A/N: This chapter contains suicidal themes and non-explicit discussion of canonical rape.

Chapter 21: Becalmed

Who took away the part so essential to the whole?
Left you a hollow body, skin and bone?
—Tracy Chapman, "Remember the Tinman" (excerpt)

DETECTIVE COMICS

"Nightwing!"

Fear ripped the cry from Batman's throat, breaking his stupor; reflex sent him diving away from Red Hood's line of fire and towards the edge of the roof. One gauntlet-clad hand missed Nightwing's by a millimetre; the other threw out a batarang line.

The cord swung around and pulled taut as it successfully halted Nightwing's fall, but Batman had no time to dwell on the way the weight wrenched his shoulder. Ignoring their adversary, he snatched up his grapple with his other hand and fired it at an opposing building, bringing both him and Nightwing down safely and away from Red Hood. Only once he was certain that they were not being followed was he able to pause in the shelter of an alleyway and kneel to lay Nightwing down upon the damp ground.

"Nightwing," he murmured, tapping the pale, motionless face before him. "Nightwing, respond."

Nightwing's pulse beat steadily under Batman's fingertips; Nightwing's uniform bore no evidence of either bullet wounds or lacerations. But it was when Batman surveyed Nightwing's lower body that his stomach dropped. For the batarang line had caught him right around the brace on his bad leg, putting intense pressure on the still-healing wound.

Batman rushed to cut the line away, while the steady rain trickled incongruously from ledges and gutters around them. "Nightwing. Nightwing!"

Nightwing stirred. His head turned a little on the flat concrete, while his hands unsuccessfully scrabbled for purchase. Then, he lurched upwards and away from Batman, breathing in tight, shallow gasps as he cried out, "Don't—touch—me!"

Bruce lowered the batarang he had been using, making sure to keep his hands where Dick could see them. "Calm down," he said. "There's still more cord around your leg."

"I'll do it," said Dick, snatching the batarang out of Bruce's grip and immediately setting to severing the lines one by one. Despite the dimness, Bruce could see how much Dick's hands were shaking. He longed to help, but he recognised the lines of tension in Dick's posture and movements, so instead he forced himself to raise one hand to his ear and activate his com-link.

"Onyx!" he barked. "Status?"

There was a brief pause, then she answered weakly, "Here. Bleeding's stopped. I've called some of my boys to get me out. You get the Hood."

"Acknowledged," he said, disregarding this last missive. "Batman out." He turned his attention back to Dick, who had succeeded in removing the last of his bindings. Their eyes met briefly—Dick's white lenses were wide and still—then both spoke at the same time as Bruce's relief gave way to anger at his son's recklessness.

"Have you lost your mind?" Bruce snapped.

"What is wrong with you?" Dick cried.

Shock rendered them briefly silent, but Dick was the first to burst again into speech.

"What the hell is this?" He gestured to the dark pieces of cord that lay beside and beneath him. "I was fine!"

"Your grapple's still stowed."

"I was reaching for it when your line caught me!"

"It's quicker to take out a grapple than to throw and land a batarang line. Try again."

"I… I…" Dick glowered. "You want to talk about reaction times? The way you froze back there—you could've been shot!"

This last declaration, delivered as it was with such unusual vehemence, rang a bell within Bruce's mind that was impossible to ignore, so that he was forced to pause and identify the unwelcome sensation that was flooding his senses and sending his nerves into overdrive. All unanswered questions about Red Hood would have to wait, for Bruce had been abruptly confronted by something else so dark and gripping in its terror that it could not be put into words, only felt with a grim foreboding.

Everything about Dick was reactionary, deliberately provoking Bruce towards a conflict that would ultimately deflect from what was almost certainly of utmost importance. Dick's wild desperation reminded Bruce far too much of a night like this, not so long ago, when Dick had set out alone to confront Tarantula, and then gathered all his courage to confess what had happened in Blüdhaven, in hope of gaining absolution.

I don't know what I would have done next. It was like the whole world had fallen apart, like the ground was shaking beneath me.

The unharnessed intensity that Bruce saw in Dick now had burst forth to shield something hidden deep and private, and Bruce cursed himself when he realised that he should have pressed the issue when he had first known that Dick was keeping something back about what had happened about Blockbuster's death. Whatever it was, it ran deeper than a broken oath and was as painful as shattered glass. And so, Bruce refused to let his anger rise. Instead, he shifted his hand to his belt and pressed the remote for the Batmobile.

Dick's gaze tracked the movement. "Batman?" he asked, voice quiet. "What's going on?"

The obvious trepidation sent a lance through Bruce's heart. "In a moment," he said. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," said Dick, tentatively moving his bad leg. "Are you going to go after Red Hood?"

Bruce bowed his head. "No."

He had been selfish. Against his better judgement, he had let Dick come with him because he had wanted to see if Dick, too, recognised something in Red Hood that breathed life and truth into the impossible—wanted to confirm whether or not what he had observed for the past few weeks was a manifestation of his own longings. Because, out of all of them, Dick would know. But the Dick Grayson who was with him tonight was a shadow of his former self, sombre and withdrawn, as if he were one step away from succumbing to a past he could not escape.

Bruce should have acknowledged the signs. He should have pressed the issue back in the Batcave, forced Dick to stop and honestly evaluate his own state of mind. But opportunities had been slipping through his fingers while he tried to gather the courage to speak, and in the meantime, he himself had been confronted by ghosts from his own past and psyche.

"I don't understand," Dick was saying. He had pulled himself to his feet and was leaning against the wall, panting slightly. "Are you sure he's not following us, either?"

"Yes." Bruce knew there was more he could have said, but the words would not leave his numb lips. Thankfully, the Batmobile drew up silently beside them in that moment, seeming ludicrously large in the narrow alleyway. The doors opened.

Bruce pointed to the passenger seat. "Get in."

Dick gave him a sideways glance. "Are you coming too?"

"Yes. Get in."

He had not meant to sound so terse, but trepidation roughened the edges of his tone. Dick scowled at the sharpness of the order, but got in the car, and Bruce began to drive.

Their journey was tense and silence, save Dick's breathing, which was heavy in the stillness. Bruce spared a glance at the dark-haired figure beside him, and upon noting that Dick was trembling and sweaty, gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his joints had begun to ache before he realised and loosened his hold.

When the Batmobile turned down the long, dark road that led to the Batcave, Dick ventured to speak.

"Bruce, I don't…"

"Wait." Bruce kept his eyes on the road, but from the corner of his vision, he saw the stubborn set of Dick's jaw.

"Fine."

The Batmobile screeched to a halt in the centre of the cave. Immediately, Bruce exited and strode away, not looking back at Dick. He needed to regain control, ground himself before he said something he knew he would regret. A memory of his own fumbled words from several years before rose to his mind.

It doesn't really change anything. It's just the only way I—the only way I could think of to convey that—that—

And the Dick of back then had mercifully understood.

I get it. And I love you, too.

Bruce stalked to the computer, dropped into the chair and pressed his head in his hands as he fought to keep his breaths steady. Distantly, he sensed that Dick had left the Batmobile and was standing a few paces away, watching him.

There's one thing I need you to promise me, Bruce had insisted, thoughts straying to the bright colours that Jason had once worn.

Anything, Dick had replied instantly.

The closeness of the desk and the chair felt oppressive. Moving away, Bruce paused in front of the Robin memorial, jaw clenched and eyes locked on the small domino mask and yellow cape. A dam inside of him threatened to burst—a dam that had been keeping back a debilitating wave of dread ever since Nightwing had almost been shot.

Nothing's gonna happen to me, Bruce. I was trained by Batman, remember? I'm not going anywhere.

The words were as bracing and optimistic as Bruce remembered, and yet they only served to fuel his current disquiet. How long had Dick been like this—trapped in a haze of myopic self-destruction, intent on nothing else but wrestling control the only way he knew how? Worse still, how could Bruce not have seen it?

There was a light pressure on his shoulder. A hand, clad in Nightwing's blue-striped glove.

"Hey," said Dick, his tone soft. In the reflection of the glass, Bruce could see that he had removed his domino mask; his blue eyes were red-rimmed and concerned. "For what it's worth… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have blamed you. I know I should've been quicker to—"

Bruce rounded on Dick. "You think I'm ups— you think I'm angry because you weren't quick enough? No. You made me a promise." The day I adopted you. We were standing on this very spot. "All I have ever asked is for you to have a sense of self-preservation. And here you are, trying to kill yourself!"

Dick's jaw dropped and he staggered, eyes wide. "No—I… Bruce, it's not like that."

"Then, explain."

Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair and inadvertently making it stand on end. He swallowed and looked away for a long moment before replying.

"It was a stupid thing to say. I just meant… I should've been more careful. That's all."

The horrible twisting in Bruce's stomach did not ease in the slightest. He was glad he had not removed his cowl; he did not think he was otherwise capable of keeping his emotions hidden from view.

How can I make you believe that you need to take care of yourself? That I need you to take care of yourself?

"Yes," he said, turning back to gaze at the blurry Robin insignia before him and forcing his voice harsh so that Dick would not hear the choke in his throat. "Yes, you should have. You have no… idea… what you mean to—what you would—how could you think that you—" Damn it!

Behind him, Dick made a small, wounded sound that punched Bruce right in his core.

Bruce spun around. "Do not," he ground out, "ever lose sight of your worth—in this family, to your brother, to your friends…" His words faded as he blinked to clear his vision and whispered, "To me."

Dick stared. "Bruce," he murmured, "I don't… I don't understand what this is all about."

No, you can't… I'm poisonous…

Bruce's eyes were stinging. He dropped his gaze and turned away, but it was still several moments before he was able to speak.

"I want to know," he said, "what it will take for you to stop punishing yourself."

"Bruce…"

But Bruce continued as if Dick hadn't interrupted.

"I could reiterate that I have forgiven you for letting Blockbuster die. I could remind you that you are the best of me, and that I am prouder of you than I have adequate words to express. I could remind you that there is only one definition of forever that has any meaning—that of a legacy passed down from generation to generation. I could tell you that you have always been my right hand and my strength—the greatest proof that someone can be surrounded by darkness and yet remain untainted. I could tell you that I love you, always and without condition—but it won't mean anything until you forgive yourself."

Bruce's heart beat fast as he cast these last words into the open space before him. Dick did not brush them aside, but neither did he accept their reassurances; instead, he simply remained completely still, avoiding Bruce's eyes as if they held a truth he was unable to believe.

Bruce decided to try a new angle. "Come," he said, moving back to the computer desk. He sat down in one chair and waited until Dick had done the same before saying carefully, "I read your report on the Blockbuster case. While detailed, it was less illuminating than I had expected."

Was that a tremor he detected in Dick's hands? "What do you mean?" Dick asked.

Using the Batcomputer, Bruce navigated to the relevant case file entry. "While you were ill," he said, "I was… concerned about your state of mind. You were confused and delirious, to the point of saying some things that were… troubling. With no sign of an immediate recovery, and aware of the precarious state of organised crime in Gotham at the time, I made the decision to send to Robin and Batgirl on a temporary assignment to Blüdhaven to investigate Blockbuster's death. While they were there, I received the following intel from Robin." He nodded at the screen.

ROBIN: NIGHTWING HASN'T BEEN SEEN IN BLÜDHAVEN SINCE BLOCKBUSTER'S DEATH. HE AND TARANTULA DIDN'T REPORT THE MURDER OR ANYTHING, JUST LEFT TOWN ON HIS BIKE AND HEADED NORTH. I FOUND NEWS OF A BREAK-IN AT A BED-AND-BREAKFAST NEAR HARTFORD. THEY DIDN'T TAKE OR DAMAGE ANYTHING VALUABLE, JUST STAYED A NIGHT AND LIT OUT BEFORE IT GOT BUSY.

FROM THERE, I KNEW WHAT I WAS LOOKING FOR AND WAS ABLE TO FOLLOW THEIR TRAIL BETTER. THEY HAD A RUN-IN WITH COPPERHEAD IN A CHURCH IN LAWRENCE, MASSACHUSETTS. AND THEN, IT SEEMS LIKE THEY EVENTUALLY DROVE BACK SOUTH, BECAUSE ALFRED CALLED DICK THE SAME NIGHT THE GANG WAR BROKE OUT, AND DICK WAS ON THE ROAD WITH TARANTULA BACK THEN, BUT HE WAS IN ATLANTIC CITY BY THE TIME YOU CALLED HIM BACK TO GOTHAM.

As Dick read the report, Bruce studied him. Dick had already known that Tim and Cassandra had stayed in Blüdhaven. That much had been clear ever since he had confronted Tarantula. But his own report, like his earlier retelling to Bruce, had notably omitted the events that had happened between Blockbuster's death and Dick's return to Gotham.

"I was gratified to receive this report," Bruce said, "because it revealed several valuable pieces of information to me that had not previously been made apparent."

"What…" Dick's voice came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat and asked, "What information?"

Bruce reached up and removed his cowl. He forced himself to look Dick in the eyes as he spoke, keeping his tone low and words measured.

"You were an extended state of shock. Tarantula had a hold on you so great that you were unable to report the Blockbuster incident to a single member of the police—including your former captain, who had generously offered you both a lethal weapon and the legal protection with which to use it. You were the victim of maltreatment from someone you trusted. Do not think it escaped my notice that you omitted details that are only present in Robin's report. You need to be honest—if not with me, then with yourself—about what happened after Blockbuster's death. In the meantime…"

Bruce wrenched his eyes away from Dick's. He turned to the computer desk and pulled out a wooden box from the back of the top drawer, while Dick watched.

"I intended on giving this to you some time ago," he said. And, again, more recently. "The box was part of a gift from my father to my mother. The contents… are my own contribution."

Dick slowly, wonderingly took the small box and eased it open. It was a square dark brown case with gilt hinges, and its rounded lid was carved with a beautiful design of lilies and daisies, though the delicate lines had been worn down considerably by years of handling. But on a red cushion inside the box lay a bronze compass—a perfect replica of the one that had adorned the cover of Dick's beloved copy of Adrift But Not Becalmed.

"I had that made for your eighteenth birthday," Bruce continued. "Circumstances that I now regret meant that I was… unable to give it you back then."

Dick was silent, head bowed as he traced the edges of the compass. Although apprehensive about this uncharacteristic behaviour, a small part of Bruce was glad—it gave him ample time to rally his scattered, fear-driven thoughts into a conclusion he deemed suitable.

"It may surprise you to learn that I do not require a detailed report from you about the days you spent travelling with Tarantula. However, what you are holding is a—a symbol. A gesture to show that I…" Bruce's voice cracked. "That I'm proud of you. I know what it took for you to tell me about your part in Blockbuster's death, and I want you to know and believe that you can always talk to me about the things that—that happen to you. Even if… even if it's not today, or ever… it's important that you know." Inwardly, Bruce cursed his lack of eloquence, but after a long moment, Dick finally raised his head.

"Bruce," he said in a hushed voice, still clutching the compass. His eyes were red. "I don't know how much of it makes sense. It's like after my parents died. There are… gaps."

Bruce frowned. "In your memory?"

Dick nodded. "I know some things happened—everything I told you before was true, and the rest matches up with what Tim found out—but after Blockbuster, nothing's clear until you called me back to Gotham, except…"

Bruce waited.

"I know I should tell you—or someone," Dick said miserably. "I just don't know how." He made a clumsy, helpless gesture, curling in on himself as he gripped the compass like a lifeline.

But Bruce knew Dick. He knew him so well that his mind jolted at Dick's words and the alarm bells became so loud that they were impossible to explain away. The low self-esteem, the passivity, the shame and guilt and minimising and depression and anxiety, the nightmares and mood swings and isolation…

And the panic attack. The fucking panic attack that spoke of more than just Dick's guilt over Blockbuster's death, because Bruce would never forget the way he'd grasped Dick's arms to ground him and Dick had pushed him away twice, mumbling:

No… stop… I don't want… I'm sorry…

Anger rose within Bruce, as powerful as the vice-like grip of terror on his heart, but he pushed it back, and though he was sure that at last he knew what was wrong, he waited for Dick to form the words.

"After the gunshot, I… I couldn't breathe." Dick's unfocused gaze rested on the compass in his lap. "I went to the roof for some air, and C— Tarantula followed me. I was kind of stunned, I guess. I couldn't think—she pushed me down—and I…"

You what?

Dick flushed, as if he had somehow heard Bruce's silent interjection. "You know what, forget it. It doesn't matter."

Bruce swallowed. "I think it does." Tell me I'm wrong.

Dick made to push himself to his feet, but Bruce reached out, putting a hand on his arm, and Dick shot him a watery glare.

"It was… we had sex, okay? Right there on the rooftop over Blockbuster's dead body. And then we left on my motorbike. Fled the scene like a pair of criminals—just like Tim said. And that wasn't the only time. But, like I said, it doesn't fucking matter…" His words faded and he wrenched himself out of Bruce's grip, eyes glimmering with both humiliation and frustration.

Bruce's stomach turned over. There was no satisfaction in being correct. "She took advantage of you," he said, and the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

Dick shook his head as he set the box and compass on the desk. "It—it wasn't like that! She was just… I mean, I told her to stop, but I could've pushed her off—I should have fought—"

"Then why didn't you?"

Dick's face crumpled. "I don't know."

"Did you want it to happen?"

"No! God, I—"

"Then why didn't you stop her?"

"I DON'T KNOW! I couldn't move, I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe—and then she—she—" With a muffled sob, Dick jerked away from Bruce and stumbled towards the Batcave's bathroom, one hand covering his mouth. Bruce followed quickly enough to see Dick collapse to his knees and violently empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Awkwardly, Bruce rubbed his son's back until Dick had finished retching.

"Easy, Dick. You're all right." Once he was sure that Dick was able to sit upright by himself, Bruce stood and filled a glass with water. He held it to Dick's lips.

"Rinse," he commanded, in the same way he had when Dick was thirteen and had brought home the stomach flu. The familiarity cleared his head. He had dealt with a distraught Dick before. He could do this. He knew it, and yet he had to consciously implement a breathing exercise to stop his heart from thudding painfully as he watched Dick slowly, slowly attempt to pull himself together.

Dick rinsed and spat. His eyes were red. A trail of saliva dribbled from his chin; he wiped it away with a shaky hand.

"Fuck," he whispered.

Bruce slid a hand under Dick's chin, tilting it so that their eyes met.

"I apologise for triggering that reaction. But there is something of utmost importance that you need to realise."

Dick gave a tiny nod. A tear slid down his cheek and towards the toilet bowl. Bruce brushed it away with a thumb, but more tears followed, quicker than the first. He waited for Dick to compose himself before continuing.

"Dick, listen to me carefully. I have told you already. You were severely emotionally compromised. What you described was a panic attack and a nervous breakdown. Throughout the past few weeks I have been witness to your mental state. I will not allow this misplaced self-blame to continue. What happened was not your fault."

"But…"

"I will repeat it until you believe it. What happened was not your fault."

"I…"

"You said that you could have pushed her off. You also said that you couldn't move or breathe or even think. Which is the truth?"

"The second." Dick's voice was barely audible.

"If you could not move, then she…" Bruce faltered. He knew that his words sounded too detached, too clinical, even though they were in contrast to how he felt. He decided to try a different tack. "From what you have told me," he began slowly, "you were physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. You were running on empty. You told her to stop. The fact that she did not is not a consequence of your own failings. Is that understood?"

Dick opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"Dick."

"There's always a choice to be better," Dick whispered, pulling himself out of Bruce's grasp. "You taught me that. I failed her. I deserved—"

"Stop." Bruce kept his voice low; snapping would do him no favours. "You put your trust in someone who betrayed it. You should not have trusted her, but I fail to understand how her betrayal is your fault."

Dick looked confused. "She didn't betray me. She helped me pin Blockbuster. It was her brother who destroyed the recording, and my fault for not making a copy."

"I am not," Bruce said evenly, "referring to before Blockbuster's death. What happened immediately after, and in the days following, was not your fault—nor was it deserved."

Dick tipped his head back, staring up at the ceiling as he rested against the bathroom wall. Tears still escaped him; he abruptly pressed his face into his hands, shoulders shaking with near-silent sobs.

Bruce took a deep breath, fortifying himself. He pushed himself to his feet, closed the toilet and flushed it. Then he sat down again, resting a hand on Dick's knee as he watched him. Neither of them spoke for some time.

At last, Dick moved his hands to his lap.

"But that's not me." Dick's voice was small, and Bruce felt his heart shatter as Dick continued, "I—I don't understand why I couldn't move."

There were a hundred rational explanations on the tip of Bruce's tongue.

You were in shock.

She took advantage of you.

You had just been forced to make an impossible decision.

You had no energy to do anything else.

Instead, Bruce wrapped his arms around Dick, pressing his nose to Dick's hair. Dick stilled, then relaxed into his father's hold, hugging Bruce's arm to his own chest.

"I think I need a break," he murmured. "Not just from Nightwing. From… everything. I've been having a tough time, recently."

Bruce placed a kiss in Dick's hair.

"Stay at the Manor, Dick. Take your time. When you're ready, I'll be here. I will always be here."

Dick made an indistinct noise. Then he mumbled into Bruce's chest, "Thank you. For helping me talk about… it. I know talking's not really your thing."

Bruce grunted in acknowledgement, glad that Dick could not see his slight smile.

Dick let out a breathy sound that could almost have been a chuckle; the warmth soothed Bruce's bones. "And that's more like it."

Bruce just held Dick tighter.

A/N: Only a few more chapters to go! Working on this story, especially this last chapter, is generating an absurd amount of drafts and cut scenes, so I may post some on my Dreamwidth (linked on my profile) once the fic is complete (if there's interest). In the meantime, that's my place for posting extra notes and behind-the-scenes material.

Sources:

The flashback dialogue of Bruce adopting Dick is from Batman: Gotham Knights #17 (Batman: Matatoa).

The sexual assault that Dick refers to happened in Nightwing (1996) #93, and the rest of the events before Dick returned to Gotham are from #94-95.