(A/N: yep you guessed it. Lots of whump for my good ol boi Nightwing here. Get ready. LOTS of daddybats. I'm about to go all out for this one shot. Thank you so much for the suggestion/idea, Umbreonlover1 ! I can't wait to write this (not that I like writing Nightwing in pain, more like I like to write the aftermath with cuddles and all that fluff- that goes for reading it too. If you agree, then hopefully you shall enjoy this one shot. Let me know if you would like more like this. Thank. Let us began- *coughs* begin.) •.•
Gon' be in third person just for the idea of getting everyone's emotions in and all that.
This symbol is changing POV's —> (-) or (—)
And this symbol is changing time (and possibly POV) —> (——)
OH and by the way, comment who you're favorite friend help-out you would like to have show up. Like, if you want more Bruce Wayne or Wally West, or an equal amount of both. Or other characters, so they have a good amount of time comforting and/or just being developed as a character in here. Thanks, enjoy!
-
Blood splattered against the wall in no obvious pattern. Unless you want to count the pattern of how the hit to his legs and abdomen happened, over, and over, and over again.
SMACK
Nightwing spluttered and doubled over. The restraints holding his arms to the wall had him groaning in fear that he had no protection to save his stomach from another blow. He wasn't sure how many more he could take before he passed out. Again.
He had been missing for a week. His captors were blindfolding him, but it was pretty obvious as to who it was that had taken him. Of course, a grudge. A grudge against Superman. Against The Flash. Against Wonder Woman, Aquaman, The Atom, Green Arrow, Green Lantern, the whole shibang. And yes, as you must have guessed, they hated Batman the most. So, taking the first ward of Gotham city's protecter AND basically the ward from the entire Justice League itself, it would render them emotionally if not psychologically stuck. So they did so.
That leaves off to the present. According to Nightwing, he felt his insides churn at the sound of the chains grinding behind him as he moved even a little. His hair fell upon his cheeks, as it had been growing over the past week, especially since he hadn't been cutting it for about a month. It fell past his eyes, but not nearly enough to fall past his shoulders.
He never heard their voices, just grunts and heavy breaths around him as they stalk from one half of the room to the other like a predator waiting on its prey to make the first move. Except, in this instance, Richard Grayson had no room to make any moves except bow his head and hope for his friends to make it to him before- before...
He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a shaky gurgled breath as blood slipped out of his parched mouth, slithering down the side of his chin and hanging off like a stream of saliva, waiting to fall. He was unsure whether it was his tongue that had produced the blood- if he had bitten it -or whether it was something much deeper and hopefully not vital. Unless, did he hope it might've been something vital? No. No, of course not. He didn't want to die. Nobody does. Right?
Suddenly, a door opened. Or maybe that was his imagination. However, he was quickly proved wrong as it shut closed with a loud bang, as if a mad teen had just left to go to their room and shut the tacky door in rage. He felt sick. Was this how he died? He has been kidnapped many times before. But that was for ransom. For some amount of money that Richard Grayson could give them. Yet, this was Nightwing. They've trapped the strongest, the leader of the Young Justice league.
How had it happened?
Nightwing shook his head, eyes wide and staring into a cloth enclosed darkness. That was a bad idea. His vision, though darkened by a black cloth, painfully shifted and he felt the nausea hit again. He doubled over as far as his body could and dry heaved. Nothing came up. He hadn't realized they've only been giving him a cup of water and maybe a piece of bread every two days. Not that he could grab it and eat it. No, they weren't that kind. They would let him smell it, struggle to reach it, and then as soon as he sensed anything close, he yanked forward, baring his teeth- his weakened state had his mind not all there most of the time. He didn't know if he was even awake anymore.
A grunt came from his right and in an instant, pain flared in his neck, he flinched away, pushing himself in every direction he could. However, the hand that just now showed up was slamming his head back against the wall in a position that made it nearly impossible to move.
His insides felt like they were half on fire, half numb. He felt the use of his limbs leave him and his head fell forward limply. His breathing constricted and then quickened in fear. He couldn't move.
He'd never felt this much fear before. No. That's not true. He had. He did not want to relive that ever. Never. He tried to blink the memories away. His mom would not want him to think of her like that as a memory, nor his father.
His father.
That's who he needed. Maybe his last name didn't end in Grayson, but it didn't really matter at this point. If he was being honest with himself, it never really mattered. It might have at the beginning, but it's been so long since then. He's no longer 'Mr. Wayne' or 'Sir' or anything of the sort, and they both knew it.
With his eyes still blindfolded, he couldn't really make sense of what happened next.
A gun cocked.
A groan sounded, and yet it wasn't from him this time. It was always from him. What happened?
"Hey!" Was the first voice he actually heard say something and he didn't realize how much he had actually missed voices, much less faces.
A smack sounded from his left and then a rush of wind fluttered against his cheek like a makeshift breeze from a fan, but with less power. Was someone running? He just assumed that this room was small, not enough room to run around in. Maybe he was wrong.
Another smack, a grunt, a bang, and then a major clatter sounded as if a whole tray full of metal hit something as hard as cement. Maybe that is what happened.
Nightwing could feel his breathing pick up and he couldn't help the tiny whimper that escaped him when he felt a hand hit his shoulder, remembering he had no strength or able-ness to even move to be able to flinch even a centimeter. The hand stayed for barely 5 seconds before leaving him again.
"Don't touch him!" A voice wildly screamed from in front of him and he could just barely grit his teeth together in worry. He knew that voice. He knew it.
A bang could be heard from his right and suddenly the sound of air hissing met his ears with a terrible pitch. It sounded like a child screaming with no voice. Or maybe that was him. He couldn't scream. He couldn't move. He could only whimper and flit his eyes to see out of the barely lit crack underneath his eyesight. It burned to look down that far, but he had to try something. He could only move his eyes and his vocal cords strained to speak louder than a whimper. But it hurt, and he had screamed so much in the last week. So he whimpered.
"It's okay. It's okay." The voice was back again, louder, like a yell, and closer to him now, but yet so far away.
BANG
The gun went off and he shut his eyes tightly, squeezing them so hard he felt like they would never open again.
—(Okay now bare with me, I don't know if I can do Batman's third person concern very well. Let's try this.)
The Flash and Batman stared at the body slumping in front of them, not dead, but never having been quite alive either.
It was in an instant that Batman immediately hurried forward to grab at the chains that hung his son in such an awful position.
"It's alright, I've got you," he whispered, fumbling with the chains and then reaching in his pocket. He grabbed one of his batarangs, specifically for this type of issue. It was made of something Alfred never said, but always told Bruce that they would do the trick. And boy, did they do the trick.
The second Batman opened the concealed object and let the tip of the flaring batarang touch one of the rusted metal pieces, the whole row of chains began frying and melting. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a thankful, small smile. He tossed the chains off to the side, away from The Flash, but also far away from Nightwing and he.
"Hey, can you hear me?" Bruce, gently moving the limp body down onto the bloodied floor. In fact, it was then that the Bat realized the blood splattered on the walls, the small pool underneath where he was at this moment.
"Oh my-"
A whimper cut him off and Bruce was immediately snapping out of the sight, focused on the young man he held. He cradled his head, his thumb softly treading back and forth against his hair that felt as filthy as he felt. He reached down with his other hand and, hearing Barry Allen whispering how badly they needed to get out of there before they were caught by the 'rest', he latched onto the black cloth that covered Nightwing's eyes.
Once it was fully off, Bruce's eyes widened underneath the dark mask. He took in the sight before him with minimal blinks of shock.
His hair was matted with blood, some dry in spots, some wet. The once polished mask he wore on his Nightwing outfit was half gone, dripping with stained blood and sweat. His nose looked okay, his cheeks had a few bruises, and his mouth looked dry, with blood dripping down out of one corner. To this, Bruce reached down with no care to the health of his own clothes, swiped the blood off of his chin and mouth, letting it trail down his gloved arm. However, what irked and concerned Bruce Wayne more than anything in that moment, was the bright ocean-blue irises staring up at his with absolute terror showing in them. His eyebrows quivered in his never ending furrow. A bead of sweat, making its way down the side of his cheek. His mouth was parted slightly enough to let out a painful sound.
Batman quickly kept his cool, the concern still showing through his actions and expressions, maybe even his voice, but the boy did not need to realize how bad it was. Or maybe he didn't want him knowing. Maybe both.
"You are going to be okay, buddy. You know that, right? Yeah," he said softly, blinking away the tears as his worry nearly overloaded at what happened next.
Nightwing sucked in a breath as though he was breathing through a straw and then his eyes rolled back. His eyes closed slowly and the sound of a gurgled choke came out of his mouth.
"No no, stay awake. Richard. Stay awake," His other hand slipped down and held onto his cheek, cupping that side of his face and wiping away some blood using a bead of sweat.
-
A clatter off in the distance had The Flash sucking in a sharp breath as he spun around and raced toward the two right when Batman started screaming at the limp body in his arms. No time left. They had to leave, and who cares if neither the Batman nor his son liked it. They had to run, and a bat mobile wasn't sufficient enough.
The wind whipped past his face and he held on tightly to the father and son, not realizing how heavy they actually were until he started stumbling down an alley way, nearing the Wayne household. His feet felt heavy, the weight in his arms outweighed himself by at least two and he nearly tipped over, tripping over himself and dropping the two down on the cemented ground before him.
People walking past glanced in, then double checked what they had seen with a look of horror before speeding up and continuing to walk. Some stopped, started to head in, but Barry would shake his head in disagreement, but smiling after in a 'thanks for trying' manner.
Soon enough he willed himself enough power to get up and grab them both in a better position. Taking a deep breath, Barry gritted his teeth and raced forward, stumbling times, but finally reaching his destination.
It was a hard fall, landing on the steps leading into Wayne Manor. And then, almost like he knew, Alfred opened the door just as they all toppled over from exhaustion. Or, well, Flash fell over from exhaustion. Nightwing was already slumped and limp inside of Batman's arms, and Batman, having been holding onto Nightwing and being held by The Flash, let's just say he fell with Barry onto the pavement.
It wasn't long before Alfred brought them in.
——
"Don't worry, he'll regain the ability to move soon. In fact, he should be able to start feeling more active even now."
The voice sounded familiar, an elder. Richard wasn't sure where it was coming from, and he wasn't really sure if he should react to it. The words didn't make much sense to him, they sounded quite muffled, actually.
It was then he realized his mouth, though parched and dry, was not open anymore and he couldn't help but feel like he had no way to breath anymore.
"Mm," he whimpered, eyes opening slightly. He squinted in the dim lighting of the Batcave. Was he propped up on something? A table?
No, it felt soft underneath his hands. Wait. He.. he could move his fingers, and his hands were free! How? This must have been a dream, this must be a dream.
"Hey," he heard a whisper, the same hand from before now resting on his bandaged arm in reassurance.
It felt like his lips were stuck together and no matter how hard he tried, he didn't have the strength to pull them apart. He stared up at Bruce with fear. He couldn't breathe.
"Help," he wanted to say, he wanted to scream it out. But all he could get was not even a solid word.
"Hmhm,"
Please
"What's wrong?" He heard Barry ask from beyond the other side of the bed.
"I.. I.. don't know. Hey, look at me. You're okay," Bruce soothed, both hands now moved up to either side of Richard's face. His hands were warm compared to the airy wind he had been used to during his time-
"Look at me. Look at me," Bruce proclaimed with a more urgent concern, cupping his blood stained cheeks in his hands.
Finally, as if he had found the missing cog to do so, his lips parted, just a centimeter, and Richard whispered.
"..'elp..me.."
-
Bruce's heart felt as though it had melted. His eyes already had tears gathering, but those two words broke the dam instantly. The sudden fall of a single teardrop left a warmth trailing down his cheek and leaving him with a coldness he wouldn't be able to describe in words. His hands trembled and again, like a tick he couldn't stop, he started softly thumbing the side of Richard's forehead.
He hopes that it soothed him, as it had in past years. Touch. It wasn't something Bruce did lightly, nor did he do much at all unless for fights he could win. It also wasn't something Richard took lightly, nor did he like being vulnerable in any situation. And yet, in this one, he couldn't help but need the help of the one person who he didn't care if he touched him or not, and the one person who didn't care whether they touch him. Bruce has known, from the very beginning, the second he lay eyes on the terrified little boy standing on the ledge in horror at the sight of his now dead parents, he knew that he was his. He knew he would save him. And he knew that Richard Grayson would never be alone again. Not if Bruce Wayne had anything to say about it.
"Breathe, son. It's okay, you're safe. You're safe," he whispered soothingly, gently caressing the side of his face. Richard leaned into the touch, inhaling as if through a straw, but improving as the seconds passed.
-
And if Barry Allen was shocked, as if he were expecting another answer, another reaction to this ordeal by the one man he thought of as a cold hearted bat, it would be an understatement. He knew, deep down he did know, that Bruce Wayne has a heart. Everyone did. He just wasn't sure he used it that much, to be honest with himself.
But seeing the interaction, Barry was positive that Richard Grayson had the best person on his side for this. For anything, Bruce would do it for Richard. Barry smiled softly. He was in good hands. He was always in good hands.
——
It was about an hour, and Nightwing had fallen back asleep a couple of minutes after he had awoken earlier.
"Ugh," he muttered, limply reaching up to grab at his domino mask, and finding it wasn't there anymore. What?
Wait.. he could move! He smiled at his now wiggling fingers in front of his face.
He looked around the room, finding himself now in his room, on his bed. How did he get there?
Well that was obvious.
Bruce sat, asleep in the chair beside him with his arms out and one was grasping gently on Dick's left bicep. Okay, he was mostly able to move then.
"Dad," Richard shook his left arm, which shook the hand holding it, which shook Bruce awake quickly. He bolted up and let go of Dick's arm, balling his hands into fists and ready to hit someone with them. He was ready to protect, it seemed. That is until he realized that it was the one thing he wanted to protect that had awoken him.
-
"Dick?"
Bruce turned to see a huddled form in front of him. Head hidden by trembling arms and clenched fists. He could barely see a tuft of hair sticking up from behind his raised knees that he curled in on.
He opened his mouth to say something, but instead, reached out and placed his hand on his son's shaking limb, thinking better of himself to use actions than words.
He curled his hand around Richard's own fingers, Bruce's hand considerably still a little larger than his son's. With knowing this, he loosely and gently held their hands together, waiting patiently for him to realize he was going to be okay. In the process of doing so, he couldn't help but repeat the same gesture he had been doing as of earlier. He started letting his thumb slide gently across Richard's knuckles which were becoming less white and having more color seep in.
It wasn't long before Dick peeked over his knees to see his father staring back at him softly, no anger or fight showing. He was safe.
For the first time since having come back from his kidnapping, Richard Grayson smiled. Genuinely, he smiled small, and soon enough his adorable toothy grin shown and his knees slid back down into the covers like before.
He was safe.