Chapter Five – Delirium

Dick

Everything had gone dark. His tongue felt fuzzy. His limbs were heavy. His thoughts were swimming. And fuck his head hurt. What the hell had happened? He tried to remember, but everything was shimmery.

He was up high, somewhere. Up high watching.

Up high watching and they were falling and there wasn't a net and their bodies were crumpled and broken and bloody and bruised and they weren't moving and he couldn't breathe and …

No.

Rooftop. He had been on a rooftop. And it was cold.

It was cold and it was raining and he was in shock and he couldn't move and there was blood on his uniform that was never going to come out no matter how many times he washed it and it's all right baby.

No. Wrong rooftop. Wrong city.

He couldn't wait to get his hands on whoever the hell had knocked him out the first time. He owed them a damn good concussion, that was for sure.

He remembered being in the Batmobile. He remembered Alfred trying to calm him down, but Alfred kept disappearing, replaced by the madman who'd been hell-bent on destroying his life and damn near succeeded.

Something sharp had stuck him in the neck, and he couldn't move, and he was tired, and it was cold and it's all right baby.

He tried to move, but his limbs were like lead. He wished he could clear his head. If he could just clear his head, then he could figure out where the hell he was and what the hell was going on. He had registered familiar voices. If you have to knock him out with something, do it. But it hadn't been threatening. He knew that voice. Knew that he was at least relatively safe when near it.

So why the hell would he want Dick to be knocked out?

Someone was shaking him, shaking his shoulder, and Dick wasn't sure if it was a friend or a foe, not that it would matter. He was in no state to fight. He was in no state to be anything other than even half-awake.

It's okay he thought he heard a voice say. Just getting you out of here. God it seemed so far away, but familiar? Was he dead? He was pretty sure that voice belonged to a dead man. Was he dying and whoever the hell controlled their mad lives thought this was funny?

Because of course Jason was dead. Dick had seen the video, even if Bruce hadn't wanted him to. Even though he'd had to sneak into the Batcave while Bruce was on patrol. Even though he'd found the video by accident because Bruce had forgotten to destroy it. Never could stand a tattle tale, he heard a cackle and a bang and he knew it should have been him and Jason is dead and it's all your fault. Bruce told him not to think like that, to never think like that, but he couldn't help it.

Master Todd, what in God's name are you doing? Alfred. Definitely Alfred. Was Alfred dead too? Man, that would suck. What would Bruce do without him?

He felt something sharp at his throat, familiar, but couldn't quite register it, not when he was still barely conscious and everything was incoherent at best.

What I should have been doing from the start.

One of Dick's gloves had been ripped off, and he thought he felt something cold being pressed under his palm, something cold and familiar and Access granted. Security clearance: high. Welcome, Nightwing. And they were moving, moving too fast to be walking.

God, he hadn't had dreams this vivid since he was a kid. And he hadn't dreamt about Jason in weeks. Granted, he hadn't exactly been sleeping too much the past several weeks.

He was drifting in and out of consciousness, not really sure what was going on around him, or where he was going. Being taken, the quiet, rational part of his mind tried to argue with him. He thought he smelled blood and gunpowder, but that was insane because he had been on a rooftop and it had been raining, and he was cold, and her hands were all over him even though he wanted them gone, even though he wanted her gone, even though he told her not to touch him.

He winced when he felt a sharp, pointy object prick his neck again. Don't worry, Big Wing, the dead man's voice sounded so very far away. Maybe he wasn't dying? Maybe he wasn't going to the light after all.I'll make the bad things go away.

And he felt like he could breathe again, but he couldn't wake up and he couldn't move and he needed to know where the hell he was dammit because there was a madman on the loose and Bruce might as well have been marching off to his own death and…

Whack.

The blow forced him back into a clearer state of mind, forced him awake because damn that had hurt. And it had been solid. And definitely hadn't been imagined, at least he was fairly certain of that.

He felt sick when he opened his eyes and saw Jason smirking at him, an angry, scarred "J" on his cheek. No. You're dead. You're dead. We saw you die.

He shut his eyes again, hoping it was all just one bad dream because I miss him as much as you do, but he's gone, Bruce. He's dead and he isn't coming back.

Whack.

He cried out that time, and made a mental note to thank Bruce for forcing him to switch from lyrcra to Kevlar after Jason had gotten shot… He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. Open your eyes and wake the hell up.

He opened his eyes, slowly that time, deliberately, wanting to make sure he really was awake that time.

And when he saw the crowbar come back down, he wished he had just been asleep after all.