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"Batman, I-I can’t… It’s too… too...”
He closed his eyes.
“Robin, don’t fall asleep-“
“..-gave you too much-“
“…- not wake up-“
“-Robin!”
“-don’t you dare fucking touch him.”
Whoever lifted him didn’t seem to care about the growled threat. He was thrown over what felt like a shoulder, digging into his abdomen. There’s someone grumbling indistinctly nearby, and he thought he recognised the deep baritone, but he was being jostled about too much and the nausea in his stomach was starting to overwhelm him.
His mouth opened and he vomited down the back of whoever was carrying him.
“Oh my god!”
Someone chuckled darkly. “That’s my boy..”
It was a long fall down. He hit the ground with a loud thump, drowsily crying out when something in his chest echoed with a crack, the edges of the pain numbed down but still painful enough to hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“-the infamous Robin?”
“Leave him out of this-“
“Or what? What could you possibly do?”
“This.”
There’s a rattling of chains and then a pained gasp. He faintly heard a slap, followed by multiple thuds and restrained grunts, sounding like they were pulled unwillingly through clenched teeth. The thuds stopped after a while, only heaving gasps filling the silent, empty air.
Someone snarled. “Not so talkative now, Bats, hm?”
A heavy, metal door clanged shut and the world went quiet.
He was tied up. Feeling light-headed, he took a deep breath to calm his suddenly racing heart – at least, he tried to, but something in his chest grinded against something it shouldn’t have. He quickly released the air in his lungs, wincing as his ribs shifted. Cracked ribs then – great.
He took in more of his surroundings without raising his head, hoping that there was no one in the room with him. If there was, hopefully they hadn’t heard his little gasp. Yeah, Dick was in a hoping mood.
He was sitting on the cold concrete floor, his back pressed against a thick pipe that was coated in rust, feeling the decaying iron drifting onto him in large flakes every time he shifted. His identity hadn’t been revealed yet, thankfully, but his domino mask was beginning to get itchy around the edges. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had passed out, but the spirit gum holding on his mask was beginning to irritate his skin, and he knew, from experience, that it was going to be a pain in the ass to take off.
He needed to get out of here. He stretched his fingers up over his palm to feel around his wrists, only to find that his hands were entrapped in an ordinary set of handcuffs. He huffed, slightly insulted – only handcuffs? Still, he’d take a stupid villain over a smart one any time. He turned his hands around, preparing to dislocate his thumbs; which, while painful and annoying, seemed to be his best and easiest option. Only, when he tried to jerk his thumbs, just like Bruce had taught him to, he found them carefully duct taped to his palm. Dick smiled bitterly and thought, begrudgingly – okay, it’s a smart villain then.
Different tactic. Behind his back, he twisted his wrists subtly and slowly, grasping onto his belt. He twisted it around, counting the pockets until he reached the one he needed.
Catching movement in the corner of his eye, Batman snapped his head up and watched Dick’s turning belt, realising what he was doing, and caught sight of a faint smirk on his son’s downturned face. However, the young boy’s good mood rapidly dissipated when he stretched to retrieve the lock pick set inside the pocket - the same lock set that, conveniently, wasn’t there.
“He went through my belt?” Dick burst out unthinkingly, disbelief and indignation colouring his voice.
“Robin? Are you okay?” Batman interrupted, pressing, “Are you hurt?”
Lifting his head for the first time, the boy turned his attention to the man opposite him and started. Batman was pulled straight and tall; not quite on his tiptoes, but enough that Dick had to tilt his head to look him in the face. He’s cuffed with an identical pair of restraints, the middle of cuffs caught in a carabiner held in the air by heavy, metal chains that hung from the ceiling. He tried to follow the chains and looked upwards, but the ceiling was so high that the light didn’t even reach the top of the room.
The caped vigilante still had his cowl on, but Dick could still see the swelling around his eye, the blood trailing from his split lip down his chin and the bruise that was beginning to darken the underside of his jaw. The man was tense, favouring his left side slightly and Dick thought he saw a wrench lying a few feet away. Dick vaguely remembered faint thuds and pained grunts echoing in his head.
“What the hell...” Dick breathed softly, his breath catching as he took it all in. By the reassuring quirk of the lips that Batman gave him, he assumed that he had been heard. He shook himself, remembering his mentor’s question, and reporting dutifully, “I- I’m fine, I guess. My head’s slightly fuzzy,” he paused, pain spiking in his chest, as if to remind him, and he gasped out, adding, “-my ribs too.”
Batman hummed, eyes narrowing. Trying to keep the boy’s mind off the pain, he questioned, “What do you remember?”
“I- I remember…” Dick trailed off, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. Then he asked hesitantly, almost disbelievingly, “Did I puke on someone?”
Batman let out an uncharacteristic snort. “Yeah, kid, you did,” he smirked, commenting, “As far as evasion tactics go, it was pretty effective actually.”
The mask didn’t quite cover the blush that spread across the boy’s cheeks as his mentor teased him.
“Whoever did this must have been watching me for a while - whatever drug they used kept me down for just as long as they needed it to,” Batman mused after a moment, filling the boy in, “But you haven’t been out in the field in a while…”
Robin picked up where Batman had trailed off, working it out as he went along, “-so they didn’t have any clue when the time came, and just dosed me with whatever was left, which was-“
“- far too much,” Batman finished with a nod.
“Far too much,” Dick agreed, with a sigh that sounded resigned. It had been exam week in school last week and Bruce hadn’t let him out on patrol, saying he should revise instead. He was also smaller than most people his age, which probably didn’t help matters. He had difficulty gaining weight, something he knew that both Leslie and Alfred hated. Fatty foods and calories flowed through his body like water; in and out with no pit stops.
Dick raised his head. “But I heard you speak, shouldn’t have you have been knocked out too?”
Batman saw his confusion and explained. “It was a paralytic drug – I could speak, but not move.”
“Oh.”
“You muttered a lot,” Batman added, “Not fully awake… like you were floating.”
Dick hummed in confirmation. That’s what it had felt like. He pulled at his restraints and glanced at the door, “So, a John or a Jane?”
Batman looked up, checking out the cuffs, then followed his gaze to the door. “A John.”
“Who’s our John Doe then? You know him?”
Batman grunted, sounding slightly embarrassed. “He’s a very… recent acquaintance.”
Dick translated for him. Of course, Batman would be embarrassed by being caught by a new villain and wouldn’t admit it. “So, you saying you know him then?”
“...Not quite, no.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Dick muttered to himself. It was meant to come out sarcastic and overenthusiastic, but instead, embarrassingly, it came out as sounding young and scared. He stared at his knees, stretched out in front of him. If they had no clue who the guy was, then they didn’t know his motive, or his tactics of getting information from unwilling participants.
He slowly looked up at Batman when the man purposely rattled his chains to get his attention. Bruce caught his son’s eyes and breathed, earnestly, “Dick, we’ll be okay.”
Dick’s eyes widened. “B-“
Batman shook his head. “No one is listening, don’t worry,” he explained, “If there was, they would have come in as soon as they knew you were awake. And, by the look of the place, there doesn’t seem to be much money to spare for surveillance or that sort of thing…”
Dick snorted, rolling his eyes. “You’re such a rich bitch. Do you always judge the interior design of each place you’re kidnapped in?”
Batman smirked and clicked his tongue sarcastically. “Gotta see what colour schemes work and which don’t, don’t I?”
Dick found himself chuckling, despite his ribs. And the Justice League thought the Bat didn’t have a sense of humour – they obviously hadn’t spent a long time around the man. But, settling down and looking around, he had to agree with Batman that the place looked a little worse for wear.
It was quite a small room, all things considered, and Dick was only about four feet away from Bruce, who was the centrepiece of the room. The walls were caked in peeling white plaster with suspicious stains - the boy tried not to think too much about their origin – and a labyrinth of old pipes lined the walls, occasionally creaking and groaning in a strained effort to complete their task. A large oak desk was shoved against the wall to Dick’s right, near to the large, metal, double doors.
The rattling of chains drew his attention back to Bruce once again. The cowl was faced upwards, his eyes following the chain up to the ceiling. He peered down and caught Dick’s eyes, grumbling, “Keep an eye on the door for me. Call if you hear footsteps.”
Dick nodded jerkily. Bruce stared at him, searching for something on his son’s face, before he nodded and returned his gaze upwards once more. Pushing off the floor, he jumped and wrapped his hands tightly around the chain. Bruce exhaled - now for the difficult part. He definitely wasn’t as young as he used to be, and the Batman suit was built with brute strength and power in mind, not speed or agility. As a result, it made the suit heavy and this situation particularly challenging.
Using his feet for momentum, Bruce swung forward before he surged upwards, grasping the chain firmly once more. With just his hands carrying him higher up the chains, it was slow progress, and he knew that Dick would have clambered up the chains in no time, without breaking a sweat - the little acrobatic squirt that he was.
Dick jumped as the door suddenly swung open with a loud clang. Shit, he had meant to be listening out for someone. Bruce had already made his way up half the chain by that point, and he had gotten distracted by watching his mentor shuffle his way upwards.
“What is-?” the man in the doorway began, before his eyes narrowed and he snapped his gaze skywards. He stormed forward, picking up the wrench, and began to swat at Batman with it, as if he were a bothersome fly, “Hey!”
The wrench clipped his armoured boot and Batman grunted in pain, but continued his ascent. If he could just reach the top-
“Get down here now or I’ll snap this kid’s leg.”
Bruce froze and looked down. The man had Dick by the ankle, wrench held threateningly above his shin. The boy was sprawled awkwardly on his back, his hands still attached to the pipe behind him, straining on his shoulders, with one leg held aloft in the tight grip of their jailer. Dick’s mouth was slightly agape and Bruce could hear his breath hitching, even from his elevated height. He didn’t need the white lenses to be pushed up to be convinced of the fear on his son’s face.
“Okay, okay,” he pacified after a moment, his voice slightly hoarse as he locked eyes with his son, “I’m coming down now.”
“No funny business, you hear? Birds may not need legs to fly, but your boy sure does.”
Batman growled at the threat, but kept quiet, concentrating on shuffling down the chain. From this height, if he lost his grip and fell, he might as well say goodbye to his shoulders – double dislocations were no joke.
A few feet from the ground, he let himself drop, landing lightly on his feet. The man didn’t let him catch his breath as he unceremoniously dropped Dick’s ankle, swinging the wrench around. He drove the air of Bruce’s lungs with a hit to the side of his torso. He jerked away as he grunted in pain.
“Batman!” Dick gasped out as he scrambled up and surged forward, straining against the cuffs.
“Stay out of it, Robin,” Batman snapped, catching his breath and scowling at the boy. Dick quivered at his mentor’s suddenly sharp glare.
The man stepped to the side from where he had his back to Robin. He glanced between them both. “Oh, no, no. I love a bit of audience participation,” the man said, mockingly clapping his hands in glee.
Batman snarled. “Yeah? Well, I don’t.”
“So sharp,” he said, and then turned to Dick, ignoring Bruce’s warning growl, “Honestly, I don’t know how you deal with the catty Batty all the time.”
Dick didn’t answer, but he let his lips quirk upwards. The man’s voice was American but had an underlying twang of European that Dick couldn’t specify from his limited experience with accents. He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young, either. He had a full head of tangled, black hair, but strands at his temple were starting to turn a dull grey. His stubble was short, and seemed to emphasize the hollows of his cheeks. The man was tall; not gangly, but certainly not muscled either – he was more lithe. He wore a seemingly black suit, but it shone midnight blue at the right angle.
“Who are you?”
The man pushed his chest out, like preening bird. He answered Batman with a loud, booming voice, as if he were a ringmaster, “My name is Puck. Salem Puck.”
His name is Puck, Dick thought, slightly hysterically, I always hated Shakespeare. Similarly, Batman was decidedly unimpressed. “What do you want?”
“Um, nothing, really.”
Dick scoffed quietly to himself and, even from behind the cowl, Dick could tell Bruce was raising an eyebrow. “’Nothing’?”
“Yeah, nothing, Big B. You see the whole ‘I’ll kill you thing’ is really not my thing, if you get what I mean? I’m more into-,” the man clicked his fingers in the air a few times, as if trying to remember something that had slipped his mind. He turned to them, gesturing to them as if asking them to help him. Bruce and Dick just watched him flounder. “What do you call it?”
His whole playful demeanour shifted suddenly as he straightened up, a sickening smile spreading across his lips. “Ah, I remember now - power play.”
Batman tensed so fast it almost looked like he flinched. He stood up straighter and eyed the man even more warily than before. Dick just blinked in confusion. What did that mean?
Puck answered the question on his lips. “It’s not what you’d give me that I want – it’s what I’d take from you, and you’d let me.”
Batman shifted and lifted his head to stare unnervingly at Puck. “What could you possibly take from me? I will give you nothing.”
Puck moved. Dick jumped as the man was suddenly in Batman’s face, causing the vigilante to jolt back, jarred. Their kidnapper raised the wrench malevolently, pushing it under his chin until Bruce was forced to tilt his head. Puck whispered, nearly snarling, “What makes you think that you’ll be the one doing the giving?”
He sneered, stepping back. Batman stayed silent but followed his every step with narrowed eyes - what was he playing at?
The man suddenly giggled – an ugly, twisted thing that made Dick wince and want to cover his ears. “Oh, the confusion in your eyes is so beautiful. You still don’t understand, do you? But I can tell that you’re trying to work it out – I can see that little machine of a mind whirring.”
“To be truthful,” he continued, twirling the tool in his hand, his body language and voice completely from what it had been a moment ago; back to being relaxing and easy. Dick was getting whiplash. “I don’t really know what I want from you guys – I genuinely didn’t think I would get this far…"
“I’m slightly…. disappointed, if I’m to be honest with you…” he trailed off sadly. He carried on, throwing his arms out dramatically, “The big Bat and his little brat didn’t seem to put up much of a fight, did they? I mean, here you are.”
Here they are, indeed, Dick thought as he shifted uncomfortably. He could feel blood beginning to run down his hands from his split wrists, rubbed raw from the cuffs, and his shoulders were starting to ache and go numb from being pulled back for so long. His ribs were starting to hurt more, also, and his lower back didn’t appreciate being sat in this position for so long. He was one big ball of hurt.
Dick turned his attention back to the occupants of the room when Puck sighed dejectedly. “Oh well,” he suddenly perked up and both vigilantes tensed, “Anyway, Batsy, you asked me what I could take from you and, well, the most obvious thing is your identity.”
Dick was betrayed by his body and froze, but Bruce carefully didn’t react, staring back uninterestedly.
The man carried on. “I mean, I could just pull off your mask right now and see who you are, but that’s me taking it. I want you to give your identity to me – willingly.”
Batman swung around on the chains as the man started to circle him, the wrench still held loosely in his hand. “I would never.”
“Well, obviously, dummy,” Puck mocked. His easy tone juxtaposed with his actions as he slammed the wrench against the pipe above Dick’s head. Dick bowed his head and gritted his teeth as the rough surface of the pipe vibrated against his aching wrists and a shower of rust fell down on him. “You don’t hand your identity out to anyone and everyone do you? That’s the whole point.”
Bruce ignored the man and said nothing, training his eyes on his son’s slumped form.
“You see, I want more than just your identity. I want you begging to give it to me.”
Batman started. “What?”
Puck walked around the swinging Batman to his other side, throwing an arm over his shoulders as if they were old friends. He kept talking as if he had never heard him speak, a gleam creeping in his crazed eyes and an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. “I want to break you.”
“But I’ve seen Bane - even the Joker – try to physically break you and they didn’t succeed,” he mused, wandering over to the oak desk on the other side of the room – closer to Robin. Batman tensed. “So, what would break you?”
Puck suddenly spun around, holding a coiled leather whip. “Robin, perhaps?”
He struck out, hitting an unprepared Robin across the shins. Dick cried out, in shock more than anything, and the muscle in his thigh jerked sympathetically as he snapped his knees up his chest quickly. At first, the pain wasn’t too bad, and Dick felt the area go numb quickly, but it was followed by a slowly-building, hot itch. He then felt an out-right burning sensation along the welt across both his shins. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to writhe, with no place to go.
“Oh, come on, boy wonder,” the man clucked, adding, “Don’t be a spoilsport.”
Feeling his eyes watering behind the white lenses, Dick sniffed, ducking his head into his knees and shaking his head. Beyond his stinging shins, he faintly heard Batman loudly snarling various threats. Puck was unfazed.
“Put your legs out, or Batdaddy gets it instead,” Puck snapped, his eyes darkening as he was refused. Whimpering quietly, Dick slowly stretched his shaking legs out reluctantly. His bottom lip wobbled precariously.
“Robin, stop it. Let me take it.”
“Oh, but look how good he is!” Puck smiled, reaching down and pinching the boy’s cheek viciously. Dick moaned in pain and turned his head away. Puck straightened and smirked, “Taking it like a good little soldier - did you give him some practise, Batman? Perhaps when he didn’t perform a move right, or let a bad guy get away, hm?”
Batman growled. “I swear to god-“
Dick didn’t hear the rest because Puck had snapped the whip across his knees. He yelped with the blow, flinching involuntarily. Everything around him turned to white noise as Puck kept hitting him, but he was able to hear occasional dark bellows.
“-fucking leave him alone-!”
Breathing heavily sent agony shooting through his chest due to his ribs, but he couldn’t stop gasping as he tried to ignore the pain in his legs. In the back of his mind, he knew he was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to take it in and try to breathe slower before he passed out.
“-hit me! Just hit me-!”
Whoever was speaking obviously wasn’t very convincing as Puck gave him another stinging blow. He was too scared to cry.
“-I’ll fucking kill you, I swear-!”
Someone was going to murder someone? He struggled to understand the world around him – he couldn’t let someone die. With each blow, the skin softened and the pain grew and grew to the point that his legs felt like they were on fire - searing, white-hot pain. But he eventually calmed his breathing, just like Bruce had taught him to; taking the pain and shoving it to the back of his mind.
Everything sounded muffled and far away, but, through the pain, Dick could hear Puck as he complained, sounding like a petulant child, “No, no, it’s no fun. You’ve trained the batbitch your fancy meditation shit to get through a beating…”
That was the last thing he heard as Dick slipped towards blissful, peaceful oblivion, feeling slightly guilty as he left Batman to fend for himself. He was tired, and all he wanted was to go home. As darkness enveloped him in its welcoming embrace, he hoped that his mentor wouldn’t be too mad with him.
The man in question felt nothing but relief as he carefully watched his son’s eyes slip close and his body hang limply. The boy had been through too much. He turned his steely glare back to their tormentor, reassured that the boy was safe for the moment.
Puck was staring at the floor with his hands on his hips, musing, seeming to be having his own conversation. “Killing the Robin would just enrage you, drive you – not break you.”
Ignoring a straining, snarling Batman and turning away from the unconscious Robin, he strolled over to the dirty, dusty window and stilled, pausing for a long time.
“I’ve always heard on the street, you know…-” he muttered to himself, trailing off. Batman tensed, his brows furrowing, as he heard the deliberating tone. Puck had had a new idea and Bruce was sure he wasn’t going to like it. Puck carried on.
“… -things about you guys,” he paused, speaking slowly, “I never used to listen, but, you see, this past couple of months there’s been a particular buzz about a certain bird…” he trailed off, turning around at his leisure with a sly smirk on his face.
He slid over to Batman, who was breathing heavily and glaring. Puck expected to be kicked as soon as he was close enough, but Batman seemed to rein himself in and just swung idly. Puck smiled and leaned his mouth close to his ear, whispering, “-a buzz about how good he looked in those little shorts.”
A dangerous silence fell; blanketing them, suffocating them. It was broken when an enraged Batman, trying to see past the red in his vision, jerked in his chains and suddenly snarled, “You sick fucking-!“
He was cut off by a vicious blow to the stomach which made him unconsciously curl his legs up slightly. Puck tutted, as if disappointed, “Ah, but I didn’t say that I thought that, did I? Not really my area, really…”
Bruce calmed slightly. Puck ambled over to the door before stopping and glancing back at the hanging Batman, his hand on the doorframe. He smirked, “But I’m sure I could find someone that does like that kind of stuff, hm?”
He left before Batman could make a sound in protest.
“Come on, Kal-El, please. Please, I need you right now. I can’t-“
He let out a groan before he could stop himself.
“Dick?”
The boy moaned. “I really need to stop waking up like this…”
Someone snorted. “Ditto that, kid.”
Dick blearily opened his eyes to blurred vision, everything having soft edges and winking at him - he quickly squeezed them shut. He tried to move, crying out when his ribs shifted. He started panicking, confused. He called out, slightly desperately, “Bruce? Where-?”
“Hey, hey. Listen to me, you’re gonna be alright, okay?” Bruce said intensely, with conviction. He hated the waver he heard in his own hoarse voice. He hadn’t counted how long they had been there - hadn’t wanted to – but he knew it had been a couple of hours at least. The sun was peering in through the window, highlighting the swiftly rising welts and bruises on his son’s legs. He continued, “Just open your eyes, chum.”
Dick moaned, young and in pain. “No, it’s blurry..”
“Kid, the sooner you open your eyes, the sooner they’ll not be blurry,” he reasoned softly and slowly. It wasn’t like Dick to whine, but the young boy had dealt with a lot and seemed to be in a very fragile state. “Can you open your eyes for me?”
Dick sighed in frustration, knowing that his mentor was right. He opened his eyes and whimpered when the room was hazy and unfocused. He quietened and started to blink rapidly, just like Bruce was quietly instructing him to do. When the room was more distinguishable, Dick gasped.
Batman was still opposite him, hanging from the chains. But this time, blood was running in rivulets down from his wrists, slipping underneath the sleeve of his suit and spilling over the cuff to stream down his arm. For the first time, Dick noticed that he had no gloves on, and the billionaire’s hands were white, his fingertips tinged blue. He was also shifting uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders as far as he was able to. Sweat had broken out on his face, glistening on his skin from what Dick could see under the mask, and his mouth was set in a permanent grimace.
Dick stuttered. “A- Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Batman dismissed, eyes on his protégé’s face, “Are you okay?”
Knowing Bruce wouldn’t want a half-assed report, Dick fell silent and took account of his body. His ribs were aching, but they only hurt when he moved. He glanced down at his legs, his eyes widening when he saw them shaking violently. They were numb, and when he experimentally tried to bend his left leg towards his chest, he gasped as sharp pain raced up his limb.
“Robin?” Batman barked.
“I- I’m okay,” Dick reassured, “My ribs still hurt, mostly down the right side, and I can’t move my legs without them hurting and-“
Hearing his son’s voice rise in a volume as he rambled on, Bruce hushed him. “Shh, Dick, you’re okay.”
“-and my chest feels tight.”
Batman made a questioning noise. “Asthma?”
Dick hummed in affirmation, slowing his breathing down and dragging in longer breaths. The room was filled with dust and it felt very stuffy.
“Damn.”
The door swung open and Dick jumped as it clanged against the wall. Batman growled as Puck stormed in, followed timidly by a small, plump man.
“Hello, my dudes!” Puck said enthusiastically, his pockets bulging suspiciously, “This is-“
“Fuck off.”
Dick’s eyes widened. Alfred would not be happy.
Puck was similarly unimpressed, “Really? Very immature,” he sighed and clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes, “Luckily, I thought you would be difficult, and came prepared.”
He walked towards Batman and pulled strips of cloth out from his pockets.
“Kal-El-“ Bruce was able to rush out before Puck stuffed a cloth in his mouth, securing it in his mouth by tying another cloth around the back of his head.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” he glared at Bruce, “here’s the guy I was talking about,” Puck carried on, ignoring a muffled, snarling Batman. He pointed to the man who stood silently by the door, his head bowed to stare at the floor. He had a rigidness about him as if he had been ordered to.
He was smaller than Puck, but made up for it horizontally. Judging by the bald patch on the crown of his head, Dick guessed he was in his late 50s. His shirt was tucked into his beige slacks and he was sweating profusely, a matching pair of nasty, wet patches beneath his armpits. The buttons on his light-blue dress shirt were straining and so were his lungs, if Dick was hearing things correctly. If Dick only had one adjective to describe the man, the only one he could even think of was sticky.
Dick had no idea what Puck was talking about – but by the sounds that Batman was making, he did. Dick clenched his suddenly shaking hands into fists behind his back. He was on his own. He had to keep the man talking. Pushing down and ignoring the stinging pain from the welts on his legs, he cleared his throat. “By the way, kudos. The thumb thing? Clever.”
The unnamed man at the door twitched, but kept his eyes towards the floor – Batman growled at him. Puck moved away from a snarling Batman and casually stuffed his hands into his suit pockets, shrugging modestly, “You think? It’s not really that difficult to plan ahead.”
“Yeah, well, ‘give credit where credit is due’ and all that-“
He was cut off by a backhand to the face. Batman shouted out indistinctly through the gag. Staring up at the man, Dick’s eyes watered behind his white lenses from the sharp pain. It was too much. He had reined in and had tightly gripped his fragile and crumbling emotions when Batman had been gagged, left alone with the crazed man, but a slap – a slap – had knocked him off his game. He had tried to keep his cool, but he couldn’t do it. He abruptly felt very young, and very out of his depth. He felt a humiliatingly overwhelming urge to cry.
As if he knew, Batman hummed something loudly that sounded vaguely like his name. The boy in question raised his head, locking eyes with his mentor. Batman nodded consolingly, his eyes earnest. Dick took strength from his gaze, which seemed to say, you’re going good, kid, just keep it together.
“Now, you be nice to my friend here, you hear? His name is Mitar, and he really is quite a delightful man, I assure you” Puck said mockingly, straightening up from where he had been crouched to Dick’s lower height.
He turned towards Batman, "And when I come back, you'll be begging me to let you tell me your real name" With that, he headed for the door, tossing a “Have fun, boys!” over his shoulder as he left the room.
Left with Mitar, Dick stiffened his abused body as the remaining man’s intense gaze immediately lifted from the floor and snapped to him.
“Batman..” Dick whispered underneath his breath as the pudgy man shuffled towards him. With every step, his empty gaze filled with what Dick could only describe as hunger. He eyed Mitar warily as he huffed and puffed, slowly collapsing onto his knees next to the young boy.
Batman was shouting something behind the gag, but Dick ignored him as the man reached out for him. His breath quickened and he jerked against the cuffs in an effort to get away as fingers trailed lightly over his jaw and down his neck. Suddenly, Mitar shivered and he quickened his movements, shifting higher up on his knees and towering over the younger vigilante, who suddenly felt very young and very small.
Dick felt the blood drain from his face as hands unexpectedly fisted his Robin costume, violently ripping the material until the cool air of the room met the dimpling skin of his chest. Sweaty hands were suddenly roaming his heaving chest, over his thudding heart. He jerked as a hand pushed down too heavy on his ribs.
He flinched when he heard Mitar suddenly whisper, unaware he was that close to his face, his hot breath caressing his ear, “Christ, you’re fucking pretty, aren’t you?”
He whimpered helplessly and turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as his stomach rolled. He could hear Batman growling and straining against his own cuffs, but it was drowned out by heavy breathing and wandering hands.
A rough, wet heat replaced a hand on his chest and he gagged as he recognised it as a tongue. At the back of his mind, something was shrieking at him to move, to scream, to shout - but he couldn’t. Every time he thought of opening his mouth, bile burned his throat. He sniffed shakily as tears started to well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. In the end, Dick put up no resistance; his lenses were down anyway.
The hand that had previously been on his chest was now cupping his upper leg, the fingertips pushing intimately at his inner thigh. Dick flinched as the hand palmed a raised welt and his leg jolted involuntarily. Mitar pushed his weight down on his thigh to prevent him from moving and he yelped, the heavy pressure too much.
All of a sudden, his fingertips were brushing there.
He mewled in revulsion, shaking his head violently. He twisted his hips in an effort to get away, but Mitar followed him mercilessly, now fondling him through his shorts. He heard Mitar pant as his lips brushed his cheek. The sweaty man’s hot breath seemed to condense on his face and he jerked his head away sluggishly. His head was pounding and his heart was roaring in his ears. He just wanted to go home-
Between one shaky breath and the next, Mitar was gone, and Dick let out an embarrassing whine in relief, his chest expanding dramatically with each breath of clear air he desperately sucked in, devoid of Mitar’s greasy scent. He quickly tugged his legs up to his chest, not caring as they cried out to him for being moved so hastily. He hid his face in his knees and tried to slow his breathing down.
But, before he could, hands gripped his upper arms. Exhausted of being used and touched, he snapped.
He let out an animalistic snarl and lashed out with his feet, connecting with something solid. But he didn’t stop, he kicked and writhed, his eyes squeezed shut. He knew he was making some embarrassing noises, moaning and whimpering, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He knew he was panicking, and there was a pressure in his chest that just wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t breathe properly and he couldn’t think straight. He wanted to go home – why couldn’t he just go home?
Faintly, through the haze, he could hear someone speaking slowly, but it was too low for him to understand. The deep rumbling sound contrasted sharply with the high-pitched squealing in his ears. He slowed down his thrashes, and, eyes still shut, mumbled confusedly, “What-? I d- don’t-“
“It’s okay, Dick. You’re safe now, you’re safe.”
“No, no-“
“Yes, you are. Can you open your eyes for me?”
A spark of recognition ran through him. Someone had said that to him before…but who? Suddenly, Dick gasped and his eyes shot open quickly – Bruce!
The man himself was kneeling in front of him, cowl off and hands held up placating. Cuffs hung loosely from each wrist, the strip of metal joining them together split. His lips quirked upwards, “That’s it, chum.”
“Bruce!” Dick cried out, not caring where he was or who was listening. He lunged forward into his mentor’s awaiting arms but was jerked back by the restraints holding him against the pipe. He whimpered and kicked his legs out in frustration.
“Clark,” Batman snapped.
“On it,” the man grunted, walking calmly and slowly up to the young boy from where he had been standing behind his friend with his arms crossed - lest he might go and crush the throat of the man in the corner, crumpled and unconscious. God knows he deserved it.
Dick started, his eyes snapping to the larger man as he knelt beside him. He conjured up a shaky smile and asked quietly, “Was it you that I kicked?”
“Yeah,” Clark chuckled, teasing, “And it hurt too. You’re gonna have to teach me that one someday.”
Dick grinned up at him.
“Don’t move, okay?” he asked rhetorically, reaching behind the boy and placing one large hand on his back, covering both the small boy’s shoulder blades, and pushing him forward gently so that he could see the cuffs. “Pull your hands apart as much as you can.”
“I thought you told me not to move…” Dick muttered under his breath, but did as he was told. He heard a snort come from Batman.
Trying not to laugh himself, Superman used his heat vision to carefully slice through the cuffs with ease, catching the boy as he fell forward suddenly with nothing holding him back. He was immediately replaced with Batman as the vigilante pushed him back to hold his son. He tactfully ignored the wet mumbles that the boy let out as he began to weep into his mentor’s shoulder and he ignored the occasional wet sniffs coming from the caped vigilante even harder.
Clark quietly unclipped his cape to wrap around the trembling, exposed boy. Batman shot him what could only be described as a grateful look, wincing as a muscle in his strained shoulders jolted painfully.
After a moment, Batman gently handed the now settled boy over to Superman, who cradled him tenderly in his arms. Dick immediately tucked his face into Clark’s neck, body shivering and seeking heat. Eyes softening at the sight, Bruce stepped back and said quietly, “Get him out of here.”
“What about you?”
“You can’t carry both of us. Get him out of here and then come back for me,” Batman reasoned. When Superman still seemed hesitant, he insisted, “Go.”
“Just,” Clark sighed and paused, stopping him as he turned. He glanced down meaningfully at Dick, “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
Batman nodded silently. Gently sheltering Dick against his chest, cape and arms wrapped protectively around the small body, Superman flew back through the hole he had busted in the wall. Batman pulled his cowl back on.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Batman snarled quietly, cracking his knuckles and heading towards the door, “I won’t regret any of it.”
The line clicked. “Clark, what have I done?”
On the other end of the phone, Clark started. He set down his pasta and turned off the TV, recognising the voice, although it was uncharacteristically beseeching. He said back, “Hello to you too. What do you mean?”
Salem Puck and Mitar Naphaz had been taken into custody a few hours previous – slightly worse for wear – but Clark couldn’t have brought himself to care. When he explained the situation to Gordon, his eyes had darkened, and he had seemed to share Superman’s indifferent opinion to the beaten-unconscious men. Clark remembered Bruce mentioning one day that the Commissioner had a young daughter – only a few years older than Dick – and had understood.
Clark had taken Dick to the nearest boom tube - figuring that the wind from flying would be too cold - and travelled to the Wayne Manor, sensing that the boy would have wanted to be in a familiar space. Dick was deathly quiet the whole journey, shaking in his comforting arms. He had called ahead for Alfred and, over the comms, had asked Dinah to meet him at the Batcave, knowing that she doubled as the boy’s counsellor after he had joined Young Justice.
When he had returned with Bruce, the young boy had been in a deep, whispered discussion with the woman, sitting rigidly on the medical table as Alfred had gently but firmly bound his ribs, politely ignoring their conversation. Apparently, there had been nothing that they could do for the welts on his legs apart from lathering on anti-inflammation cream and wrapping them in bandages. Alfred was almost certain that they wouldn’t scar.
Bruce had stiffened at his side, catching sight of Black Canary, and had immediately known what she had been there for. Dick had also stiffened, looking over Dinah’s shoulder and whispering, “Bruce?”
The boy had immediately jumped down from the bed before Dinah could have stopped him, yelping as his weak legs had failed to support him and folded beneath him. Bruce had suddenly moved from where he had been at Clark’s side, gently picking the boy up and laying him back on the table, cradling his head. Dinah and Alfred had swiftly and quietly moved away.
As Clark had watched, his friend’s shoulders had relaxed minutely for every minute he whispered with the boy. But, eventually and predictably, the boy had tired and Dinah had taken him upstairs to his room in the manor while Bruce had reluctantly stayed in the cave as Alfred treated his various injuries.
Soon after, Dinah had returned and pulled Bruce aside. By the troubled and saddened expression on her face as they had left via boom tube, Clark can only assume that Bruce had brushed off her offer of an ear to listen. But it was an unspoken arrangement that only the two of the them knew of - Clark was Bruce’s therapist and Bruce was Clarks’. Hence the phone call.
“Am I going out of my mind?” Bruce asked, back in the present. If it was anyone else, Clark would have said he sounded pleading. He continued, “Letting that boy out in the field?”
Clark snorted. “I think you went out of your mind when you decided to dress up as a bat-“
“Clark.”
Clark sighed. Okay then. “I think you are doing the right thing, if I’m to be honest.”
Bruce hesitated. “Even after that?”
“Yes.”
“How can you say that?”
Clark exhaled. “Listen, Bruce. Five years ago, I would never have been able to talk to you like I am now - you wouldn’t have allowed it. But that boy has changed you, for the better. He’s done you a favour, by making you a better person. Don’t you owe him something as well?”
“You think me letting him get beat up is a favour?” Bruce snorted incredulously. He looked up at the cave ceiling high above him from his seat at the Bat-computer. He suddenly felt small, insignificant and unsure, his hand cradling the phone to his ear as he sought reassurance from the only other person he had a sort-of friendship with.
“No, Bruce, definitely not,” Clark rolled his eyes, “Now you’re just being intentionally difficult, and you know it.”
Bruce paused, then, before he could back out, reluctantly blurting unsteadily, “But it still doesn’t feel right to let him out.”
Clark’s brow furrowed at the unusual hesitancy in his friend’s voice. He had never heard the billionaire this unsure before, but, he guessed, if it had to be about anything, it had to be about Dick. He had to fix this – quick.
He sighed, sounding frustrated. “Maybe right now, sure. But look at it like this: there’s the Justice League, which you are a part of – no, a founding member of. There’s no other organisation like the Justice League, so we’re on our own on figuring out what punishment justifies the crime.
“The problem is, is that justice is an umbrella term for a lot of things. What makes this job difficult is that you have to have the integrity and the judgement to decide how far you take it – having superpowers or not won’t help you do that.
“Now,” he continued on, “I know you won’t want to hear this, but me, and J’onn and Diana, Hal, Barry, Dinah… we all rely on you to be the steadfast one. Having abilities can… make you cocky – alienate you; dehumanize you. If your judgement was off, do you really think me, or Diana, or anyone, would allow you on the team?” he asked rhetorically. Knowing the billionaire wouldn’t accept anything soft and refuse anything that was overly-sentimental, he added, “We wouldn’t be protecting our own interests.”
Bruce cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “That seemed like a very roundabout way of saying that I was being an idiot, doesn’t it?”
Clark snorted. It was silent for a moment while Bruce tried to convince himself that he wasn’t choked up. Clark tactfully ignored it and waited patiently. Sure enough, Bruce continued quietly, “He’s okay, by the way. Physically, at least.”
“That’s good,” Clark encouraged, “What did Dinah say?”
Bruce sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. “She wants to see him more frequently than once a week, and Dick agreed. She says it’s a good sign that he’s already ready to talk.”
Clark chuckled darkly and nodded. “The kid’s strong.”
There’s a pause and then Bruce whispered softly, “He was so scared, Clark.”
“Anyone would have,” Clark agreed steadily. He had seen the boy. Trembling and barely able to speak, lashing out at whoever was near. The reporter struggled to not sound more compassionate, but he knew what was coming, and knew he had to be on more stable ground than Bruce to be able to convince him.
“Clark-“
There it was. Clark stopped him before he could finish the sentence. “If you think I’ll blame you for this, then you’ve got another thing coming. If you think any of us would blame you for this - me, Dinah, Alfred, even Dick – you’re mad.”
“But who do I-“
“-blame?” Clark cut him off, and carried on fiercely, “How about the guy who took you, hm? That Puck guy? Or what about the guy who actually touched your kid? Naphaz?”
Bruce grunted, and Clark knew he had gotten through his friend’s thick skull. He softened his tone and added, “Listen, Dick's strong, we know that, and you know that the whole of the Young Justice will be there for him - plus the whole of the Justice League. I’m not saying it’ll be easy – nothing about this will be – but, Bruce, all you can do is be there for him when he needs it.”
Bruce let out a breath he didn’t know that he was holding. “Okay,” he breathed, running a shaky hand through his hair. He paused and then said, with more conviction, “Okay.”
Silence fell. After a moment, he hesitantly inquired, “Clark?”
Knowing what was coming, Clark hummed questioningly with a smile.
“No one will find out about this call, understood?”
Clark chuckled. “I hear you, Bruce, and, yes - you’re welcome.”
The line clicked before he could say anything else, and, for the first time in a while, Bruce felt a small smile grace his lips.
Upstairs, Dick fell asleep. Over the next couple of months, he healed and met up with Black Canary; sometimes he would talk, sometimes he wouldn’t, sometimes he would cry, sometimes he wouldn’t. With her, it was easy, and he began to look forward to their sessions together, buzzing to get something off his chest.
Bruce eventually lost his hesitancy, convinced it was his still his fault. He began tucking his son into bed again and comforting him when he slipped into his room in the middle of the night from a nightmare. He was more tactile, Dick noticed – hand on his shoulder, a hug after work and, occasionally, a kiss on the forehead. Although Dick guessed he was supposed to be asleep for the kisses.
Clark came by more often, bringing cakes and buns filled with so much sugar that they surely caused Alfred to have palpitations. He occasionally stayed overnight and watched movies with them - to Dick’s delight and Bruce’s horror. Dick had thought he was going to die from laughing when he saw Bruce’s face the first time he called Superman “Uncle Clark” in his presence.
Even Alfred changed. He made more cookies, and even let him sleep-in more often than usual. They developed a strange sort of relationship; more like grandad-and-grandson than butler-and-employer’s-adopted-son. Despite not ever wanting someone to take the place that Haly had previously filled for him in the circus, Dick couldn’t bring himself to hate it - especially when Alfred would change his sheets after a particularly bad dream, not saying a word to Bruce about his soiled sheets.
And bad dreams he had. About whips over his shins and hands up his thighs. (And hands touching there). Sometimes he would wake up to phantom panting breaths on his neck and a faint whisper in his ear. On the nights he woke up screaming, he would blubber unintelligibly to Bruce about them, who would hold him in his arms and gently rock him like a baby. On the other nights, he would talk about them with Dinah, who would nod sympathetically but never pityingly.
But he never told anyone of the nightmares about a man with a crowbar instead of a whip, with a purple suit instead of a blue one and a crazed laugh instead of whispers in an ear.
(Years later, he wished that he had)