This is a sequel to "Smoke, Sweat, and Waterfalls." You'll probably want to resd that one first. Pretty angsty, and a lot of feels. I don't know where this came from; it just did...
DC NOT MINE
He's just a few minutes too late. The skid marks outside the warehouse are fresh, the footprints in the snow still clearly visible despite the rapid fall of snowflakes. Footprints is a relative term though. True, there are some tracks. He knows those shoes. They'd been at the last two scenes. The taking, and the removing. Two different events. But the imprints of the shoes are familiar. And not in a good way.
They belong to the Joker.
Just the thought of it sends a chill running up Dick's spine, unrelated to the flurry surrounding him. The second set of prints - prints really is the best word for them, he thinks- are a different kind of familiar. Part of the thought warms his heart, because he's one step closer. Part of it chills him, because they aren't really prints. More like tracks. Two tracks leading from the door. Thick lines that occasionally break. The breaks are always around shoe prints that don't match. Smaller than the Joker's.
They're Damian's. That's the only explanation.
The thick lines are from where he was dragged out of the warehouse. The breaks and sparse indents are from where he finally decided to fight.
It worries him that he hadn't fought more.
Upon further examination, Dick discovers that after the sparse prints- no wait, that's not right. After the struggle (yes, that's better), the lines are deeper. As if Damian had suddenly gotten heavier.
As if he'd suddenly been knocked out.
Dick doesn't get another good chance to investigate, because the wind is getting faster. Snow is quickly filling in the dents. He has to go inside.
Dick steps into the warehouse, hearing the heavy door creak and slam behind him. He jumps slightly, even though he had just opened it. It just shows how high his nerves are, how tense he is.
But now he's in a hallway. A cold, gray, damp hallway. The wind is rattling, howling, making a horrible, low-pitched groaning. He can't help but worry. What if Damian had fallen asleep listening to this horrible sound? What if that's what had filled the silence, the sound of death moans, like a foreshadowing?
Dick cringes and shoves the thought from his mind. He doesn't have time for that. Not now. He's in the cape and cowl. He can't panic. That won't help him.
Panic won't get Damian found.
His footsteps echo in the dank corridor, the footsteps and rustling of the cape heard even over the protesting wind. The death moans, the teasing.
All you'll find is death. All that's left is a corpse. You've failed him. He's dying.
No, not now. No panic, no fear. Batman doesn't feel these things. Bruce sure didn't, so neither will Dick. There isn't time.
A room to his left is open, pale light streaming through. He pushes the door open silently, stepping inside.
This room automatically feels heavier, with no explanation. Somebody's been in there; he can tell. The floor is three different colors.
Gray is the standard color of the warehouse. Hospitals are white (he hates hospitals) and this warehouse is gray. Most warehouses are gray, now that he thinks about it. Why aren't they ever- no, stay focused, Grayson.
Black is a mound of cloth. He recognizes it immediately. It's his cape and cowl, the one that Joker had literally ripped off of him last time they'd fought. It had been the first time Dick had encounter the Joker since Damian's abduction by said man. Retrospectively, he'd been unfocused. Bruce would have been ashamed to see his eldest "son" so obviously not-Batman. His worry for Damian had been the only reason Joker had snatched the cloth at all. Thank goodness Dick always has a domino mask in his belt.
Red. Then there is red on the floor, spattered chaotically across the room. Considering who had last been here, there's only one explanation as to what the substance could be, and just the thought of it makes Dick's skin crawl. It's blood. More specifically, Damian's blood.
His little brother's blood.
His Robin's blood.
My partner, my soldier, my fault.
He doesn't want to look at the blood. He doesn't want to look at the splattered fluid, figure out exactly what happened based on the crimson droplets. So he focuses his attention on something else.
The black cloth.
His cape.
My mistake. My failure.
Dick- no, Batman- kneels onto the ground, taking the material in his hands. Part of it's wet. He can tell, even with the gloves on. It's not blood though. It's not dark enough.
Something tumbles out of the folds of the cape, hitting the floor with a clatter. Dick sets the cape aside, taking the plastic device that had fallen.
It's a tape recorder. Old fashioned, and already set with a message. Frowning, he presses the play button.
"Hello, Batsy!" Giggles crawl through the tiny speaker, and Dick nearly drops the device in shock. The Joker. The Joker left him a message. Not that he should have expected any less.
"Don't worry. Your little Robbie is fine for now. Well... Fine is really an objective term." More laughter. His fist clenched around the discarded cape.
"I thought I'd give you a chance to hear your lost bird. Just for a little bit. Think of it as a... Souvenir." He laughs again, and there's a scuffling noise.
Dick knows what comes next. He's been on the other end of this message. He's been the Robin on the other end, forced to send a message to Batman, forced to scream for the madman, just to torture his father as well.
What comes out is almost worse.
Choked breath, almost trembling. He knows it's Damian. He can just tell. The boy hiccups into silence, only his breathing heard for a while. For a few moments, Dick is sure that he's just panting for breath. But then he hears sniffling, and then he realizes what he's hearing.
Damian is crying.
That's what the wetness on the cape is. It's his youngest brother's tears.
The crying turns to sobs, and he can hear rustling from the speakers. Dick can almost imagine the scene: Damian wrapping himself in the cape and crying his eyes out.
But it doesn't make sense.
Damian doesn't cry. Not usually.
Of course, he's never been kidnapped by the Joker before. But still. Why is he crying?
Damian's speaking now, and it takes Dick a few minutes to realize what he's saying.
Please forgive me.
I'm sorry.
Over and over and over.
"I'm sorry," whispers his brother's voice, imprisoned in the stupid recording. "Please forgive me, I'm sorry. I failed you. I'm sorry."
There's more rustling, and then the Joker's voice returns. "Poor birdie. Do you know why he's crying?" A door slams shut. "He thinks you're dead."
Dick freezes as laughter spins out of the recording, bouncing around the room. Joker told him he was dead. Damian thought he'd died. That he was alone, abandoned.
Damian was crying for him.
Dick slowly sits down as the Joker's laughter dies away. The laughter is replaced by silence for a while, and Dick can hear the scraping that means Joker had shoved the recorder under the door again. A few seconds later, Damian's sobs can be heard again.
Dick doesn't realize he's crying until a tear splatters onto the floor. He hurries to wipe it away, to scrub the tears off his cheeks. Batman doesn't cry.
But then again, Damian doesn't either.
Didn't.
And now that he thinks about it, he'd seen Bruce cry before. More than once.
So maybe it is okay to cry.
He wipes the tears away as more scraping comes from the recording.
"Tell ya what, Batsy. I'll give you a chance to find him. Look around the room; I'll leave you a clue. Ta ta for now!"
More laughter sounds through the device before the recording clicks to a stop. It takes Dick a few seconds to come back to his senses. He stands up slowly, ready to look around.
I'm sorry Damian. I'll find you.