimes with two others, sometimes not. Trying to gain his trust. Trying to get him to—

A punch to the jaw snaps Dick out of his thoughts.

"Hey! Birdie!" Ski-mask waves a hand in front of Dick's eyes. "I'm talkin' to ya'. I'm tryna' talk to my favourite Bat and— and, well..." He looks around as if he misplaced the rest of the Bat family and now's just left with Nightwing. "Well, you're just not doing a very good job of entertaining me! But, you know..." Ski-mask makes a show of trailing off before breaking into a big grin. "I've got quite the show lined up anyway!"

Dick doesn't like how he gets the vague impression he's heard that before... but with more giggling... and green hair. Dick grunts against the gag in his mouth. It digs into his cheeks as his teeth bite around it.

"Oh here, let me help you with that." The man bends to Dick's level and wrenches the cloth out of Dicks mouth. "Hi there, better now?"

Dick strains against the chains, ignoring the protest from his wrists. "You imbecile, when Batman finds you—"

Ski-mask holds up a hand. "Save it, Birdie. We're so far off the grid even your private satellite can't ping the tracker woven into that booby-trapped mask of yours from down here."

Dick grimaces but twists his lips into a mix of a smile. The man's eyes flicker, as if unnerved, but ultimately he maintains his bravado; he just laughs and straightens up. The man knows he's in control, but he's given away far more than he realises.

First, he knows enough about the Nightwing suit and their satellite to be more than a hard-headed thug. He's done his research. Not many people know about the explosives in the Bat’s masks. As far as Dick knows, only the Joker, who lost a hand trying to take off Jason's mask. And Dick doesn't think the Joker wants anyone to know he lost a limb from a Bat who wasn't even breathing at the time.

A pang flares in his chest. Cool rage follows, swelling in his throat, forcing him to take several deep breaths. Good, he thinks. Breathe, focus. Jason isn’t here right now, and this guy didn’t kill him. Make it out of here so you can kill him.

"Since we will be spending a lot of time together, you should have something to call me by. Every muse deserves a name, no?"

Dick's stomach twists.

"Call me..." The man's eyes light up. "# Strange!"

Dick musters his most bored expression. The expression he uses on Tim when the kid suggests they watch Game of Thrones for the umpteenth time.

"How rude," the man pouts. “Say, ‘Good morning, Dr Strange!’”

Dick blinks at him again.

Strange steps forward and slaps Dick. “Say,” he slaps him again. “My,” slap. “Name!” Strange breathes hard, his eyes wild. Dick imagines under the ski mask his face is red and flushed like a tomato. The thought makes him smile.

"That tire you out, ol' man?” His throat is more parched than he expected, but he pushes through. The thought of Jason fresh on his mind as he picks his taunt. “You need to sit down? Damn... I've never been bitch-slapped by a thug before. Can I even call you a thug after those pansy-ass slaps?"

Strange seethes. Dick can almost see the steam coming out his noise. But then something in his eyes clears. The coolness behind them is far scarier.

Dick realises his mistake. Mistaking the idiot in the ski mask to be easily fooled, letting his ego get the better of him, his pride... He swallows a gulp when the man gets real close. Dick's back is pressed against the icy stone bricks but Strange still presses his whole body against him. He turns his face as far away from Strange’s lips as possible.

Strange exhales a hot breathe against Dick's cheek and leans into his ear. Goosebumps rise on his skin and Dick sends a silent prayer thanking Alfred for not leaving any skin exposed in his suit so this man doesn't see the way his skin is roiling. He suppresses a shiver as the man whispers, "You're not the first one to call me pansy, Nightwing. You'll see why soon enough."

He doesn't struggle. He doesn't squirm. He stays perfectly still. In his head, he clenches his jaw tight enough the muscles tick, but in reality he is a statue, neither portraying shock nor fear. Bruce trained him well: Dick puts on his poker face and holds it. It helps to react in his head. To imagine what it would feel like to struggle, imagine how it would feel to be afraid and show it, to throw up the way he wants to, to try to push the man away like he so desperately wants to. But he gives his enemy no satisfaction.

Strange laughs and steps back. Not far enough for Dick’s taste, but it’s something. He puts a hand on Dick’s cheek and turns his face so they’re eye to eye. He stares ahead unfocused, satisfied in taking away the pleasure of a reaction. The man frowns, as if disappointed by Dick's lack of participation in his favourite game. Sighing, he pulls the cloth tied around Dick's neck back up to his mouth, forcing his mouth open.

"Mmm, I don't like this," he says, yanking Dick's head side to side by the gag in his mouth. "Too loose, no?" He reaches around Dick's head and finds the tie in the back. "Good thing I had this installed! Just for you, Little Wing." Strange jerks his head back against the stone with a sharp crack.

Dazed, Dick blinks, eyes refocusing, the sound of his skull banging the wall ringing in the room— or maybe just in his head? He tries to move but can't. Warmth spreads down the back of his neck. The tie around his mouth is somehow attached to the wall, holding his head in place at an odd angle. Dick hopes it's only a simple hook he can lift the cloth out of once the man is gone, get enough leverage to unhook himself with a small hop so he isn’t dangling by his jaw all night.

Strange smiles at Dick from behind his ski mask. "Till next time, Nightwing. I look forward to our next reunion."

When the man leaves Dick in darkness he begins to shiver. He tries to stop himself— there are probably cameras and Strange, if that's even his name, is watching— but his body betrays him. The room is freezing.

Breathe, Dick. Slow your heart, his mind mixes Bruce's voice with his own.

His mind sharpens at the command. He’s Nightwing. Former Robin. He’s a performer used to nerves of the stage and a warrior used to danger. He was born for this, created by this, and trained to beat ski-mask wearing idiots in his sleep.

Ignoring thoughts about what awaits him next time Strange enters his cell, Dick compiles all he knows. The man did his homework, sure. And the man knows his way around a captive, keeping his mood fluctuating and extreme, but even that gives Dick information on him. Second thing ski-mask— Strange— just told him: he's "off the grid." Dick is either under ground, in the ocean, or in space. Seeing as he said "down here," space is unlikely. Besides, there would be oxygen masks somewhere in the room in case of emergency. It's pitch black and Dick can't turn his head to check, but he doesn't recall noting any masks earlier.

So probably not space.

Underground? Dick has no idea how long he was out after they nabbed him in the Exodus quarter of South Gotham. He could've been out for days. He twists his head and rubs his shoulder against his cheek, feeling the days-old stubble there. It couldn't have been more than a day... and, off the top of his head, he can't think of anywhere within a days ride of Gotham with deep enough infrastructure to be undetectable by Wayne Tech's advanced satellite tracking.

He doesn't rule it out, though, because he has no idea how they transported him. A plane or boat could've taken him god knows where. Does Strange have those kinds of resources?

Oracle couldn't track him underwater, not if they went deep enough. Which would take them out of Gotham harbour. For all he knows they could be moving right now in a submarine in the deepest part of the Atlantic. When Strange opened the door a faint hum was distinguishable for a moment. An engine or a heater, perhaps. Although if it's a heater Dick's cell must not be on the list of distributes because he’s freezing. He shivers again, shaking from his toes to his fingertips. His room must be soundproofed either way, because the rumble of whatever that machine was cut off crisply with the open and close of the door.

Dick concludes for the sake of his sanity and feeling somewhat in control of his situation he must be underwater. Either way, his tracker would've worked until they were too far. So at least Batman has his last known location.

The sticky blood congealing against his neck and in his hair make him want to puke. Of all the things, it's his own blood that makes him squeamish. Dick can almost see Alfred's small smile as he gently chides Dick over his disdain for blood.

Master Dick, you bleed just about nightly, the butler would say. One would assume you would have grown a tolerance by now. Dick smiles to himself, allowing his face to display the expression carelessly in privacy.

One of the most important tools to withstand captivity, and probably torture if the past few days have told him anything, is remembering who he’s fighting for. Keeping his head on straight enough to hear Alfred’s voice when he needs it. To hear Bruce demanding more strength from him when his resolve dwindles.

He doesn't care if Strange’s watching him. If he is, let him see Dick looking unfazed by his threats and taunts and violence. Let him watch.

Carefully, Dick twists his hands. The manacles itch everywhere they touch; they must’ve coated them in some irritant. His feet are free on a two foot chain, each foot tethered to the wall but also to each other. Also laced, by the feeling of unbearable itching he can hardly pull his focus from.

The night— "night"— stretches out long before him. In the darkness it’s as if time itself bent along with the swirling lines Dick's brain makes of his surroundings. He tries to stay awake, he does, and if he wants to kid himself he could say he makes it untill whenever morning comes. But more likely he lasts an hour, two at best, before succumbing to the silence, hanging awkwardly from the back of his head, which throbs in a pulse he can almost imagine is the bass to one of Jason's death-metal songs. His arms, dangling on either side of his head, hands loose like he’s imitating a very cold zombie, went numb hours ago and have passed the tingling-asleep phase and are solidly useless and unresponsive.

What he wouldn’t give to hear one of Jason’s records blasting through the manor. He tries to remember the words to one of them in his mind but he was never listening that closely. More than likely, he was tuning them out.

Half asleep, he can hear his brother’s voice singing along through the wall separating their rooms. When he wakes to listen closer, though, the melody dissolves in his head. And he knows he should’ve listened harder.

Dick counts to fifty over and over until he falls back into restless sleep.

The itch wakes him at some point. He twists a couple times, as he would if he were turning over in his bed next to Barbara. The wound on his head is hopefully superficial, he thinks distantly, as he slips into a deeper sleep.

"Nightwing, we've got a distress call near Exodus. Sending you location now."

"Thanks, Oracle, but I'm going to help B at the docks first," Dick replies to the electronic tone of Barbara's voice in his ear.

"No," comes Damian's young voice. "I'll help Father, you go rescue a cat from a tree."

Dick rolls his eyes as he swings from one building to the next. Damian, as if sensing the sass, begins to say something but is cut off by Oracle's crisp voice.

"Nightwing, are you done after this?"

"You bet I am," Dick replies, grateful for the interruption. "I've got a hot date!"

"Repulsive. Restrict love-making to private lines, please, " Damien says as Dick rolls onto a roof without breaking stride. "Lesser Robin, if the cat proves too much for you, you may call me to assist you."

Dick doesn't respond for a moment and his step falters. He careens towards the edge of the building, smacking into a brick wall with a thick "ooph!"

"Nightwing, are you okay?" Comes Barbara's voice.

Dick rubs his stomach for a second, wincing. He shakes his head, "Yeah, all good."

I was waiting for Jason to tell Damian, "Shut up, Demon Brat," he thinks.

Dick sighs, "thought I saw a squirrel or something."

"This is why I will always be the superior Robin," Damian jabs.

Dick braces himself with both hands on the concrete. The silence in his ear and the added absence of static tells him Barbara disconnected everyone. Dick could double tap his link back on but instead he breathes deeply and sighs again. In his head, he responds to Damian for Jason, who would be responding for him and he can almost hear Jay's voice telling the little assassin where to shove it.

"Nightwing," Bab's voice breaks into his reverie. "The distress call was short and quick. Definitely not a cat. Someone called in to report a mugging. I don't know if they called it in as they walked by or what—"

"You're sending Nightwing across town for a mugging? B is pinned by Penguin and I'm going to save some lady's purse?" 

Barbara's voice is cold when she replies. "Everyone matters, D—" She stops. "Nightwing. You used to know that." It’s a continuation of their argument from earlier. Dick scowls. Emotions aren’t meant for the field. Personal business isn’t meant to bleed into this space.

This space for punching and kicking and flying and blocking only. This space forever tainted by the Joker and his goddamn crowbar. This space where Jason died for absolutely nothing at all, no purpose, no reason—

Dick wants to say he does. He wants to tell Barbara, of course he knows everyone matters, and he wants to believe it, but he says nothing. Standing on the roof of an abandoned building in Crime Alley, on his way to the outskirts of Gotham, Dick watches smoky tendrils of pollution drift into the sky and says nothing.

I used to know, Babs, I used to know.

A loud sigh from Barbara's end. Dick feels his mouth twitch in the shadow of a smile. He knows what that sigh means. "Be safe out there Nightwing. I'll be waiting up for you."
Dick taps his link off. Later tonight he'll be grilled by Dr Gordon, resident therapist of Dick's penthouse apartment paid for by a guilty-feeling Bruce.

"I love you, Babs," he says to the lights of Gotham city's draconian skyscrapers.

When Dick approaches the intersection Oracle specified, he passes by several lingering thugs. He hears it just before he summits the ledge of one building and redirects his trajectory, twisting to be able to repel himself down instead of crossing to another rooftop.

He doesn't think it strange for a mugging reported ten minutes ago to still be going on. He hears desperation in the voice of a young boy and is landing in the damp alley within seconds. The larger form lets the bag go and the kid falls backwards into a puddle.

"Kid, get behind me," Dick says, spreading his arms as if he’s a human shield to protect the boy.

The kid turns. "Woah! Nightwing!" He’s starstruck.

There’s a man here with a knife and the kid’s oggling Nightwing?

"Get behind me!"

The larger form steps toward the kid, taking the shape of a hulking man. Dick's a breath from pouncing when he sees the twenty. The kid takes it and scrambles away, disappearing around the corner.

Dick reaches up and discretely taps his ear twice. Without immediately signing on, Barbara knows he's indicating for analysis.

"Alright, big guy, you got me here, what do you want?" He asks, crossing his arms. "I'll have you know, I have plans tonight, got a smokin’ date already if that's what you were hoping to ask me for."  Barbara is likely already running facial recognition by now. Her silence indicates this guy's probably not in the jail or Arkham systems.

The thug smiles, a bit too mischievously for Dick's liking, as he shouts, "Boys, NOW!"

Dick leaps up, flipping backwards. Just as he thought, there's no one behind him, nobody approaching from either side of the alley. He bounces off his heels and reaches a fire escape, swinging up the rungs three at a time. Whoever he’s calling to, they aren’t in the alleyway.

He's holding onto the outside of the third floor railing when everything flickers sepia-brown in front of him. Sparkles filter down, covering the thug on the ground below him, who has a mask over his nose and mouth Dick didn't see him pull out. Everything shines. The lights from windows and streetlamps flare up, blinding him. He squints, reaching up to cover his face. He hears Barbara calling for him. But in reaching to cover his eyes he's let go of the railing and as the dust floods his nostrils his muscles spasm and he looses his grip completely.

Barbara must've accessed his feed because she screams in his ear as he hurtles towards the ground.

Barbara sounds so scared, he thinks as he's falling. Barbara, why are you afraid? he wants to ask. But his head is so hazy and he feels so tired and all he can see is the ground rushing up to meet him.

...Don't be afraid, Barbara. It’s okay.