[ he doesn't respond immediately and the look in his eyes when he pulls back to look at Bruce broadcasts loud and clear that he doesn't like it. another slow sigh sifts through his nose, but his hand folds out, the upturned blue palm of his gloves streaked with Bruce's blood. ]
Give me one of yours.
[ so the signals of his own trackers don't get registered to Bruce's system. in any other scenario, his answer would've been a resounding no, but he's not capable of saying that when Bruce is like this. ]
[ He doesn't like it. Bruce doesn't care. Dick never liked being tracked. Probably thought it was invasive, instead of the reality: Bruce trying to keep him safe. He reaches into a compartment of his belt and hands him a tracker, small and round and tuned to Bruce's network.
Bruce doesn't tell Dick he doesn't need his tracker to hijack his signal. The one he just handed over will do it for him. He reaches for Dick one last time, peeling the gauntlet off so Bruce can feel the warmth of his skin against his palm. He should say be careful or hurry back or don't do anything rash.
Instead he says: ]
Find Jones before he kills anyone else.
i expect nothing less. im also sorry hes like this.
[ Dick’s fingers close around the tracker, the tiny, round device weighing nothing sits heavy in his hand. He turns into Bruce’s palm then, eyes shutting a beat with another brush of lips against warm skin. he can feel it: all that doesn’t get said, the held back tremor of pain, the unvoiced concern, the only version of love that Bruce knows how to show. Bruce doesn’t have to say it.
then, he’s gone.
Batman’s bike hums almost imperceptibly beneath him on the path to Blackgate. Dick knows the old prison isn’t as abandoned as the city of Gotham wishes for it to seem, and Jones knows it too, if the trail he leaves parted through silt and gashed through the concrete tunnels is anything to judge by. the air is stale down here, the old infrastructure in a state of disrepair sagging beneath the weight of the seawalls.
Dick treads cautiously. Bruce will see the way the tracker weaves, as if tightening toward a centre that Dick never reaches. without warning, Jones comes roaring out of the dark like a freight train, all claws and muscles and Dick barely manages to dodge the first swing at his head. instead, it crashes into the wall behind him and sends rubble and dust choking up his senses. the second catches his ribs, not deep, but enough to tear through plating. Dick grits his teeth and rolls with it, because that’s the point here. he’s not here to hurt Waylon, but Waylon doesn’t know that.
they tumble until Dick’s back hits wet stone and the weight of Waylon pins him to it, knocking his breath out of his lungs. laboured heaving hisses through the comm lines but Dick manages to gather enough air to say it, quietly, but clearly. that he remembers seeing the posters, the ring of iron and the echo of a crowd, the way the circus feels when one has nowhere else to go. with those words, he sees the spark of memory, an opening Dick reaches through with the practiced precision of a catch mid-flight. fingers outstretched, steady in the freefall, he closes his hand around the humanity buried just beneath the monster's skin. ]
You don’t want to kill them, Waylon. I know that. Every time you do it takes away more of you. You want them to fix what they did, but this isn’t the way to do it.
[ with a heavy breath, one that strains beneath the crushing weight of Waylon’s claws, Dick offers, words strongly determined, so hopeful through the comm: ]
[ He has to let him go. That's the hardest part. Even when Bruce knows Dick will come back because the gravity's too strong. No matter how high he soars or how far the leap takes him, Bruce will pull him back to earth. Always, always, even when he pretends that's not what he's doing. It doesn't make the parting any easier.
As Dick is getting ready to leave, Alfred slides into his place - a smooth, practiced motion. He helps Bruce out of the car and ushers him into the med bay to get to work. It's a familiar dance — they've done it a thousand times. Probably more. And Alfred's always been the ideal partner for it. Precise and unflinching. He knows how to slip the needle in with little fuss and he doesn't make it hurt more than it has to.
Bruce is a decent enough patient. He doesn't move around more than necessary and waits until the final stitch is done and bandaged before he's up and at the computer to track both Dick and Jones. (and maybe set the tracker he gave to Dick to scan for any stray signals. You know, just in case.)
He's going in the right direction. From Jones' tracker, they'll cross paths soon and Bruce suspects when Dick stops moving that's exactly what happened. He accesses the open commline, asks quietly if Dick sees him. Though instead of something verbal from Dick, he hears Jones' guttural cries — loud and raw, as if he's screaming right into Bruce's ears. ]
Nightwing? Dick, are you alright?
[ He asks again. And nearly yells the third time — then he hears Dick's voice and relief floods him, easing the aching tension in his muscles.
Dick wants to help, of course he does. Bruce can't fault him for that. Jones deserved it, after what the warden put him through in Iron Heights. But now isn't the time. Calming him down, stopping him is the priority. The rest could come later. ]
He's not going to listen to reason. You have to subdue him.
[ Dick doesn't answer Bruce immediately--he can't, not when Waylon's breath scorches down his neck and the fragile moment he has slips through his fingers. He knows that Bruce is worried, he can hear it in the tone in his ear, that familiar voice saying his name over and over again like if something happened to Dick, Bruce wouldn't know what to do.
It's kind of sweet, really, and Dick would bask in it longer had Waylon not surged forward, all rage and fear and reflex. This time, Dick is faster. He rolls out from beneath the crushing weight, and runs, boots skidding on the wet stone as he puts distance between himself and Waylon. Then, he speaks, desperation urging into his voice with a plan. He'll trace the chemical trail, he'll find the right people. Maybe he can't reverse what's been done, but he might be able to slow it down, to stop the way the beat eats away the man. If, and only if Waylon promises to stop killing.
Waylon doesn’t answer. Just stares, a stillness trembling through the tunnel before he turns his back. And right before he delves into the darkness, he shoves aside a broken slab of concrete he’d used to block a drainage path.
Dick watches as the dust settles, and Bruce will hear the crash of it. It becomes clear that it's an exit path. It's far from forgiveness, but it's a start.
Dick lets him go.
And once he's far enough, there's a sigh of relief that breathes through the commline. It's laced with the weight of a new purpose, but light with hope. ]
That--[ his breath comes quickly, laboriously as Waylon's tracker heads deeper into the tunnels, away from the prison, and Dick's own tracker starts to move again. ] That was subduing, wasn't it? [ Please don't be mad. ]
[ Dick has always been one of the warmest, brightest parts of Bruce's life. How so much exuberance and kindness and warmth and life fit into one person so neatly baffled him but there was Dick Grayson - impossible human being. He's what Batman could have been if Bruce had even an ounce of Dick's light. He's proof that tragedy did not have to calcify into vengeance. That it could be tempered into something gentler - compassion and empathy.
Batman inspired fear. Nightwing inspired trust. He laughed easily and loved fiercely through the same kind of pain that made them what they are. Just carried with a grace that Bruce had never managed to find.
It's selfish to want that for himself, to cling to it and cover it over so no one else could bask in the glow of it. He'd keep it to himself so no one else could experience what loving Dick Grayson felt like.
He'd snatch him right out of the sky. ]
Why did you let him go?
[ He watched Waylon's tracker recede further into the tunnel, the blinking red dropping out of existence on the radar. Maybe he found the tracker, maybe he smashed it while diving into the murky waters beneath Gotham. Bruce would have to find him again.
He isn't mad.
He's a little mad.
On another screen, the tracer he gave Dick isolates the signal emanating from Dick's personal tracker, intercepts it. Catalogues it. And Bruce watches it happen without saying another word. ]
[ Dick shrinks into the tunnel Waylon uncovered, knowing it'll lead him back to the surface. Bruce's voice is in his ear, that cold, unaffected tone expressing displeasure loud and clear.
This is why he wanted to break free in the first place, his spirit too wild to be tethered to Bruce's weight, to hopeful to be contained by Bruce's care, his love, yet Bruce's gravity constantly pulls him back.
He has to take a few beats to formulate an answer in terms Bruce might accept (not something he's used to doing reflexively anymore) and navigate at the same time. His voice comes flat, the playful tone suffocated out of it. ]
So he'd let the guards go. I thought you wanted me to stop him from killing anyone else.
[ For a moment, Bruce's focus shifts. A few quick keystrokes and it seems the tracer's done its job. Dick's signal is faint, weak. Encrypted. Probably anticipated Bruce trying to to access it. But Bruce has already set the computer to start the decryption process.
Finally, he speaks up. ]
This is a temporary fix. Jones isn't known for his patience.
[ It's not lost on Bruce how flat Dick sounds now as if the vibrancy has been smothered out of him. It's not lost on Bruce that it's partially his fault. ]
[ there's a pause and a few taps on the keyboard, but Dick doesn't catch the quiet sound of it over the echoes in the sewers. it's true. he doesn't have a lot of time, and Dick, as always, has promised a big promise. ]
No. Just a few scratches. Nothing like what he did to you.
[ there's a tenderness in his voice, mixed in with all the protectiveness, softening the anger that made him want to hurt Waylon back. ]
[ Perhaps it was meant to sting a little, a bit of a prod beneath a cloak of humour. However, he immediately feels bad about it.
Not that he would say as much. ]
You should be resting.
[ He ends the call shortly after and heads back to the cave anyway. He strips off Nightwing and soaks off the sewers in a shower before finally making it down in just a pair of shorts and a towel slung over his shoulders. There’s a tracker left in the suit, and a tracker buried in his upper thigh, both possibilities for Bruce’s decryption. His hair is still damp as he steps up to the desk and pulls Bruce’s attention to himself.
Slowly, he gives Bruce a once-over. ]
I thought you were supposed to be horizontal. What are you doing up?
[ He should be doing a lot of things. There were case files to sift through and organize. Evidence to catalogue. Notes to prepare. None of it he could do if he had resigned himself to being a good patient. He's never been one of those, not when there's work to be done.
There's nothing to say to that, so Bruce doesn't protest the ending of the call and only spares Nightwing a glance when he comes home. He gets more than a glance when he comes back from the showers. For once, he gets Bruce's full attention. No new injuries that he could note. He seemed to be walking fine. No pupil dilation.
Dick is fine and Bruce gets back to work. ]
I'm fine. Come look at this. Medical reports buried under a few outdated security protocols. They were trying to replicate Jones's regenerative ability.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Give me one of yours.
[ so the signals of his own trackers don't get registered to Bruce's system. in any other scenario, his answer would've been a resounding no, but he's not capable of saying that when Bruce is like this. ]
sorry he's like this
Bruce doesn't tell Dick he doesn't need his tracker to hijack his signal. The one he just handed over will do it for him. He reaches for Dick one last time, peeling the gauntlet off so Bruce can feel the warmth of his skin against his palm. He should say be careful or hurry back or don't do anything rash.
Instead he says: ]
Find Jones before he kills anyone else.
i expect nothing less. im also sorry hes like this.
then, he’s gone.
Batman’s bike hums almost imperceptibly beneath him on the path to Blackgate. Dick knows the old prison isn’t as abandoned as the city of Gotham wishes for it to seem, and Jones knows it too, if the trail he leaves parted through silt and gashed through the concrete tunnels is anything to judge by. the air is stale down here, the old infrastructure in a state of disrepair sagging beneath the weight of the seawalls.
Dick treads cautiously. Bruce will see the way the tracker weaves, as if tightening toward a centre that Dick never reaches. without warning, Jones comes roaring out of the dark like a freight train, all claws and muscles and Dick barely manages to dodge the first swing at his head. instead, it crashes into the wall behind him and sends rubble and dust choking up his senses. the second catches his ribs, not deep, but enough to tear through plating. Dick grits his teeth and rolls with it, because that’s the point here. he’s not here to hurt Waylon, but Waylon doesn’t know that.
they tumble until Dick’s back hits wet stone and the weight of Waylon pins him to it, knocking his breath out of his lungs. laboured heaving hisses through the comm lines but Dick manages to gather enough air to say it, quietly, but clearly. that he remembers seeing the posters, the ring of iron and the echo of a crowd, the way the circus feels when one has nowhere else to go. with those words, he sees the spark of memory, an opening Dick reaches through with the practiced precision of a catch mid-flight. fingers outstretched, steady in the freefall, he closes his hand around the humanity buried just beneath the monster's skin. ]
You don’t want to kill them, Waylon. I know that. Every time you do it takes away more of you. You want them to fix what they did, but this isn’t the way to do it.
[ with a heavy breath, one that strains beneath the crushing weight of Waylon’s claws, Dick offers, words strongly determined, so hopeful through the comm: ]
Let me help.
they can be messy together
As Dick is getting ready to leave, Alfred slides into his place - a smooth, practiced motion. He helps Bruce out of the car and ushers him into the med bay to get to work. It's a familiar dance — they've done it a thousand times. Probably more. And Alfred's always been the ideal partner for it. Precise and unflinching. He knows how to slip the needle in with little fuss and he doesn't make it hurt more than it has to.
Bruce is a decent enough patient. He doesn't move around more than necessary and waits until the final stitch is done and bandaged before he's up and at the computer to track both Dick and Jones. (and maybe set the tracker he gave to Dick to scan for any stray signals. You know, just in case.)
He's going in the right direction. From Jones' tracker, they'll cross paths soon and Bruce suspects when Dick stops moving that's exactly what happened. He accesses the open commline, asks quietly if Dick sees him. Though instead of something verbal from Dick, he hears Jones' guttural cries — loud and raw, as if he's screaming right into Bruce's ears. ]
Nightwing? Dick, are you alright?
[ He asks again. And nearly yells the third time — then he hears Dick's voice and relief floods him, easing the aching tension in his muscles.
Dick wants to help, of course he does. Bruce can't fault him for that. Jones deserved it, after what the warden put him through in Iron Heights. But now isn't the time. Calming him down, stopping him is the priority. The rest could come later. ]
He's not going to listen to reason. You have to subdue him.
no subject
It's kind of sweet, really, and Dick would bask in it longer had Waylon not surged forward, all rage and fear and reflex. This time, Dick is faster. He rolls out from beneath the crushing weight, and runs, boots skidding on the wet stone as he puts distance between himself and Waylon. Then, he speaks, desperation urging into his voice with a plan. He'll trace the chemical trail, he'll find the right people. Maybe he can't reverse what's been done, but he might be able to slow it down, to stop the way the beat eats away the man. If, and only if Waylon promises to stop killing.
Waylon doesn’t answer. Just stares, a stillness trembling through the tunnel before he turns his back. And right before he delves into the darkness, he shoves aside a broken slab of concrete he’d used to block a drainage path.
Dick watches as the dust settles, and Bruce will hear the crash of it. It becomes clear that it's an exit path. It's far from forgiveness, but it's a start.
Dick lets him go.
And once he's far enough, there's a sigh of relief that breathes through the commline. It's laced with the weight of a new purpose, but light with hope. ]
That--[ his breath comes quickly, laboriously as Waylon's tracker heads deeper into the tunnels, away from the prison, and Dick's own tracker starts to move again. ] That was subduing, wasn't it? [ Please don't be mad. ]
no subject
Batman inspired fear. Nightwing inspired trust. He laughed easily and loved fiercely through the same kind of pain that made them what they are. Just carried with a grace that Bruce had never managed to find.
It's selfish to want that for himself, to cling to it and cover it over so no one else could bask in the glow of it. He'd keep it to himself so no one else could experience what loving Dick Grayson felt like.
He'd snatch him right out of the sky. ]
Why did you let him go?
[ He watched Waylon's tracker recede further into the tunnel, the blinking red dropping out of existence on the radar. Maybe he found the tracker, maybe he smashed it while diving into the murky waters beneath Gotham. Bruce would have to find him again.
He isn't mad.
He's a little mad.
On another screen, the tracer he gave Dick isolates the signal emanating from Dick's personal tracker, intercepts it. Catalogues it. And Bruce watches it happen without saying another word. ]
how dare
This is why he wanted to break free in the first place, his spirit too wild to be tethered to Bruce's weight, to hopeful to be contained by Bruce's care, his love, yet Bruce's gravity constantly pulls him back.
He has to take a few beats to formulate an answer in terms Bruce might accept (not something he's used to doing reflexively anymore) and navigate at the same time. His voice comes flat, the playful tone suffocated out of it. ]
So he'd let the guards go. I thought you wanted me to stop him from killing anyone else.
no subject
Finally, he speaks up. ]
This is a temporary fix. Jones isn't known for his patience.
[ It's not lost on Bruce how flat Dick sounds now as if the vibrancy has been smothered out of him. It's not lost on Bruce that it's partially his fault. ]
Are you alright? Did he hurt you?
no subject
No. Just a few scratches. Nothing like what he did to you.
[ there's a tenderness in his voice, mixed in with all the protectiveness, softening the anger that made him want to hurt Waylon back. ]
Why? You worry about me now?
no subject
I will always be concerned about you, Dick.
[ He puts something else on the screen of the computer decrypting Dick's signal. In anticipation of his return. ]
Come back to the cave. I'm accessing Iron Heights' files. I might have a lead.
no subject
Not that he would say as much. ]
You should be resting.
[ He ends the call shortly after and heads back to the cave anyway. He strips off Nightwing and soaks off the sewers in a shower before finally making it down in just a pair of shorts and a towel slung over his shoulders. There’s a tracker left in the suit, and a tracker buried in his upper thigh, both possibilities for Bruce’s decryption. His hair is still damp as he steps up to the desk and pulls Bruce’s attention to himself.
Slowly, he gives Bruce a once-over. ]
I thought you were supposed to be horizontal. What are you doing up?
no subject
There's nothing to say to that, so Bruce doesn't protest the ending of the call and only spares Nightwing a glance when he comes home. He gets more than a glance when he comes back from the showers. For once, he gets Bruce's full attention. No new injuries that he could note. He seemed to be walking fine. No pupil dilation.
Dick is fine and Bruce gets back to work. ]
I'm fine. Come look at this. Medical reports buried under a few outdated security protocols. They were trying to replicate Jones's regenerative ability.