Chapter Text
When Dick woke—freezing, shaking, his body burning with cold—all he knew was that something was impossibly wrong.
Sharp needles of ice jabbed into his skin; muscle contractions carved out his insides. He felt as if some kind of black hole at the center of his stomach was leaching all the warmth and life from inside him. Each moment, he could feel himself drop in temperature as his shivers intensified, and his only relief was the pressure from the concrete against his exposed cheek. Even as sharp rocks and debris grated against his skin, Dick couldn’t stop himself from pressing his face deeper into the rough ground, as if somehow that could help the emptiness filling him up. A jagged piece of gravel cut into his cheek, and even the blood dripping down felt cold.
Dick was positive that if he didn’t warm up soon, his skin would freeze and crack apart like glass, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Writhing against his chained wrists and curling in on himself as much as he could with his arms pinned behind his back, Dick tried to keep in a whimper. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten in the room he was trapped in, couldn’t remember anything from the day at all. His reality seemed to blur at the edge. Maybe it had been an hour. Maybe it had been days. Nothing but the cold felt real.
When Dick tried to focus on any of the details of the previous day, they faded out of focus. All he knew was the pain and freezing and writhing and screaming.
The sound of his own screaming as he saw his parents fall.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
His parents' corpses sprawled on the ring. Red blood spilled on the dusty circus floor.
The circus floor burning as he tried to save the troop. His first home burning all around him, flames scorching high, engulfing the big top, and Dick couldn’t move fast enough to save them all.
Then Dick was back on the concrete with the cold filling his lungs. He couldn’t tell if the shivers were from the cold or the fear coursing through his body, riding the afterimage of the vision.
Something was wrong.
Another contortion took his body, and he curled in on himself to keep his neck from flinging back. He tried to take a deep breath to focus, but more ice filled his lungs.
How? While the room was cool, the ice felt like it was coming from inside him. The answer was on the edge of his memory just within reach, but it was like he couldn’t grasp it when he tried to remember. The chattering of his teeth made it impossible to focus, but it couldn’t just be that. He’d been in worse situations than this, and he’d always maintained his senses. Something was impacting his judgment; something had happened that he couldn’t remember.
What was he missing?
Dick shook his head. If he couldn’t access his memories, he needed to focus on what he did know. The building frustration of trying to remember was only making his panic worse.
What Dick knew was that he had to get out. Obviously he needed to go, to leave, to find help, to stop the cold, but nothing in his mind would stick. There were protocols for this kind of thing—he knew there were protocols, but there were knives jabbing into his skin and hands clutching at his suit and he was being pressed into the concrete by a pair of gloves and a suited body. Rain poured down his face, and the cold shot through him.
Cold rain down his suit and two hands on his chest. Hands running down his chest, carefully unzipping his suit. The weight of her body bracketing his hips, pressing down. Pressing him down. Pressing him down, down, down. Keeping him frozen. Numb.
“Quiet, mi amor. Callado…”
He was on a rooftop in Bludhaven, and—
No. No, Dick was lying on the concrete floor, and he was writhing in pain. He was shivering and pressing himself further into the concrete. He needed the pressure against his skin. He needed to grab hold of reality. He needed to remember. He needed to think.
A gunshot cracked through the air, and Catalina was killing Blockbuster, and Dick was frozen. He knew he had to stop her because she was going to kill him, and Dick was supposed to protect lives, not end them. Batman’s code drilled into him since his childhood—never take a human life, or you’re just as evil as they are—and he’d failed.
Dick had failed Bruce. He’d always been a failure to Bruce. He had Blockbuster’s blood on his hands, and Catalina’s hands on his chest.
He couldn’t stop her. He hadn’t stopped her, and he was frozen, and now the rain was pouring on the rooftop, and—
Dick bit his tongue as hard as he could, clearing the illusion and focusing on the burning of his body instead. The taste of copper in his mouth could ground him while he tried to think.
He needed to focus on the moment. That was the only way to get out.
With the stiffness in his muscles and bones, Dick had to have been trapped for a while, but when he tried to take in the room, his vision swam, the concrete floor and swirls of mist obscuring the space. His eyes couldn’t pick out a single image, and the more he tried, the more the world spun with vertigo, bringing a wave of nausea to swoop out his stomach. Even beneath his screams (Was it Dick that was screaming? Or was it his neighbours in his apartment building burning alive?), his tongue felt heavy, and the pressure on his skin was growing by the second.
Still, Dick tried to take in what he could of his situation. If he couldn’t see the room, he’d focus on his own body and what he could control.
His mask was glued to his eyes, the wonders of Bat-glue keeping it on, so Dick knew he’d been taken as Nightwing. His suit was on (His suit was still on, she hadn’t removed it), and he was alone in the room (He was alone, no one was touching him, why did he want someone to touch him?). He tried to remember more, scour his brain for any details that might help him get out or get help, but it was so hard to think behind the searing cold beneath his skin and the pounding in his head.
It was so hard to think.
Cuffs. If Dick was cuffed in chains, then he had to pick the locks. The answer seemed obvious now that he’d had it. Of course he needed to free himself from the chains. He could do that. Breaking free was muscle memory, no real memories needed. Inhaling another breath of cold in a desperate attempt to steady himself, Dick fought the contortions wracking his body to try to maneuver his cuffed hands in front of himself.
Maybe if he had his hands in front of himself, he could press his own hands into his sides, his chest, his skin—anything for more pressure, more warmth.
Finally, Dick managed to contort his arms in front of himself enough to be able to access his hands, just as more gun shots popped outside the room.
The gun. Dick hadn’t stopped the gun.
“I can keep this up forever. Every loved one, every stranger…”
It was never going to stop. All his loved ones, one-by-one. An empty stairwell on the fourth floor, the sound of the bullet ricocheting off the concrete walls, the blood on his hands.
There was blood on his hands, and he hadn’t said stop.
When she’d moved to shoot, he hadn’t told her to stop. It was his fault because he hadn’t told her to stop—
And then he had. He told her no on the rooftop with rain pouring down and her hips blocking him in. A finger to his lips, shushing him.
That’s good. That’s right.
But it wasn’t right.
A hand pressed into his shoulder, and the touch felt so good, but Dick recoiled away, nausea rising in his throat despite the warmth soothing him from the hand.
“Don’t touch me…” Dick muttered, numb. “I’m poisonous.”
Dick heard a scoff, distinctly male, metallic, wrong. He was on a rooftop in Bludhaven, and Catalina was—
“The toxin was air born, and the drug was injected,” scoffed the voice. The hint of a memory, a needle going in his arm, a cloud of something in the air. He’d been drugged? “But thanks for the concern, I guess. Not that I need it.”
Male. Deep. Definitely not Catalina, which meant the rooftop wasn’t real. If he wasn’t with Catalina…
Dick blinked his eyes, pinched his finger, bit his tongue. He focused on the pain—that much he knew was real.
Gradually, the rain faded into the background, just a faint drizzle, and he was back to being curled up on the concrete floor, shivering, freezing.
Except—
The spot where the man was still touching him.
Dick’s eyes widened. The man?
Despite the wave of nausea it brought, Dick tried to focus enough to take in the stranger whose hand was still pressed into his shoulder. Gradually, he came into view: a large form, muscled, decked in tactical gear, and an unmistakable red helmet. The new Gotham rogue Bruce had warned him about.
The Red Hood.
Dick tried to spring to his feet, ready for an attack, but his limbs were still shackled, and nothing was responding—his body was still too numb. He hadn’t freed his wrists. Hadn’t Dick been trying to free his wrists?
“Woah, there.” Red Hood tried to push Dick back down, his hand surprisingly gentle and oh so warm. Just the single touch seemed to be melting Dick’s whole side, and he fought the urge to cling to the stranger. “You’re gonna hurt yourself like that, Goldie, and you’re not lookin’ too hot as it is. You know, given that you’re freezing and all.”
Reluctantly, Dick sat back down, this time not sprawled on the concrete. He tried to look as intimidating as he could for someone who’d been sprawled out on the ground a second ago and clearly couldn’t defend themself. He was pretty sure he was failing at it.
“What do you want?”
Red Hood scoffed. “Wow, way to thank a guy for saving your ass. I could’ve just let the guys in the other room have at you, but no, I take the moral high road, and this is the reception I get. You realize this whole saving you thing is setting back my whole plan, right?”
Dick looked up at him confused. He could hardly take in Red Hood’s words, let alone what he was trying to say. It was as if the world was spinning faster the longer he tried to focus on reality, and the only thing that was real was the warm hand on his shoulder.
Two hands on his shoulders, pressing him down.
Everything’s all right, baby. It’s all okay.
No. That wasn’t real.
“See,” Hood continued. “I was gonna use these fuckers for information, then get them to turn on Black Mask. It was going to be a whole production with secret alliances, and undercover work, and explosions. Real theatrical-like. It was gonna to be great, but then—” Hood peered down at him. “Are you even listening to a word I’m saying? I didn’t have to save you, you know.”
Maybe if Dick asked really nicely, Red Hood would put another hand on his shoulder. Another hand would really help warm Dick up. If one hand was helping, then surely another would be even better. He tried to focus in on the contact he knew was real, else the rain would overtake him again.
His teeth were still chattering loudly in his ears, but he was starting to be able to breath again. He needed more.
“Your hand,” Dick managed to clack out. “It’s—”
Instantly, Red Hood removed his hand from Dick’s shoulder. “Aw, fuck, I should’ve—”
“No!” Dick clumsily flung himself forward, chasing the hand, despite still being chained. He crashed into Red Hood, who spluttered and cursed and pushed him off, landing back on the ground where he’d started.
As soon as Hood’s hand had left his shoulder, it was like the ice came back all at once, but worse—sharper. Indescribable pain shot through the space where the warmth had been, shooting down the rest of him, and it was taking all of his thoughts to try to keep himself from screaming. After all, if Dick started screaming, Red Hood might leave all together, and then he’d be stuck with the concrete again.
He couldn’t be left alone—not again. He couldn’t be alone.
“What the hell?” exclaimed Hood, as he moved out of Dick’s reach from his spot chained to the floor. Too far, too far, too far. “I was just—”
“Please don’t let go.”
Cold concrete against his colder cheek, hands scraped against the gravel. The pressure wasn’t enough. His chest was hardening, lungs freezing, body shaking. Dick tensed against the convulsions he knew were coming, and he tried to focus on the taste of blood in his mouth so he wasn’t lost again.
Dick wished he could get back in Hood’s reach, but he was too far. Maybe he could break out of his cuffs, and then he could reach. On the ground, he tried contorting himself to free his hands again, but his fingers were too numb from the cold.
“So I guess they weren’t lying about the pollen, huh?” Hood sighed and inched a bit closer, still not closer enough. “I guess that answers my question for if you mind me touching you. Here I was trying to be respectful and think about boundaries, and—”
“Please,” is all Dick could whimper out. “Please, it’s so cold. You were helping.”
Hood stared at him for a moment (or at least Dick assumed he was staring, given that the helmet was obscuring his eyes) and seemed to come to a conclusion.
“Look, there’s no funny business, alright? Trust me, you’ll regret it if you try anything, and I mean that. You'll really fuckin’ regret it.”
Frantically, Dick nodded.
“I haven’t been cuddle pollened in ages, but…” Red Hood, with surprising gentleness, helped lift Dick off his prone position on the floor, and suddenly, he was bracketed by two arms and pressed into Hood’s side. They were practically hugging, and it was wonderful. “More contact was always better. It was the only time when— Well… doesn’t matter. Is… is this okay?”
The amount of relief made Dick want to cry. If he thought one hand helped, the hug was like nothing he’d felt before. Warmth pooled from everywhere Hood was touching, and Dick did everything in his power to remain upright instead of pressing himself closer.
“Thank you,” replied Dick, blinking up at the strange rogue. The rogue he’d never met before. The rogue who had helped him—or at least Dick thought he was helping him. Why was he helping him again? Dick realized he could just ask. “Why are you helping me?”
“So you weren’t listening, then?” Hood scoffed and took his hand off Dick’s shoulder for a terrible moment to wave it around dramatically. “See, this is why you righteous hero types piss me off. You never listen. You’re just lucky I was listening when I heard these goons threatening to fuckin’ roofie you with pollen and ‘make it fun’ with fear toxin. I don’t work with rapists, so they were dead no matter what, but I could’ve just left you here for Daddy Bats. Where is the big bad Bat, anyway? I’d have thought he’d be here by now.”
Nothing the man was saying was registering.
Not when, just over his should appeared a familiar red, green, and yellow form with a shadowed face. Too small to be dead, but dead the same.
Normally, when Dick saw Jason’s ghost, he could pretend things were normal, that Jason hadn’t died young and alone while Dick was off world. Instead, from beneath the shadows were glowing, hollowed out, accusing red eyes, dripping blood. From the center of his costume—Dick’s family’s costume, all dead now—came a pinprick of blood that grew, and grew, and grew. A gaping hole forming at the center of Jason’s too small chest, ripped apart.
You said you’d be there for me. You told me you were just a phone call away.
“I’m sorry, Jason,” pleaded Dick. “I didn’t know. It should have been me.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” came a male voice from behind him. “Wait, what do you know?”
I died in your colours, Dick. They were your colours, and it was your name. Would there be any child sidekicks if it hadn’t been for you?
Your death is on my hands.
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
You knew what Bruce could be like, but did you check in? Did you ever think about me while you were away?
I died alone. A good soldier’s death.
Dick could feel tears start to spring in his eyes as he watched the suit start to shred, mirroring the tears that were too familiar from their place in the display case in the Cave. The blood red eyes widened to engulf the boy’s face, and the blood was starting to pool on the floor. The deep red blood pooling over Jason’s boots, knees, into the costume—Dick’s costume.
“I wish I could take it back. I wish I could have been there for you, and I wasn’t. I failed you just like I’ve failed everyone I care about.”
Distantly, he could hear a voice sigh and mutter, “This isn't nearly as satisfying as I hoped it would be.”
Dick’s body is shifted, but he watched the pool of blood grow. It filled the room slowly, and Dick knew soon he’d be drowning it it too, submerged with Jason, choking on it, pulled under by the bright red accusing eyes. His brother’s eyes, dead and pleading.
Please, Dick. Save me! Why weren’t you there to save me?
Did you even notice I was gone?
“I’m sorry!”
“Should’ve done this right from the beginning,” muttered a voice, and Dick felt something sharp enter his arm. Cool liquid spread beneath his veins. “Hopefully the dose was the standard one…”
And Dick watched as Jason’s form gradually faded away.