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Heights had never scared Nightwing.
The wind whipped through his hair as he fell, the sound of it roaring in his ears. It was his favourite part of grappling through the city — the freefall, the figures on the streets below growing from pinpricks to people, the lights blinking in and out as he flipped through the air.
Nightwing let out a laugh, releasing his grapple, feeling the familiar tug to his arm as it caught him at the base of his arc. He reeled in the line, pulling himself up the side of a building, balancing on a gargoyle.
He had to admit, he’d missed patrolling here. Blüdhaven was his city, but he always carried a part of Gotham in him. Gotham’s insistence on sticking to its aesthetic and architectural hallmarks– even in the newer and rebuilt parts– was part of why he still considered it to be home.
Heights had never scared Nightwing. He had learnt to fly before he'd learnt to walk. If they ever had bothered him, two decades of swinging through the streets of Gotham would have trained it out of him. If anything, Nightwing felt more himself in the air than on the ground.
There was a distant yell, and Nightwing turned his head at the noise.
He only hesitated for another second before jumping down from the gargoyle to investigate the cause of the shout.
There was no movement wasted now, power behind each jump and leap. He gripped the edge of a roof, hauling himself up before sprinting to the other side, skidding to a stop before the opposing ledge and looking down.
Heights had never scared Nightwing.
But the ground was so far away, and something tonight made him pause, breath suddenly short.
Nightwing tipped, just enough that he was—
Falling.
(They were falling, slipping through his fingers—)
Nightwing somehow managed to release his grapple out again, slowing his momentum just enough as he crashed down into the next rooftop, landing on his shoulder with a distinctive pop. He bit back a yell, gritting his teeth as he tried to get back on his feet.
The world tipped on its axis and he pitched sideways, collapsing into a heap again.
The concrete was cold under his cheek, solid and unforgiving. His suit had protected him from most of the damage— no cuts or scrapes— but he was definitely bruised all over from the hard landing, plus his shoulder was definitely dislocated (again).
The world spun, and Nightwing’s head spun with it.
He groaned. Was there a toxin in the air? A Rogue on the loose? It had come on so suddenly, no warning as he swung that it was only pure luck that he hadn’t fallen down to street level or flattened himself against the side of a building like a bug on a windshield.
Though judging by his difficulty pushing himself up from the ground, that wasn’t too far off.
Nightwing managed to roll over onto his back, and stared at the night sky for a second, before the movement became too much and he clamped his eyes shut, hoping that the blackness would help.
It didn’t, his head still spinning, and the colours dancing behind his eyelids only worsened the effect.
His stomach rolled, and he turned onto his uninjured side, curling up to try and stave away the feeling, breathing deeply in through his nose.
Any movement made it worse, any attempt to open his eyes making the buildings around him sway and morph into one another. Nightwing dug his fingers into the concrete, trying to ground himself with nearly no effect.
Distantly, he recalled feeling this way before, and his hand drifted to the side of his head, across the warped scar beneath his hair. He winced, hissing a breath in through his teeth.
Heights had never scared Nightwing, but there was a period of his life where he wasn’t Nightwing, wasn’t anybody he recognised. A period of time where heights filled him with dread and the thought of leaping off rooftops made his insides twist around each other.
He filtered another breath between his teeth, trailing his fingers down from the scar to his earpiece. “Th–” he paused, swallowing down on bile. “This is Nightwing on an open line. Request… requesting aid.”
Soft white noise, before a burst of crackling static that had him wincing. “Nightwing, I have a lock on your coordinates.” Oracle’s voice was smooth, any worry at his words carefully masked. “Moved to a private channel. Can you tell me what’s happened? Are you in danger?”
“No– no immediate danger,” Nightwing confirmed.
“You sound shaken.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit. If you’re going to request aid, you better damn well elaborate.”
He hissed out a laugh, eyes still scrunched shut as he rolled onto his back once more, splayed out on the rooftop. “Took a fall. Just— just battered… no breaks, but my shoulder’s dislocated, and…” he paused to fend off another wave of nausea.
“Company in two,” Oracle said, and Nightwing hummed, only half in acknowledgement. “Nightwing?”
“Yeah?”
“Any head injury?”
“No new ones.”
Oracle’s silence was judgemental, and another wheezy laugh escaped Nightwing’s lungs. “Head’s fine, O,” he said. “Not at— not at risk of losing consciousness.”
The comm picked up the sound of Oracle sucking her teeth. “One minute.”
“You don’t have to keep me on call.”
“I want to,” Oracle replied. “It’s been a quiet night.”
Nightwing remembered the scream he’d heard earlier, before the dizziness had hit him, before he’d fallen. He groaned. “I was responding to some disturbance earlier,” he said, “never got there.”
“Do you know how long ago that was?”
He hummed a negative tone. “Sorry.”
“Will send someone to scout around the area later,” Oracle said, “just in case. Help’s about to arrive, by the way.”
“You’re the best.”
“I know.”
The comm went silent, and Nightwing breathed out an exhale, suddenly aware of how his head had been swimming at the sensory input. He threw his good arm over his eyes, waiting for whoever Oracle had sent as aid.
The sound of a grappleline being retracted. Whisper-quiet footsteps across the roof.
“Batman.” Nightwing didn’t lift his arm. He could feel Batman’s presence, know it anywhere, recognise his gait.
There was a slight fluttering of Batman’s cape as he crouched down next to Nightwing, checking him over.
“I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Hn.”
Nightwing grinned, tired and pained. “See the thing about TBI’s, B, is that they leave an impression.”
Batman’s hands, pads of his fingers ghosting over Nightwing’s torso in search of any breaks, paused. “But Oracle said no—”
“Vertigo.”
“The Count?”
“Au naturale.”
A beat of silence. “How bad?”
Nightwing shrugged his good shoulder, hand moving in tandem but arm remaining over his eyes. “Everything’s still spinning. Gets… gets worse if I open my eyes. Can’t move without wanting to throw up.”
Batman reached Nightwing’s injured shoulder, lightly prodding at it. Nightwing bit back a curse.
Another low hum from Batman. He activated his comms. “I’m returning to the Cave with Nightwing. Robin, rendezvous with Batgirl by the Signal. Stay with her until I get back.”
“Understood, Batman.” Robin’s reply was short, clipped with concern.
“You think he’ll follow that order?” Nightwing asked lightly, just to hear Batman’s unamused silence.
Batman slid one arm under Nightwing’s knees and the other behind his back, picking him up off the ground and holding him close to his chest. Nightwing automatically let his arm fall from his face, wrapping it around Batman’s neck. He let his forehead drop onto Batman’s shoulder, breathing deeply and willing his stomach to settle. He rarely got carried anymore — not that he could blame anyone for that, he was hardly the child that he’d been when he’d first become Robin — but Batman held his added weight like it was nothing, strides steady and strong, his hold on Nightwing firm.
Nightwing fell into it the same way he always had, letting his eyes remain shut as Batman anchored a grapple point to lower them to street level. There was the familiar hiss of the canopy of the Batmobile, and Batman set Nightwing in the passenger seat, doing up his seatbelt before climbing in on his own side. The canopy slid shut and sealed around them, and Dick tipped his head back against the headrest, entire body sagging.
“Try to sleep,” Batman— no, his voice had shifted upwards, towards something more gentle, Bruce— said.
“With you driving? Impossible.”
“Dick.”
“Hey,” Dick said, “you should be impressed that I’ve kept my wits.”
“Yes,” Bruce said dryly. “Very impressed. Rest. I’ll get you home.”