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Four days.
It had been four days since Dick had stormed out of the manor after his latest fight with Bruce, pressing his mask over his eyes even as tears burned behind them. He had already wrapped up patrol at that point, but hopped on his bike and drove to some of the most crime-infested areas of the city anyways. It was Gotham. There would be someone for him to take his frustration out on somewhere.
And as Dick’s luck would have it, there were several ‘someones’ waiting for him. Enough that had him panting for after a while, and questioning just how thorough his and Bruce’s patrol had really been that day.
As the third round of thugs appeared around the corner of what Dick had thought was just a simple drug deal, he felt a twinge of nervousness spike through him. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea to call Bruce...
Who the hell are you to think you have any right to make decisions around here? You might have been Batman while I was gone, Richard, but you sure as hell aren’t now.
The words echoed in his ears and had Dick forcing away any thoughts he had of calling for backup. Screw Bruce. He could handle this himself.
Dick reached forward, pulling the fist aimed into a punch off to the side and making the man stumble before driving a fist into his stomach. The thug fell to the ground with a low groan, and Dick barely had a chance to glance over his shoulder at the steel-toed boot swinging toward him before dropping to the ground in an attempt to avoid it.
Dropping to the ground, directly atop the knife a third man had forced under his torso before Dick had a chance to see it. Dick let out a harsh breath through gritted teeth before kicking out the knees of the man holding the knife. The sudden move had him stumbling, the pain in his torso making him woozy and far more distracting than it should have been.
The man who had been aiming a kick at him straightened, his shadow lined eyes squinting at him in what looked like the beginnings of a smile. “Be careful, Nightwing. My men aren’t known for keeping their weapons particularly clean.” The man’s emphasis on the word had Dick pausing, realizing a moment too late that he really should have called Bruce when he had the chance.
The world started to grow a little fuzzy at the edges, and tilted dangerously when Dick tried to step forward to take the man down. He stumbled over his own feet and the man caught him by the arms, the steel rings lining his fingers digging into his skin painfully. “Easy now, Nightwing.” He purred. “I’ll see you when you wake up.”
Alfred set the tray down to him on the table in the Batcave more loudly than usual, and it was only years of training that had Bruce holding in a flinch. Instead, he finished the sentence of the crime scene report he had been analyzing before looking up at the man next to him. ”Something I can help you with Alfred?” he asked testily.
Alfred held his gaze, having absolutely none of his faked politeness. “You need to call Master Dick and apologize.” Bruce as already rolling his eyes and turning away with a huff, his irritation with Dick, and now with Alfred, only growing. Alfred cut him off before he could. “I wasn’t finished, Master Bruce.”
“As I was saying,” Alfred continued when Bruce looked back up at him. “You need to apologize to Master Dick. He truly stepped up into everything you left behind, despite never wanting anything to do with being Batman in the first place,” Alfred added sharply. “He carried on your legacy despite wanting absolutely nothing to do with it, took in your son as his Robin, and made some incredibly difficult decisions, if I do so say so myself. He is worthy of your respect, Master Bruce, and it would do you good to go find him.”
“I know all of that, Alfred.” Bruce replied tiredly. “And I appreciate it. Dick took on more than I ever wanted him to, and I’m so proud of--”
“Master Bruce,” Alfred cut him off again. “Have you told him that? Thanked him, at the very least?” At the blaring silence he got in response, Alfred spoke again, his voice a touch softer. “Then I don’t think you need me to tell you what to do, Master Bruce.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to settle himself, trying to move past the guilt building in his gut. Then he began to pull up Dick’s tracking data.
“Oh my god,” he murmured. His eyes flicked across the screen, taking in Nightwing’s suit data that had to be wrong he’d seen Dick four days ago--
“Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, looking up when he heard Bruce speak. At the lack of response, he looked at the screen. “Oh dear...”
All in all, it took Bruce 12 hours to find Dick. 12 hours to track him down based on surveillance cameras and streetside interrogations, on top of the 4 days since Dick had stormed out of the cave. 108 hours since he had heard from Dick or Nightwing in any capacity. 108 hours was a long time, and Dick could be hurt. Hell, Dick could even be--
But I’m not going to focus on that right now. Bruce thought to himself. Mostly because he wouldn’t be able to focus on getting Dick back if he did. And now he was standing outside a dimly lit warehouse outside the city boundaries, hoping to god that it was the right location because if Bruce was all out of leads if it wasn’t.
The ceiling of the roof was solid, with no openings for Batman to slide through. The windows around the sides had been meticulously boarded up, too--strongly enough that there’s no way Bruce could get through them without a decent amount of time or noise. Which means all that remained was the doors in the front. The doors that were unlocked and slightly ajar, making it more than obvious that whoever had Dick was waiting for Batman to show up.
Bruce pushed the door open slowly, bracing himself for the physical onslaught of inevitable goons and weapons he’d have to deal with. Instead, the building was oddly... silent. The warehouse seemed to be redesigned so it was impossible to see from one end to another, a strange sort of convoluted path being built in the middle. Bruce took a step forward, a feeling of wrongness permeating his gut as he noticed a strange sort of red paint lining the walls and the floor. It followed swirls and patterns, arching over his head and beneath his feet as he crept forward. It as only after a few seconds that he connected the metallic scent of the building to the paint. To the swirls of blood being used as some sick form of decoration for the building around him.
Bruce nearly tripped over his own feet as he broke into a spring as he realized the only possible source of that decoration. I have to be wrong, Bruce thought to himself as he tore through the remains of the path in front of him. Please, please let me be wrong.
He ran to the far end of the warehouse, reaching the end of the maze-like contraption situated in the middle. Dick was laying an inclined table, his hands tied down above his head while his eyes stared half lidded in pain at the ceiling. He was covered in bruises and had clearly had some broken bones. But that wasn’t what had Bruce’s hands twitching towards his belt, panic knotting in his stomach. Dick was terrifyingly pale, and that combined with the too-shallow breathing the fact that he had barely seemed to notice the fact that Batman had entered the room at all had Bruce’s mind running a mile a second. He’s lost too much blood. He needs to see a doctor. He needs help NOW.
A slow clapping sound issued from one side of the room, and a lean man in a leather trench coat was holding a knife to Dick’s throat before Bruce could even think about making a move. “Well done, Batman,” the voice called. “I thought for sure it would take you at least a week to find your boy here.”
Something in Bruce’s stomach knotted at the words. “Let him go,” he growled. “He’s not a danger to you in this state.”
“Ah, right you are,” the man agreed. “But this city has a bat problem for far too long. And I think it’s about time time someone acted as an exterminator.” A hard glint took over his eye, and he gripped a handful of Dick’s hair to expose his neck a bit more before continuing. “On your knees, Batman. Take your belt off, or I’ll slit your little partner’s throat right here.”
Dick seemed to regain some awareness at that. “No,” he muttered, trying to pull his head from the man’s grip. “No, don’t do’t Batman. Get out o’here.” The words came out slurred, sending another pang of worry through Bruce’s body. Bruce slowly slid his hands towards his belt, making sure they were always in plain sight, before inputting the code to remove it. He tossed the belt to the side and slowly raised his arms above his head before dropping to his knees.
“Now let Nightwing go,” Bruce growled. He’s injured, Bruce thought. He’ injured, he needs help, he can’t go down thinking I hate him for everything he did before, and I need to fix this.
“In a bit,” the man said, a pleased smirk overtaking his face. “But for now,” he said, digging the knife a little deeper into Dick’s neck, just enough to make him flinch and for thin beads of blood to well up beneath it. “Let’s begin.”