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“Hey, uh... Red Robin?”
There’s a tolerant sigh on the other side of the line. “Yes, Nightwing?”
“How’s that ETA looking?”
Another long-suffering exhale. “Thirty seconds sooner than the last time you asked.”
”Oh.” Dick is silent for a moment. “Cool. Thanks.”
Tim sighs again, except this time it comes out sounding like a fond snort. “Be there soon, Nightwing.”
”Yeah,” Dick agrees, voice dry. He swallows nervously and clicks off his comm unit. Then he swallows again, because his throat feels like it’s closing up. He takes a deep breath.
Robin stares at him quizzically, like Dick is some sort of puzzle he’s trying to put together. “You are acting very strange,” he observes.
Dick doesn’t respond to that, just glances from side to side as if the solution to their predicament will magically appear. Unfortunately, no such answer is forthcoming—he didn’t expect it to be anyways. No, this is not a situation he and Damian will be able to get out of on their own—at least in a timely manner—and Dick really does want to get out of here soon. That’s why they called in Red Robin’s help.
Dick and Damian have been captured and imprisoned in a tiny, dark cell with no windows and a dead-bolted door. It’s dark—if Dick’s mask didn’t feature night vision, he wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face. The cell is so small it can hardly be called such—about one meter long, two meters wide, and short enough that neither Dick nor Damian can stand up straight. Personal space is also a distant memory—there is so little room that Damian is basically squished up against Nightwing where he sits in the corner of the tiny room.
Damian, irritated at Dick’s lack of reply, repeats, “You’re acting strange. Why?”
”Can’t imagine why.” They’re forced into close proximity anyways, so Dick figures Damian won’t care when he grabs his wrist tightly. It’s for his own comfort, and helps him steady his voice, though if Damian asks, Dick will claim it’s for both of their safety. So they don’t get separated. As if there’s any risk of that here. “Not like we’ve been crammed into a sardine can for an hour while we wait for Timmy to arrive.”
Damian rolls his eyes. “Yes, well.”
The conversation grinds to a halt. Usually Dick is a talker, especially when he’s with his little brother. Today, though, the situation has him unnerved.
They’d been in the cell for half an hour before they decided it would be more efficient—and safe—to call in the nearest available bat to help bust them out than to try and escape on their own. The nearest available bat had turned out to be Red Robin, who’s estimated time of arrival turned out to be just under an hour.
Dick swallows again and tries to take deep, even breaths in and out. Damian side-eyes him, unnerved. “Seriously. You are not yourself.”
”Yeah, I am,” Dick argues, and tries to decide if he’s going to tell his brother about this little issue of his. Screw it, he finally thinks. Damian’s smart enough to figure it out anyways. “Small spaces.”
”What about them?” Damian inquires. He tries to pull his arm away from Dick to cross it over his chest, but Dick is gripping on too tightly and almost panics when Damian threatens to extract it. He needs the comfort, right now.
”I don’t like them,” Dick says. He closes his eyes, since it’s not like anyone can see under the mask, and tries to dispel the feeling that the walls are closing in on him. It’s super ineffective.
”Why not?” Damian asks curiously. “We have been in much worse situations before. Why do small spaces bother you and not, say, knife-wielding pig-themed artsy surgeon wannabes?”
”That’s a strangely specific example,” Dick points out. “And I can’t say I’m best friends with Professor Pyg either.”
”You are avoiding the question.”
Dick grips Damian’s wrist tighter. His skin is pricking with slow, dull fear, and his stomach is churning. He hates this. It feels like the walls are closing in, or the ceiling will come down, or he’ll run out of air and just suffocate. God. He hates this. He can hardly move. “It’s always been a thing, I guess.”
”Really?” Dick can hear from Damian’s voice that he’s surprised. Which, Dick grants, makes sense. It’s not like he’d publicly broadcasted his fears for all to see as Batman, and as far as he knows, he’s never encountered a claustrophobia-inducing situation with Damian before. Until now. Fun.
“Yeah. Feels like—“ Dick grimaces. He doesn’t want to describe the feelings he’s experiencing—if he talks about them, they’ll become a hundred times worse.
”Yes?” Damian presses.
”Feels like I can’t move,” Dick manages to explain. “There’s no room. And, like the walls will just—close in.” Dick swallows and subtly hunches his shoulders to feel smaller. Like if he’s taking up less room, the cell will feel bigger by comparison. It doesn’t work.
”That’s illogical,” Damian observes, but his voice isn’t insulting. It’s just bemused. “The walls aren’t closing in. You can see that.”
Dick shrugs, though he’s still as tense as a tightly coiled wire. “I know that. It’s just—always been a thing. For as long as I can remember.” Suddenly, a long-buried memory hits him, and he frowns. “Batman used to try to train it out of me. He’d make me crawl through these tiny vents, or escape from really small cells like this one. To try and desensitize me, or something.”
Damian frowns. “That sounds highly ineffective,” he criticizes. “If anything it would make you more afraid.”
Dick smiles wearily. “Yeah. It never really worked. The only thing I really learned—was to hide that I was scared. But, that’s a useful skill, too.”
Damian harrumphs grumpily. “I guess,” he allows doubtfully. “I guess... it worked, then. I have never seen you scared.”
Dick opens his eyes to see four walls and the ceiling all pressing in on him—he shudders and closes them again. “Yes, you have. You just never knew it. Hiding it, see.”
”Are...” Damian is uncharacteristically hesitant, and he seems unsure of himself. He scoots closer to Dick minutely, then, as if unsure if that will unsettle him more, shimmies away as far as the tiny cell will allow. Which isn’t very. “Are you scared now?”
Dick shivers. No, he wants to say, don’t worry about it, Li’l D. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.
A very quiet, “Yes,” is what comes out instead. With that admission, everything seems to become more real. Dick can no longer control his trembling. What if Red Robin never comes, and they’re stuck here forever? Will they actually run out of oxygen? Is that possible? It seems far-fetched, considering the cracks under the door let air in, but the more he thinks about it, the more realistic the possibility becomes. Dick sticks bravely to his careful breathing exercises as his anxiety crosses the threshold to level two and he ponders all the ways they could die in here. Oh God. They could actually, no joke, die in here. It could actually happen.
Damian stares at him, clearly unsure what he’s supposed to do with this newfound information. “That’s... irrational. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
”Thanks, Little D, really.” Dick doesn’t look at him as he grits out the sarcastic words.
Damian scowls indignantly, embarrassed. The fact of the matter is, he doesn’t actually know how to comfort people. A year ago, he’d have dismissed Nightwing as weak for this revelation. Now, however, he... understands. And sympathizes. He doesn’t want his brother to feel scared anymore.
So he switches to a method that he knows will be extra effective on his ultra-affectionate brother. He pulls his wrist away from Dick’s grip, and threads their fingers together, so they’re holding hands. “Red Robin will be here soon,” Damian offers quietly.
Dick squeezes Damian’s hand tightly. “Yeah.” Dick’s stomach rolls with queasy fear, and not for the first time, he despises this annoying phobia he can’t seem to get past.
As if summoned, the comm crackles to life with Tim’s voice. “ETA, twenty minutes.”
”Okay,” Dick says with a lot more confidence than he’s feeling.
”Make it faster,” Damian demands. “I can see your location on my tracker. You could cut that in half.”
”You said there was no immediate danger,” Tim points out, voice suddenly concerned. “Is everything still okay?”
”We are... in a very small cell. Very small,” Damian emphasizes. “So your immediate arrival is pertinent.”
”Ah,” Tim says, voice softening with understanding. “Dick?”
Dick doesn’t respond. His chest feels too tight to breathe, which is like a whole new, exciting thing to be claustrophobic about.
”Okay,” Tim continues, “new ETA, ten minutes.”