Title: Returning Home
Rating: T
Summary: The road to recovery begins with a phone call.
A/N: Messed around with canon here. Bear in mind, what I know of drugs and all medical related stuff? Pitifully low. I also have no idea whatsoever of where or what the rest of the Bat-family was doing at the time, so this just crashes through that too.
Notes: Takes place after the murder of Blockbuster.
My name's not Bob Kane or Bill Finger. So I don't own Batman.

Chapter One – Beginning

Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.

-Henry David Thoreau

The first thing Dick realizes, slowly, is that public pay phones charge a lot of quarters.

Like, a ton.

That's fine - sort of. He's got enough quarters, jingling around in the right-hand pocket of his worn out jeans, to make a call. But he has the oddest feeling he was supposed to use the coins for a different, probably important, purpose. His stomach makes a growl of protest when he lifts his hand with the quarters he pulled out - food, Dick figures out; he was supposed to collect some cheap and easy food from a vending machine. Dick struggled to see why - beside the obvious need for substance.

The girl he was with... What's-her-name gave him the money, yeah, and sent him out. She was off... doing... doing something. Something... Dick wasn't too sure that it was... legal? Right?

He should care. At least, he thinks he should, because while he's been having trouble telling up from down and reasoning why public pay phones charge so many quarters for one call, he knows that right and wrong is important and what the girl (he thinks spiders when he thinks her, and wonders if there's a reason) is probably doing isn't right and something is supposed to be done.

He just can't figure out what, or how. He should. Some sort of gut feeling - that may or may not actually be starvation - tells him so. Except all that really amounts to isn't much. It's like a sticky-note where a thirty-page instruction manual should be. It's hard to know what anything is or means when Dick can't even remember why he staggered into that ratty phone booth that charges too much. Well, he had an idea of why, but he wasn't sure as to how a phone could help. Did he plan on calling someone? He feels like he knows many people, but apart from spider-girl who sooths him with soft words and sharp, brief stabs of pain that turns his senses to mush, none of them seem very real or... close, enough. (Distance wise, or personally...?)

He has a sudden, vivid vision of a bat. A very, very large bat.

Huh.

Shaking it off, and feeling like his head was submerged in mud, Dick makes an effort to regroup his thoughts.

Phone. Call. Who?

That is, if he's calling anyone at all. For one, calling meant giving up cheap vending machine food, which seemed very appealing to his stomach, one of the few things that didn't seem muddled or trying to remember anything more than what a full-stomach felt like. Second, his travel companion wouldn't... what? Approve of the idea? Would she allow it? (Why would he need her permission, a small, muffled voice in the back of his head wants to know.)

Plus side to not understanding why his mind was so foggy - he didn't really care.

He did know one thing, though.

So Dick, with a shaky hand, pushes the coins through the slot and dials a number. He waits awhile, almost mesmerized by the dull sound of the phone ringing, and jerks backs to his funny, partial consciousness when a voice cuts through. Dick's amazed he didn't drop the phone - he seems to have an unconsciously firm grip. The phone isn't thin or sharp, but it reminds him vaguely of something that fit into his hand just as easily...

"...Hello?"

Right. Someone picked up. He needed to respond.

"...H... H-ey."

There's a slight pause, some background noise, and then the other person - someone he dialed purely on instinct, or rather, muscle memory since his brain wasn't working too well in that department for the time being - broke the silence, sounding clearer and distinctly more focused.

"Dick?"

That was his name, right? Right. Funny name though...

"...Y-yeah..."

"Dick, where are you? Are you okay? Everyone's seriously worried about you, bro."

Bro? Bro... Brother. Brothers. Yeah. So Dick called someone close. That was... comforting.

"Dick? Bro, you still with me?"

"...Y-yes."

"Look, Dick, just tell me where you are and I'll be there in minutes. I promise."

"...I...dunno..."

"Then I'll trace it. Just... just stay on the phone with me, alright? It won't take long to find you, not with Oracle's tech; you just need to stay with me, okay? Then I'll get you and bring you back, alright?"

"…'kay."

"Good… Listen, I don't know all the details, since Bruce's kept a tight lid on this, like usual, but I haven't trained under the both of you for nothing. I can tell, within reason, what happened there. And I know you. Don't… Don't blame yourself for this."

Bruce. The bat vision flashed again, and belatedly Dick thinks there's some sort of connection. His sluggish mind seems a bit clearer now, and he tests it by wondering who exactly this 'Bruce' is, and why he feels pangs of so many emotions upon hearing that name; shame and guilt come first, with underlying tones of pride, a desire to please, and love. …Family? …No, it couldn't be. His father was named… John. Graysomething. Son. Grayson. John Grayson. Not Bruce. Bruce No-Last-Name. But that wasn't right… Bruce… was close? Important.

"…"

"…Dick."

"…can't."

"Dick?"

"Who…?"

"Who what?"

"…You… Bruce…"

"…Dick, you don't remember Bruce? Me? Oracle?"

"…I… fuzzy. My head. 'S fuzzy… Bruce… uh… Bat?"

"Yes, that's it. Batman. You remember him, Nightwing?"

"…Nigh…win?"

"…Have you been injected with something, Dick?"

"…'jected? With… drugs?"

"Yeah."

"…yes? She… she… I don't… feel well."

"You said your head feels fuzzy. Do you feel nauseated? Sick? Headache? Having trouble forming thoughts?"

"…Mostly."

"Sounds like completely rather than mostly, bro."

Something finally clicks into his brain. The voice isn't as deeply rooted as some other odd thoughts – like ones about bats and circuses – but Dick thinks it's because this voice is fairly new in comparison and yet equally important that gets him a name and a feeling of implicit trust.

"…T-Tim? Timmy?"

"Yeah, Dick, it's me. Your little brother. Remember?"

He honestly didn't remember much. But it was like putting together a puzzle without using the box as a reference; eventually, once you got enough of the pieces together, you get part of the picture. And what Dick got so far was his little brother. Not by blood. But that didn't matter. Never had.

"Robin. Y-Yeah."

"Oracle's got a lock on your location. You're in Atlantic City. I'll be there soon."

"Bro…"

There are some shifting noises in the background, like Tim is getting up and moving around. Then there's a sudden roar that quiets into a gentle hum. Car…no… A motorcycle. Tim's voice returns shortly after, oddly still as clear as he'd been moments prior.

"Don't worry, I'm still with you. You're not alone, you know that. You've never been alone, Dick. You just have a habit of imitating Bruce in that regard sometimes."

Imitate?

"I… do not…"

Tim gives out a breath of laughter that sounds heavily relieved and reassured.

"There's some of that Dick Grayson spirit I've been suffocated with before. Alright. Listen, can you do me a favor? It's simple, though it may be a bit difficult with the state your body is currently in."

"Whatizit."

"Describe where you are. Buildings nearby, street name, if you're currently sitting or standing…"

Oh.

Dick, by this point, had been putting all his brain power into what he'd dimly prioritized as important; the phone call, the person he was sure was his brother, why bats would fly with birds, and not dropping the plastic phone. It's only then that he thinks he may have taken a little too long in retrieving vending machine food – food he see, because the machine was just a few meters to his left. The fact that he's been leaning heavily against the dirty sides of the booth for the entire conversation suddenly dawns on him, too. Now Tim was asking him to describe the world around him, when Dick was busy trying to sort out his own blurry world inside his head?

Still, he had to try. He forces himself to look around.

"…dirty street… vending machines… nghh…"

"…Okay. Can you, uh, tell me a little more?"

"…a bus stop? Over… there-ish… um… there's a… a motel…"

"What's the name of the motel, Dick?"

"…H…Hilar Lodging…"

"Okay, good. Something to look out for when I get there."

Oh, so he was looking for landmarks to help point him out. He could tell that made sense.

"Hey, you still there?"

"Mmhm."

"…Y'know, I still haven't told Bruce or Oracle that I've found you yet. Oracle is probably suspicious, since I didn't tell her why I needed her to trace the call I was in. Probably going to have to pay for that later. Even though you and Babs… broke up, she's worried about you. We all are."

"…why…?"

"Why we're worried, or why didn't I tell them?"

"…second."

"I'm not actually sure why… Just… I guess I just want to make sure I've got you all safe and secure before anything happened. I know how Bruce might handle it, and I'm not sure how lucid you are currently. I didn't want you to get in an argument with him or anything, because I kind of figured you might be in a self-blaming rut, and Bruce… well… figured we could play it safe until later."

"…"

"I know you and Bruce will have time to talk – later. Preferably after you recover. Physically, at least."

Dick doesn't know what to say to that, and making words come out of his mouth is becoming harder by the minute. Whatever had been supplying him with enough energy to push off hunger and keep conscious was fading pretty fast, and Dick felt like the world may just very well slip out from under him if he doesn't fight it off. It was already swaying around dangerously, and that didn't seem like a very good sign.

"…Dick? Dick, I'm here. I see the hotel."

The roar of Tim's bike is a bit startling, because Dick hadn't honestly prepared himself for the sudden shattering of silence that it wrought. But seeing a familiar face – a face he can honestly remember now, even if there are only a few precious pieces he can recall – is comforting, and Dick finally lets the phone fall from his hands. Tim's there to catch him when he falls, too.

All he knows now is that he just wants to go home.

There are only a few places Tim can really take his brother.

His home was not one of them. His parents weren't home, but could arrive at any time. Tim could give an easy lie as to why he wasn't there if they arrived before he did; he couldn't give a plausible excuse for why he had a sick twenty-three year old stranger with him. In addition to that risk, his home was not equipped to deal with Dick as he was presently. His brother was in need of help far beyond what a basic first aid kit had.

Leslie's clinic was always open, no matter the time or day. So was, in a manner of speaking, the Batcave. The Batcave would also have better medical equipment, and Alfred, who was good at dealing with medical emergencies as well, though naturally not as skilled as Dr. Leslie. There would probably be bat-cookies and all sorts of sweets that Alfred could cook and possibly cheer Dick up with.

But then the Batcave also had Batman. Batman, whose last chit-chat with Nightwing turned into a spectacular argument that ended with Dick storming off and Bruce sulking horribly for the next week and a half. Tim weighed the pros and cons, and gave thought to what would probably happen. Batman would undoubtedly argue with Nightwing again. But that would be whenever Nightwing decided to check in back into reality. Until then, he'd run tests on the computers and have Dick put somewhere comfortable and safe while something to counteract whatever drugs Dick had in him was being made or administered, depending on the what it was and whether it had been altered or not.

As far as he could see, the pros outweighed the cons.

Their destination was decided: Wayne Manor.

Now, Tim only had a couple more problems to confront.

It was really worrying how weak and disoriented Dick had been, and Tim did his best not to show it, which, truthfully, was fairly easy. Managing and controlling emotions was a task that proved fairly easy for him, and right now Dick probably couldn't tell anyway.

Dick…

He was pale. His hair was unkempt. His eyes – when they had been open for the briefest moment – were glassy, and bags under his eyes seemed to show a lack of sleep. His memory was suffering and he hardly seemed like himself at all.

Tim really needed to get him looked at.

Getting an unconscious twenty-three year old onto his bike wasn't a problem. Tim was plenty strong for his age. Though it wasn't glaringly obvious, it was noticeable that Dick had lost a few pounds – nothing life threatening, but definitely not very healthy. Being lithe and of around average height, Dick couldn't afford to lose too many pounds; he didn't have enough muscles to do so. The other, more immediate problem was that Dick had passed out, and could not consciously hold onto Tim while on a motorcycle.

Best plan for the moment would be to physically tie his brother to him, but it wasn't like Robin carried rope in one of his discreet motorcycles – nor, really, anything that'd work as one. He's got some tracking devices, zip tie handcuffs, and a disposable cellphone or two in hidden compartments – since this was one the bikes he'd prepared for undercover work – but no cords or ropes.

His jacket was thin, but Tim decided it'd have to do. He takes it off, and ties it around him and Dick as tightly as he can, knotting the sleeves. It isn't enough, so he maneuvers Dick's arms around him, and binds his brother's hands in front of him with the handcuffs. It's going to look awkward enough as is, and the current Robin knows that if anyone got a good look at them, questions – unwanted questions – would arise, and he really didn't want to deal with people wondering why Tim Drake was apparently kidnapping Richard Grayson. But that was kind of preferable to Dick crashing onto the pavement because he hadn't been secure enough to go riding with him; don't need to add a bad case of road burn to his brother's problems.

Tim starts the engine, and hopes that it's, for once, a quiet night in Gotham.

To be continued.