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He awakens in darkness. That, even before his disorientation, is the first thing Dick notices.
He blinks but his eyesight doesn't accumulate. Purposely blinks again; the same.
Distantly, he is aware of the fact that the room around him is cold. That he is laying down, feels the hardwood beneath him. But for now he focuses on not blinking because it takes thirty seconds for the human body to fully accumulate to night vision. If someone keeps their gaze still and simply waits, they'll adjust to the dark. He counts it down patiently.
Frowns when at the twenty second mark when his eyesight has yet to so much as shift. Because it takes thirty seconds, sure, but it's a gradual process. So there's always a point where the eye becomes almost accustom to the dark that should be waited out until it is fully accustomed; but, here, at the twenty second mark, he hasn't hit that partial almost there. Well that's not normal.
Thirty seconds comes, goes, and he still only sees darkness.
This, he thinks, is more than just a dark room. This is a room utterly devoid of any light at all. In that case, it'll be roughly about eight minutes before his photopic vision adjusts enough to give him any detail and, failing that, in forty five minutes his scotopic vision will max out in adjusting. He just has to wait and see - ha. Wait and see. He might not be as disorientated as he thought.
Still disorientated to not be able to remember how he got here or why. His head rings a little, his ears a bit too; he really hopes he doesn't have tinnitus actually.
There's not much space in this room. He frowns. The disorientation puts a damper on his thought process, he'll admit. It's taken him a while to think of getting off the floor. He goes to move one hand to push himself off the floor - except his hand doesn't move to the side very much at all before he encounters walls.
He hesitates. A storage closet perhaps? It would explain the narrowness. It'd have to be an empty one though or other wise he'd be laying on a bucket and would have brooms falling on top of him. He's speaking from personal experience here when he knows that storage closets are not fun hiding places.
Since the walls are so close together, he'll sit up. In a moment. Once he gets his head together a bit more. As he continues to lay down while collecting himself, he takes stock of his condition beyond that of his ringing head, slight confusion, and minor lapse in memory.
The first thing he notices is that his escrima sticks are gone. He knows this because they would have been an uncomfortable pressure beneath his back and yet he lays flat. The room is narrow enough that he cannot move to check behind his back but he is certain.
There's a thought that comes to him and he tests it. He moves his hand from the walls at his side and reaches upwards -
Hits ceiling.
Pushes, tests the wood's give. Immovable ceiling. He lowers his hands.
Oh. Oh. Okay, he's right then. He's not in a room at all.
He's in some sort of box.
That does not, he thinks, bode well.
This changes things. The enclosure around him, rather than it being a room. He goes from slow, cautious surveillance in the dark as his eyes adjust to a time limit now.
Enclosures mean a lack of exposure to outside elements. Sooner or later, he's going to run out of air. He's very much hoping for it to be later. He doesn't know how long the clock's been ticking, when his countdown started. He doesn't even remember how he got here - but there's some images that are forming blurs in his fuzzy mind as he kind of starts the beginning of being able to remember.
Regardless of all the factors he's missing to form the full picture, he has a mission here. A critical one.
The idea is simple in theory. The recourse of actions to take flashes through his mind: escape, monitor time, subjugate the respiratory response.
First means of escape is the self reliant path. He presses his hands against the surface of the wood around him, pushes without expecting much and unsurprisingly does not wield any results from doing so. He snaps up the lock pick tool from the tip of his gloved fingertips but this isn't a lock and the pick wedges semi uselessly into wood instead of splintering it for potential prying apart.
Second means of escape is reaching out for backup. His escrima sticks might be gone but his mask - and thus his com - remains. He maneuvers in the small box to raise his hand to activate his com and the pressure switch automatically broadcast his geolocation.
"Nightwing requesting extraction," He says. Waits. No reply.
No reply. No one's on the coms or able to respond yet. Or, the more likely scenario because there's always someone monitoring the com line, either something or someone is deliberately blocking the signal from transmitting.
"Is anybody there?" He verifies. Silence answers him. Still he persists, "Nightwing requesting extraction. It's time sensitive, and I'd really appreciate the assist."
Nothing.
Escape's a no-go for now. He'll come back to that later if possible.
At least his internal mental clock should be accurate enough to gauge time as it passes - or at least accurate enough to the point that he can begin to formulate and hypothesize how long he has left, because he does know that the lack of sunlight messes up the circadian rhythms but he's not exactly tested it in a situation like this.
Which leaves the third action as the only option really. Breath control and respiratory subjugation. So Dick holds his breath on every second inhale. Too often implemented and he risks gasping in a bigger inhale than he would originally have done. So every second time he draws in breath, he holds it in his chest. Tries to slow down his heartbeat as he tries to ration his air. Counts to five, lets his exhale out slowly - but not too slowly or he again risks requiring a larger inhale afterwards, which defeats the purpose.
He needs to be mindful here. He breathes very conscientiously. Abdominal muscles falling and rising in tight control; it is by far more adeptly disciplined than breathing by way of chest. It's second nature to breathe with his stomach like this; he's trained while doing so for countless hours; and he's purposely meditated to bolster breath control until it became a habit so far ingrained in him that he even breathes this way while he's not exercising.
Expansion of abdomen as he inhales, contraction of abdomen as he exhales.
The silence here in combination to the darkness is almost maddening. It makes him more aware of the noises of his own breathing, makes him too focused on the sound and prohibits him from falling into an easiness or a subconscious rhythm. He is, at all times, aware that his breathing is unnatural and contrived.
Aware at all times that he needs to make each and every one count.
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure this out. He blames the disorientation he'd awoken with that obviously is affecting him, muddling his thinking process and hazing his logic.
But he does figure it out. That he's not in a box, per se. No, not a box exactly. It's so much worse than being trapped in a mere box.
He's in a coffin.
Dick has been buried alive.
He's suspects that he's going to be a tad bit claustrophobic after this. At least for a week or two. Just a hunch. Intuition. Or, okay, maybe it's the absolutely maddening focus on breathing in, breathing out, and controlling it with strict count and single-minded focus.
Again. And again. And again. And again -
But hey. It's better than the alternative where he doesn't breathe at all.
Dick still isn't sure how he even got into this mess.
The last things that he can remember are all blurry. The disorientation he's woken up with had, for the most part, cleared away but it still lingers and makes it more difficult. He's a little woozy actually but he's not sure if that's from whatever has happened to him before this or - well. If it is a symptom of this.
Dick thinks that he remembers a stakeout. Intel gathering. Louisiana? No, no that had been last week. But he's pretty confident he's a ways away from back home. ...Wisconsin?
He wants to figure it out by speaking out loud - run his thoughts through a logical monologue to better process it. But he knows better than to do that here in the coldness of a coffin with limited air supply.
Still he has nothing better to do than count his breath - over and over and over - and idly muse on whether or not it had maybe been Illinois.
All he remembers is the vague recollection of a building, a truck - a fight between building and truck, he thinks - and a field of corn as they drove - And then nothing. It's frustrating. It makes his head hurt. But he's thankful for that headache rather than one stemmed from one caused by oxygen deprivation.
He tries again with the lock picking tools but still has no luck with that route. Though it does provide him the somewhat hysterical realization that whoever had buried him sure hadn't sprung for a good coffin - no velvet lining, not so much as a pillow under his head. Bare minimum, just wood and whatever was sealing it closed - well, besides the weight of the dirt presumably piled on top of it.
And suddenly out of nowhere the silence shatters because there is finally a voice on the other end of Dick's com. "I'm at your location. Where the fuck are you?"
To say that the relief he feels is profound is one heck of an understatement.
"Don't tell me you forgot to stop transmitting this geolocation and I came out here for nothing," Jason complains.
The exhausted smile on his face is a pleasant change. He inches his hand up towards his head and touches his comlink. "Jason."
"Names," Jason tsks playfully, quick to enjoy being the one to scold someone for this when usually Bruce is the one who beats him to the punch.
Oh right. "Red Hood," Dick corrects himself. The slip up is a concerning sign; it's not something he does. It's just the relief, he tells himself because he's worried that it's a sign that he's running out of time. And it's easier to believe his own lies when he thinks they might hold semblance of truth.
"Where are you?" Jason asks, annoyed. "I'm at your location but I don't see beak nor tail feather from you."
Dick wets his lips. "Right. You're, uh, you're probably looking for me at ground level."
Impatiently and annoyed, Jason scoffs. Asks derisively, "As opposed to?"
"Six feet under that?"
For the first time since Jason's arrival, there's silence.
"Say that again," Jason commands. Voice tense and cold.
Dick really doesn't want to but he must. "I'm, um. Underground. Buried, actually. And I really need your help."
"Shit," Jason whispers. The icy tone has fled but the tension remains heavy as a fog upon Gotham Harbor. And then there's distant noises over the com line. "Shit, why didn't you start by saying that? Hang on. I'll get you out."
The relief upon hearing that is insurmountable. "Never doubted you for a second, Little Wing."
"Fuck. Fuck, I need equipment and - " His remorse and urgency is clear. "I'll be right back - I gotta go into the town. Fifteen minutes, tops, there and back. And then we're getting you out of here."
And, oh, Dick's heart hurts. He doesn't want to be left alone. Not again. "Okay," He says even though nothing really is.
Jason wouldn't leave him if he didn't have to - he knows that - but it still is not something Dick is all too thrilled about. Dread wells in his stomach as he tries to breathe it out with the next contraction of his abdomen.
And then it is, once more, dreadfully silent and lonely in the coffin he's buried in.
Jason announces his return without much fanfare, dives in to business with a comforting brusqueness as Dick lets the irrational relief his return brings flood over him. "Batman is on route, if that makes you feel better." It does. "But he has to fly in since we're in Bumfuck, Nowhere. He'll be a minute. But I got you, okay? I got you. And I'm digging right now."
There's a very faint rustling, a quiet rhythmic noise over the com line - it has to be the shovel hitting dirt, can't be anything else even though it's so hard to tell over the sound of his own breathing which he has to focus on - and Dick clenches his fists as the reality of finally being dug out hits him. It's paradoxically harder to maintain his breath control now - probably because his heart rate is elevating at the prospect of getting out of here.
"Dick?" Jason checks, sounding more worried than Dick has heard him in... A long time.
Is he allowed to talk now? Then he gladly will. "Well I'm glad you're here." Understatement of the year; he tries to levy it with conviviality. "If there's anyone who'd understand the position I'm in, it'd be you."
"I was already dead when I was buried," Jason snaps. Angry enough that Dick winces and regrets being so cavalier about Jason's trauma. He knows better than to do that, doesn't know why he said it in the first place. Must be the panic that he thought he had under control, like his breath, but now isn't so sure that he does. "And shut up. Stop wasting your oxygen."
"See? You're an expert," He quips instinctively. He didn't even mean to. It just slipped out. So, actually, maybe that is panic he's experiencing after all.
"Dick, I swear to God, shut up." Jason's words are nearly snarled. He takes an audible, ragged breath and then snaps, "I can't get you out if I'm too busy having a mental fucking breakdown. So do us both a favor and shut your stupid mouth."
He shuts his stupid mouth of course. But the com stays quiet, other than Jason's heavy breathing as he gathers himself and digs. Quiet, quiet, except for Jason's digging and the inhale in, exhale out that is starting to be a little less steady as Dick shakes.
Dick closes his eyes and the darkness behind his eyelids is almost indiscernible from the darkness of the coffin. He can't do the quiet now that noise is an option. Not in this coffin. The noise is proof that he's not suspended in an airless vacuum of darkness, trapped and unable to escape the ebony clutches of shadow entombing him here; more importantly, proof that he is not alone. "I'll shut up - but, Jay, I need you to keep talking."
There's a pause of silence before Jason sighs. "Yeah?" Dick clings on to the understanding in Jason's voice like a life preserver keeping him from drowning in this darkness. Reliable and secure and here. "Alright, Dick. I can do that."
And he does.
"Have you read Brick Lane?"
It probably shouldn't surprise Dick that the immediate topic Jason chooses to distract him with is literature; yet it does, and it brings an exhausted smile to his face for one wonderful fleeting moment.
"You probably have. After all, it's been out for a while. Plus I think it was Cassie who recommended me that one; she might've rec'd it to you too. You know. I've been rereading a lot of novels that I used to like."
He pauses and the sound of his digging is more prominent for a few moments before he picks up talking again. "Monica Ali's good, yeah. Alentejo Blue is good but, eh, Brick Lane is better. I'll probably pick up The Red Tent next. You wouldn't like that one but I want to reread that before I recommend it to Barbara. We exchanged novels like last week because I saw her copy of Extravagance and you know we got talking. In a couple of days, we'll swap again and I'm pretty sure I'm giving Brick Lane as my next choice for her but eh dunno yet. Now if it was you or Cass, I would think Eva Luna. Just would suit you better."
He wants to ask a question - a couple questions really - and wants to ask Jason why those books, what it is that makes him think of them in their pages. But he restrains himself. He promised he wouldn't speak any more. And he intends to keep his word on that.
Oblivious to Dick's curiosity, Jason carries on talking.
It's nice. It's good. It's not the silent promise of death that's been stalking Dick for hours.
"Then again," Jason muses, "There's always the world of poetry to branch into. Who doesn't like Sylvia Plath, right? If the moon smiled, Dick, she would resemble you. Beautiful but annihilating." Insult or compliment? Jason's chuckle makes Dick feel like this definitely is leaning towards insult. "Her 'Family Reunion' is a little on the nose, right? But, well. The jarring baritone of the Batman. The youngest Robin gives a fretful whine and - let's see. Stabs RR at the reception line."
And, wondrously, Jason's amusement is warm enough to chase away some of the coldness.
"Though to be honest, Plath isn't my favorite poet. Emily Dickinson maybe, if I had to choose; but, ah, picking a favorite poet is too difficult. Plus, that's discounting Shakespeare from the equation entirely because he'd win if we weren't classifying him as a playwright rather than a poet in this scenario."
Fervently Dick holds on to that warmth Jason provides and listens and listens and listens; kindly Jason talks and talks and talks.
There comes a point when his strict abdominal control falters for the first time since he was a kid learning the breathing exercises. A point where he keeps trying to expand his stomach to inhale but cannot help to accommodate this strain by moving his chest as adjustment with each breath.
It's not true - he knows it isn't - but he can almost feel the weighty motions of his lungs as they move.
He tries to keep the rise and fall of his torso shallow, tries to extend the intervals in which he requires air but he can't keep stretching something that's already been pulled and tugged into too thin. It's going to break. Break painfully as the thread can no longer stay taught when stretched too far - far too far - and snaps. Inevitable.
His lungs burn but his fingers are cold. Jason's literature quotations and personal anecdotes cannot sustain him forever. He doesn't have a lot of room to maneuver here in this wooden space but tries - carefully without straining his already weakened self; any strain would require too much oxygen as recompense - to shove his fingers into somewhere warmer. Can't manage his armpits so they go between his thighs.
There are, Dick knows, a few important places to keep warm when trying to retain body heat. Head. Feet. Groin. Armpits. Any of those are a good area to concentrate. He's not in a typical climate in which hypothermia is a risk factor; but the extended exposure to the darkness of below surface level, in dark and damp soil even through the protection of the coffin, is an environment of which that has caused him to start shivering.
Or, worse, perhaps it's the lack of oxygen in which that makes him so cold. The lack of air finally catching up to him will be enough to turn his lips and fingertips blue. Now that would be concerning. His lips and fingers feel strange. It is concerning.
Jason continues talking, keeps digging, and Dick breathes oh so carefully while he listens. Neither of them speaking the thought but surely both of them wondering: how much farther down, how much left to dig, how much longer did Dick have left? And is it wrong - or silly, maybe - that Dick worries that dying will interrupt Jason's impromptu lecture on usage of iambic pentameter? Probably. No, definitely. And yet the thought still crosses his mind.
His nose feels wet. He lifts a hand and moves it awkwardly towards his face in the limited space allowed. Wipes his nose and it is wet after all. He can't see it but he suspects that it is blood on his gloved fingers.
Obliviously Jason keeps talking. His voice is grounding as Dick lowers his hand once more and tries not to think about the blood. Maybe he's wrong. Maybe it's simply a runny nose from being cold.
"And you know how kids are," Jason is saying. Less literature now, more personal anecdotes. They're cute stories. Dick would really like them, he thinks. But it's so hard to concentrate and he is missing them, needs Jason to retell him these precious stories because they're just not absorbing in the way the stories deserves to be heard.
So again Dick focuses, he does.
"So Lian thinks I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread. Roy thinks it's cute, but he doesn't understand because he makes it for her all the time but when I do it the once suddenly it's amazing and I'm the greatest. You know?"
Dick does know. A bit. Maybe.
"And, uh, Kori says that Lian's really into sharks all of a sudden? None of us know why - none of us know how - but apparently sharks are the it thing happening at the Harpers." Jason's chuckle is soft. "Last week it was unicorns. Kids, you know?"
Jason makes a noise. "Ah. But I guess yours is all stabby and a demon brat and not, like, a normal kid so maybe you don't know. Maybe you could stop by the apartment more often. I know Lian would like that. Hell, and Roy would be over the moon. He misses you. You keep ditching him for Wally and - "
Dick coughs. The sound of it drowns out Jason's voice. It's a waste of breath to cough; he tries to contain it, end it. Yet he coughs and coughs but he can't stop. There's a word, he thinks, for what's happening here. A reason why his heart is racing even though it's been slowing down and slowing down. And he coughs even though coughing uses more oxygen than it's worth.
The coughs are loud, abrasive. Once Dick's head knocks into the side of the coffin with the intensity of it.
"Dick?" Jason's voice is the clearest thing to him. Everything else feels hazy. The darkness of the coffin doesn't move and yet feels like it slides like someone on a ship who's losing their balance as the boat tips, sliding across the deck and becoming sicker with each wave that crashes. There's a word for this too, Dick thinks, but cannot place what that word is.
Jason, Dick wants to ask but doesn't. He's not supposed to talk; especially, he's sure, not now that he's wasting air by the coughs rattling through him. Jason, what's that word that means when you can't stand on a boat except it's not just standing it's also being sick like throwing up but sea legs something about sea legs.
"Just hold on, Dickie," A voice says in his ear. And he's way more tired than he thought he is because Jason sounds so much like Bruce that Dick opens his eyes - fruitlessly, the view of pitch black stays the very same as when they are shut - as if he'd be able to discern the sound of it more clearly if he is looking. "We're almost there, chum."
It really does sound like Bruce. Isn't that funny? Jason would hate that if he knew. Dick kind of wants to tell him as soon as he gets on the surface, kind of wants to keep it in his heart like a precious secret worth protecting.
The coughing recedes for a moment, quiets as it sticks in his throat instead of wracking through him.
"Dick?" Jason says but sounds like Bruce, so much like Bruce, that it's almost as painful as it is comforting.
"Dick?" Jason says a second time and this time he sounds like Jason again. Dick closes his eyes and lets out a little hum to let his brother know that he's listening. See? He's still being good, a hum isn't talking; so that doesn't count as talking when he knows he's not supposed to talk at all.
He's not supposed to -
There's a voice, a question, that he can't answer -
He's not supposed to -
He can't even if he was allowed to.
But he's not allowed to.
He's not -
There's nothing, he thinks, but then there is a voice on the edge of the nothingness. Just in the cusp of reach yet too far to be a something, too close to be part of this nothing surrounding him.
"Hypoxia. Oxygen deprivation," It lists. "Inflammation of the lungs. And, yes, he's already been given steroids for that." The voice becomes quicker. "The EKG. He's - "
" - Dick, hey - "
" - can you hear - " He isn't sure, doesn't know, but thinks that this is a different voice. This one too has sprung from nothingness, he thinks.
But it doesn't matter, really.
Because both of the voices disappear.
Or maybe, maybe it's him that does the disappearing.
When he awakens, his head throbs. He lifts a heavy hand to touch his temple but mistakes the distance and his fingers wind up at the nasal cannula tubes inserted in his nose.
A gentle warm catches his fingers and guides them away from the nasal cannula. "Easy there," A voice says softly. Bruce?
Dick blinks and the motion takes so much effort. He's tired. Really tired.
"It's all right," The voice assures him. Dick's eyes are closed. He's not sure, exactly, when that happened. He wants to open them and check because he thinks, thinks that it is Bruce. Isn't sure.
"He woke up?" A new voice asks. The voice reminds him of Jason. Is Jason, he thinks but is uncertain.
The first voice says something. Dick isn't sure what. Because he once more fades away into unconsciousness. He thinks that, maybe, he remembers the feeling of a warm hand that brushes away strands of hair from his face. A tender grip holding on to his own hand.
But maybe that's a dream. If it is, well, then it's a good one. And in the end isn't that really all that matter?
The moment he wakes up, a hand gently lifts a small piece of ice to his mouth and Dick obligingly accepts it. The ice cube helps. His throat is dry and it hurts; the ice soothes this. But it's cold and he's already cold - or maybe that's just the lingering coldness of the coffin - but in any case he shivers the once in reaction.
It takes a moment for Dick to remember to open his eyes. That the darkness is an option now that he can choose to stop simply by looking. He opens his eyes, blinks as the brightness of the medical ward stuns him. It stings but he keeps his eyes open and they adjust quickly. Far more quickly than expected - and then he realizes that he'd been here in the Cave long enough to become adjusted back from the coffin's dark surroundings.
"Bruce?" He asks and his voice sounds terrible. Like he has a really bad cold. It sounds far more painful than it actually is but it explains the speed in which Bruce lifts another piece of ice to his mouth. Dick takes it and then carefully raises his hand for the bucket to do this himself. Waits.
Bruce eyes him and then silently presses the button in which raises the medbay bed to sit up. Once it's been electronically elevated, then Bruce hands him the ice chips. Dick settles the bucket on his lap and grabs another small piece, lets it melt in his mouth as he waits for Bruce to say something. It's seven more pieces of ice melted before he does.
"Dickie," Bruce says. He sounds tired. Belatedly Dick realizes that Bruce is still donning the Batman uniform; the cowl, gauntlets, and utility belt have been discarded into a pile on one of the supply counters. The blackened eye makeup hastily scrubbed away with a wipe but still left impressions of charcoal smudges upon his unshowered face.
The dirt underneath Bruce's short fingernails and across the length of his jaw. Dick's never seen Bruce with dirt underneath his nails before. Never.
"You didn't sleep?" Dick guesses and watches as Bruce follows his gaze to the equipment. Didn't sleep, didn't shower, didn't change out of his uniform, didn't leave Dick's side apparently.
But Dick has been changed out of his Nightwing uniform; someone has taken the time to clean him up and dress him more comfortably. He wears a pair of soft sweats and a tee shirt that he suspects belongs to Jason because it hangs slightly off his shoulder, is loose at the collar, and - the most telling - has a giant rip in the left sleeve. Dick idly rubs that tear in fabric and smiles.
"That's irrelevant," Bruce answers calmly. Not embarrassed at all to be caught but definitely holding no desire to actually acknowledge his more than obvious concern. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." Bruce's brows lower and Dick hastens to do better than that. "Throat hurts but other than that? Fine."
Bruce still wears that expression of concentration. Of worry. "Good," He says at last but doesn't sound convinced. "Alfred will be here shortly to administer your cognitive test and check on your prognosis."
Dick pauses in grabbing another ice chip. "Where's Jason?" Bruce's eyes don't narrow, exactly, but they focus enough that Dick becomes concerned. "He's okay, right?"
"He's fine." Bruce immediately replies. Then clarifies, "Suffering from what appeared to be an anxiety attack. Possibly in delayed response to, well." He clears his throat and neither of them acknowledge the fact that Jason's been buried in a coffin before and definitely has a trauma response in reaction to it. "He left."
"Oh." Dick kind of wanted to see him. Thank him for keeping him together while he was down there. Thank him for getting him out. But if Jason needed to leave, well, Dick can't really blame him.
Bruce nods knowingly. He takes a step backwards, away from Dick and the bed and towards the counter. But doesn't yet grab his discarded gear. "I'll pass on the message to the kids that you're awake. They should be down shortly."
Dick shrugs. And he freezes because he catches himself counting the beats of his breath and hates it. "Bruce?" He asks and tries not to count, tries not to think about it. It's hard.
Bruce pauses and then sees something - desperation maybe - in Dick's expression because his shoulders slump and with softly eyes he nods. "I'm here, Dickie," He promises and steps forward again. Slowly he lifts Dick's hand and holds it. Lowers his eyes to this point of contact and squeezes gently. "I'm here, chum."
When Dick's voice breaks, he pretends it's because of the roughness in his throat. "Thanks."
"Of course," Bruce promises, "Of course." It means something, Dick knows, that Bruce has said it twice when he's utilitarian enough that if saying it once will do, then he always says things once. Means something Dick cannot form into thoughts or words but feels warmly inside of him. Chases away the phantom chills of the coffin that stain his skin.
The medbay is quiet. But the sound of Bruce's soft breathing is enough to signal that he isn't alone. Dick's fingers wind across the inside of Bruce's wrist, feel his pulse calmly beat below his fingers where there's still splotches of dirt here and there and Dick wipes them away softly with silent strokes of the pads of his fingers. It's strange - or maybe it isn't, not if he thinks about it - but Dick doesn't have any dirt on his hands, none under his fingernails.
Wherever Jason is, Dick thinks that he too has smudges of dirt left on his skin, under his nails. Just like Bruce.
"Thanks," Dick says to Bruce - and to Jason even though his brother isn't here.
Bruce sighs. The sound is familiar and safe and makes Dick smile. It isn't a sound of exasperation; it is one of relief, of weariness and gentle voices in medbay through the years. Bruce's fingers are calloused and warm and - for the first time - encrusted with dirt under the nails.
It kind of makes Dick want to cry. But, he justifies to his own warm heart, that's probably the lingering effect of the oxygen deprivation and not at all the relief thrumming through him and the gratitude welling through him like the inflation of lungs as they breathe in, in, and as much as he ever wants here in the safety of the world around him.