Chapter Text
When Nightwing pries his eyes open once again, he can’t remember what day it is. With his body dehydrated and energy reserves running dangerously low, his internal clock is completely shot. It doesn’t help that he’s been suspended upside down for a few hours now. Never mind the fact that Lincoln March has already very thoroughly put him through the proverbial ringer, these last few weeks, ever since Nightwing was first ambushed and captured in that abandoned warehouse.
Nightwing had been investigating a spate of high-profile abductions. He should’ve realised earlier what he was up against – a vengeful Lincoln March with his reborn Court of Owls – he should’ve been better than to let himself get caught, should’ve been able to get out of here by now, should’ve, should’ve, should’ve...
But Lincoln March has been planning his revenge against Batman for a long, long while, and Nightwing? Is just another pawn in his grand scheme.
***
The upside, on a loose definition of the word, is that March doesn’t want him to die.
“I just want to break you down, Richard.” The mouth on the owl mask had curved up in a twisted, hideous smile. “Break you down, and build you back up into the Talon you were always meant to be. The perfect Talon for Owlman.”
And that meant torture upon torture, test upon test, each seeking to push Dick over his absolute limits. Each taking him to the brink of death and almost beyond. And Dick takes it all, takes each opportunity to stay alive. His escape attempts so far have all failed. But he’ll keep going.
Batman never taught him how to give up, after all.
***
The signal is broken. Gotham burns all around them.
It’s time for the final act.
“Everything my brother worked for, Richard. Everything will be destroyed.” Owlman turns, looking up at where Nightwing hangs, tied by the wrists to the remnants of the Bat-signal. Shards of glass press into his back, his costume is in tatters, but Dick is numb even to the heat and to the pain.
March smiles. “And Nightwing will lead the way.” He runs a hand down Dick’s bare skin. “And when Nightwing dies, you will be reborn as my Talon.”
“He’ll—” Dick coughs, struggling to speak through his parched throat. “He’ll stop you.”
Owlman’s smile thins out into something even nastier. “Perhaps. Maybe Brucie will save Gotham, after all. But I’ve come this far. And whatever he does, he can’t save the both of you.”
Dick just closes his eyes, and thinks, good. Not because he doesn’t want to be saved; but if it’s between him and the tens of thousands of people living in Gotham? That isn’t even a choice.
“Such devotion,” March murmurs, and Dick still has enough energy to flinch as he feels the man’s hand stroke his cheek. “Even after all he’s done to reject you. But don’t you worry, Richard. I’m here for you.”
It’s a relief, more than anything else, when he slips out of consciousness again.
***
Lincoln March’s features are uncannily similar to Bruce’s. Even with his ridiculous Owlman mask, it’s hard to miss. They share the sharp jawline, and under their respective cowls, the same arched eyebrows and dark blue irises.
But even in his most remote, alien moments, there is an unmistakeable warmth to Bruce. You can’t miss the fact that he cares too much, about everyone, at least that’s what Dick has always thought. Even if that love and protectiveness comes out in the worst ways, sometimes.
Bruce is definitely more handsome, in any case.
Owlman, Lincoln March, Thomas Wayne Jr., whatever the name of the man standing before him is? He’s just a cold, empty shell.
And here, at the end of it all, Dick’s only regret is that he might die without setting things right between him and Bruce.
***
March has his hands poised over Nightwing’s mask, ready to rip it off and reveal to all of Gotham who the man underneath is. Ready to destroy Richard Grayson, just before he destroys Nightwing.
Dick doesn’t care. Because they’ve stopped him. He can see from their rooftop vantage point that the fires are starting to go out. Batman, Robin, Batgirl, everyone—all over Gotham, they’re systematically dismantling Owlman’s plans for destruction, from the train crash to the fire. And that’s all that matters.
Nightwing smiles for the first time in weeks. Just a little curve of his lips, but it’s enough. “Game over, March,” he manages to rasp out. “You’ve lost.”
The other man snarls, activating the bombs strapped to Dick’s body—the “insurance” plan, in case things went wrong—just as a blur in grey and black comes out of nowhere and knocks him to the ground.
And Dick’s chest surges because even half-dead, he’d recognise that cape and cowl anywhere—
A scuffle follows, both figures rolling away from where Dick is strung up as they each wrestle for domination. They exchange kicks and punches, Owlman throwing in taunts and snipes as well, though it’s only when they end up near him again that Dick can hear anything.
“You may have saved Gotham, but you’re too late to save him,” March snarls, headbutting Batman to get out of a choke hold. “You were always too late, Batman!”
Batman backhands him in the mouth and follows with a harsh kick, but March scrambles back to his feet.
“And you’ll never know him as intimately as I have,” March sneers, spitting out blood.
Dick yells wordlessly, angered by the lie, but it’s drowned out by Batman’s roar of rage as he tackles March to the ground and begins to punch him with renewed ferocity.
But March isn’t some lowly opponent, he’s even bigger than Bruce, and the Court has trained him in the most brutal way. For every punch that Batman lands, he has an answering hit, and in the end they’re both bloodied, battered, and glaring at each other from across the roof.
“It’s over, March,” Batman spits out, heaving himself to his feet. “Your master plan has fallen apart. Just look around.”
“Not all of it, Batman,” March growls. He pulls his lips back in a feral, monstrous snarl. “Your precious partner will be dead when that bomb goes off in less than a minute. Shame about that. He’d have made the perfect Talon.”
Dick thinks he’s going to start on a stupid spiel about destiny, about how Dick was always meant to be a Talon, and how almost-death is the only way, but luckily for all of them, March has a better sense of self-preservation than that: he runs, instead, flinging a mini-grenade at Batman before a Batarang can stop him.
The explosion flings Batman backwards, almost over the edge of the roof, but he manages to catch himself on time. Debris falls slowly over them, and even as Dick tries to clear the ringing in his ears, he sees that March is gone. Batman’s cowl would’ve been equipped to see where he went, except he’s crawling over to Nightwing instead of going after the man.
“What are you—” Dick chokes out. “He’s—“
“Don’t care,” Batman barks out, pulling himself to his feet and immediately starting on the bombs that March strapped all over Dick’s body.
“’S not enough time,” Dick rasps, too consciously aware of the ticking seconds and what it means for him. His vision is already starting to black out. “Get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Batman—“
“I’m not leaving you!” Batman bellows, yanking out a bunch of wires. There’s a pregnant pause, each of them holding their breath to see if that’s just made things better or worse. The flashing red light indicating the detonator’s activity doesn't stop, but it doesn't speed up, either.
Batman looks up at Dick, reaching a hand up to touch his cheek. It’s an echo of Lincoln March’s vile advances earlier, but one that feels so much better. “I left you, all of you, to go after the Joker. Never again.”
March’s weird set-up must be taking effect, because Dick can feel everything start to slip away. Bruce is still talking, even as he works to defuse the death machine that Dick is strapped to, but his voice sounds far off.
“I’m getting you out of this. We’re getting out of this together, Dick, you and—“
That’s when Dick blacks out again.