#i woke up and felt like hurting nightwing specifically today

[charlietheepicwriter7]

"Hey, buddy-"

"Shit!" Danny startled, jerking to his feet. Unfortunately, his shoes caught under each other and he toppled right over the edge of building. Nightwing's fingers just barely grazed him before he crashed to the ground six stories below.

Bones broken and blood leaked out, yet a still very much alive decided that playing dead was better than facing the embarrassment (or risk any of the Bats realizing he was planning to rob Wayne Enterprises).

#i woke up and felt like hurting nightwing specifically today #dc x dp #dcxdp #dpxdc #dp x dc #dpdc #dp dc crossover #c: danny fenton #c: nightwing #and then a week later WE gets robbed and on camera is the kid nightwing let die #a human cannot catch up to a falling human body without any assistance #and humans fall too fast for nightwing to react properly

[schweeeppess]

Going Back

a/n: super late submission for Dick and Dami Week day 3. The prompt was Fear gas/injury, so you know i needed my angst :D (don't worry, there's some hurt/comfort if you look for it)

Dick's heart stuttered when Deathstroke got a lucky shot in on Damian, cutting the fabric on the side of Damian's neck enough to make him bleed, and rage instantly rushed through his veins.

Teeth gritted, he leapt at his old partner in their seemingly never-ending dance of death.

“You shouldn't have touched him,” Dick spat as his kick connected strongly with Slade's head. “Much less hurt him.”

Slade chuckled, ducking the next swing and tossing his sword to his other hand to take a cut at Dick, who jerked out of the way at the last second.

“Ever wonder what a little bird is afraid of?” he asked, taking another jab at Dick and grazing Nightwing's chest.

The question made Dick's blood run cold and he realized that Damian hadn't moved in to help with some sly remark yet.

Jaw tightening so hard he almost cracked a tooth, Dick drove a punch to Slade's jaw hard enough to hear a muffled crack.

“What did you do,” he growled, ducking under another swing.

“Oh, you know,” Slade drawled, flipping backwards to avoid Dick's blows. “Your average fear-toxin tipped sword.”

Shit.

Dick glanced over to where Damian was watching, hand over the bleeding cut on his neck, and the carefully blank expression he wore.

Triple shit.

His distraction earned him a punch in the face that sent him down to a knee and spit blood.

Concern for his little brother drowned out any pain or concern for himself, and Dick did nothing when Slade used the tip of his sword to tilt Dick's head up. He felt blood, sticky and warm, running down from a cut in his forehead and dripping from his chin, but ignored it as he glared at Deathstroke through the domino.

“Jonathan only wanted a distraction,” Slade mused aloud, “so I'm not going to kill you. Not today.”

Oh, boy, did Dick have some words he wanted to say, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. He wasn't about to test the mercenary holding a sword over his jugular.

“I'd tell you not to follow, but you've got a bird to worry about.” Withdrawing the blade, Deathstroke sheathed the weapon and turned to leave.

Dick didn't watch him go, instead immediately scrambling over to Damian's side, completely unconcerned with Deathstroke's leave as he stopped a foot away from his little brother, hands hovering helplessly.

“Damian?” he called softly. “Hey, bud, we gotta go back.”

The words made Damian's breath quicken, and Dick kicked himself for it mentally, but he answered with a quiet, “Okay.”

Damian's behavior unnerved Dick throughout their wait for the Batmobile, and during the drive back to the Batcave.

“I apologize for my mistake, Grayson.”

Dick glanced over, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “What mistake?”

“I should not have left any openings for Deathstroke to take advantage of,” Damian replied, honey green gaze still somberly ahead. “My injury distracted you and resulted in his escape. I failed. I apologize for my failure.”

Before Dick could speak, Damian added, “Mother will not be pleased to see me again,” in a whisper. “Grandfather less so. But I understand your reasoning, and thus will not try to persuade you not to send me back.”

...what?

“Damian?”

“Yes, Grayson?”

Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Dick took a deep breath to clear his head and help him word his response.

“I'm not taking you back, you know. We're just going to the Batcave for Alfred to patch you up and give you the new antidote to Crane's toxin, then you'll shower, go to bed, and wake up home.” Dick glanced over again, putting a hand on Damian's shoulder before looking back at the road.

Damian sniffed, a tear slipping down his face, and Dick's heart clenched painfully.

“Okay, Damian?”

“Yes Grayson.”

“Do you believe me?”

Damian didn't answer, and that was all the response Dick needed to move his hand from Damian's shoulder to the steering wheel, and floor the gas pedal.

He couldn't try to convince Damian that he was telling the truth.

Damian greatest fear wasn't of dying again, it wasn't of falling, it wasn't of monsters, or the Heretic: It was being sent back to live with his mother and grandfather, and it was probably specifically Dick being the one to send him. The kid wasn't hallucinating because there was nothing for him to hallucinate.

Another few tears spilled from Damian's eyes, but he didn't move from his rigid posture, hand still on the cut in his neck, and he didn't move his thousand-yard gaze from the window.

It made Dick want to hit something and scream at the same time.

But he didn't, instead pulling the Batmobile to a screeching halt in the cave and jumping out.

“Come on, Dami. Let's get you fixed up.”

Damian nodded, but his eyes were dull and listless as he exited the car, posture slumping as Dick guided him to the Med-Bay.

An hour or two later Dick was sitting next to his little brother as Damian slept, anti-toxin administered with Tim's help synthesizing it and neck wound patched up.

He held one of Damian's hands in his own and rubbed Damian's knuckles with his thumb, scrubbing at his eyes with his unoccupied palm.

“Hey, Dick,” Tim greeted, walking into Damian's room and leaning against the doorframe, hair falling over his eyes again.

“Hey, Timmy.” Dick tried to smile for his other little brother, but he wasn't sure how well it worked. “Shouldn't you be asleep?”

Tim snorted. “Shouldn't you?”

Dick rolled his eyes a little, smile turning more genuine. “Yeah, yeah,” he deflected, waving a hand. “I was going to sleep.”

“Sure, Dick.”

A few moments of comfortable silence passed before Tim spoke again, gently.

“He's going to be okay, Dick, you know that, right?”

Dick sighed deeply.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Yeah, I know. I can't help it though…”

Tim nodded. “I get it.”

Straightening and stretching, Tim said, “Go to bed soon, at least, yeah?”

It was Dick's turn to nod then, and he called a goodbye after Tim as his little brother left.

When he was alone with Damian again, Dick couldn't help but think about the ways he was contributing to Damian's apparent doubt in not only himself but his place in the family, like he didn't even have one. What was Dick doing wrong? What could he do to fix it? How hadn't he noticed it before?

He sighed and rubbed his eyes again, sliding his hand out of Damian's.

Maybe Tim was right. Dick was tired; he should probably go to bed sometime soon.

An idea popped into Dick's head, and he decided to go for it, standing from the chair to flop beside Damian on his bed and curl around the kid protectively. He told himself he was doing it for Damian, to help him feel more secure when he woke up, but Dick did it for himself too.

He needed Damian as much as Damian needed him.

#my writing #my work #my fanficiton #dickanddamiweek2019 #dick grayson #damian wayne #tim drake (cameo) #deathstroke #slade wilson #hurt/comfort #angst #platonic bed sharing #incest can die and rot in hell