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I’m here, not leaving
Stock still and tired of your leaning
In this dance like fighters in a ring
Just shadow boxing the ghosts that haunt our halls
A never ending problem multiplied by the angle of the moon
–Can we solve ourselves and never say a word?
Dick screamed so violently he thought his throat would tear from the force of it. He threw his body against the walls and pounded his fists on the door. He raged in every way he could think of. Throwing chairs against the wall, banging metal pipes against metal floors. Were it not for the telltale drip of the water tapping a pitter-patter beat as it fell from the built-up condensation on the ceiling, he would think he had been struck deaf.
After what seemed like an age, but he knew in reality had only been minutes, he slumped against the door and gave up attempting his racket. The curse hadn’t just taken his voice and his ability to communicate through comms; it had taken every form of sound from him. He couldn’t click his tongue, he couldn’t tap out morse code, not even the objects he threw clattered when they shattered or struck. He doubted he would even be allowed to utilize sign language should there be someone to see him.
In short, Dick was in a predicament and had no way to ask for help.
Dick circled the room again looking for something he had missed. The hinges were on the outside of the door so he had no hope of prying it open. The one window in the room was reinforced glass that he didn’t have the right tools to break, and should he even make a small explosion from gutting the electric ends of his escrima sticks, a concussive blast in the small, sealed room would only end up injuring him. He could only hope that Bruce and Tim would remember that Nightwing was on board the ship and when he didn’t eventually return, they would come find him.
Dick glanced at his earwig laying on the floor where he had thrown it in frustration. He wondered if Tim was still rambling about where he could be, or if Bruce was still muttering threats at him for going dark. Not that Dick had meant to go dark. No, Nimue had seen to his silence. Dick cursed his luck that he’d come across her while investigating an odd light coming from the ship. Whatever ceremony he’d interrupted, she’d not been pleased.
Dick waited a total of two and a half hours before he heard Bruce’s voice calling out for him in the hallway.
Dick instinctively called out a reply and then felt his jaw snap shut–once again soundlessly. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth and felt air push between them. Frustrated didn’t even begin to cover how he felt. He was tired, trapped, and completely muzzled by a curse.
“Nightwing!” Batman’s voice sounded hoarse and thick.
“B!” Dick could feel the word bubbling in his mouth but just as it reached his tongue, it died. Dick screamed in frustration.
The room stayed silent.
Giving up all attempts of answering Batman’s calls, which grew slightly more urgent the longer they went with no reply, Dick moved to the far side of the room and waited. He crossed his arms, attempting to fight off the unnerving anxiety Batman’s pleas for him to answer gave him. Dick just had to wait it out. Bruce would find the door locked and know, somehow, that he was in here. He had to. Dick would have come to that conclusion, and so he trusted that Batman would as well.
“Nightwing?” Batman pounded against the door a few times.
Dick frowned but didn’t move. Banging on the door did no good anyway. His aching muscles and raw throat were evidence enough that it was a waste in effort. He felt a squirming feeling in his gut while listening to Bruce calling out to him. It was desperate–more Bruce than Batman at this point. Dick wanted nothing more than to soothe the fear that sounded more akin to anger. Dick knew what it truly was, no matter how Bruce showed it.
It took Bruce three minutes to cut through the hinges and pry the metal back into some twisted hole that he could see into the room through. Dick prayed he was still visible to others. He hadn’t considered it until he saw Batman’s eyes sweeping the room. It was a level of fear he hadn’t known he could hold; had he been simply stuck silent or perhaps made a ghost?
Nimue was certainly powerful enough to do it. Had he angered her enough to be blasted to another plane of existence?
Nightwing let out a held breath the second Bruce’s eyes locked with his. That worry alleviated, Dick attempted to sign.
I can’t make noise.
Bruce’s jaw tightened. So Dick’s guess had been correct, signing too was lost to him as a way to communicate. He wondered vaguely what it looked like. Perhaps others were unable to comprehend it, or maybe he looked blurred as he moved. Whatever the physics of it all, it didn’t matter. He was cut off from others nearly completely. Even a newborn had more to work with than he did.
“Nightwing, what’s happened? Are you hurt?” Batman’s eyes were sharp, looking critically at him.
Dick opened his mouth and let out a scream, hit the wall with his fist and stomped as hard as he could. Bruce’s mouth formed a tight line.
“I see.” Batman began pushing on the door again. When there was a gap nearly a hand and a half’s breath wide he waved Dick over. “Try and squeeze through this if you can.”
Dick laughed and cringed at the lack of it all. He could feel the vibrations of his laughter in his chest, but the absence of sound was unnerving. The drip, drip, drip of water behind him and the light steps Bruce made as he moved back to allow Dick room was the only sound in the ship. If Bruce noticed the silent laugh die, he didn’t comment. He simply stood back and let Dick twist his way through the hole Bruce had created.
The second Dick was through the door, Batman pulled him in and began inspecting him. Dick stiffened as Bruce’s hands ran up and down his arms and legs and across his torso. He knew Bruce was looking for wounds and so tried not to feel disgruntled by the action. It all felt too juvenile. He wasn’t a child anymore and were he able to speak and communicate as much, he would.
Batman’s inspection ended with a rare in field hug. Bruce’s grip was crushing. Dick felt his irritation evaporate and hugged Bruce back just as hard. Bruce had to have been rather worried. Dick felt a stab of guilt. He had taken his comm set off after it became clear he couldn’t communicate through it. Listening to Bruce and Tim panic and debate his location had been too frustrating to listen to, so he’d thrown it away, trusting them to figure it out.
Now it seemed stupid, even reckless, he hadn’t a clue what had been going on around him or even if they were close to where he was locked up.
“Nightwing, let's get you back to the cave, alright?” Bruce’s voice was barely a whisper.
Dick nodded and felt his heart stutter when Bruce just sighed and pulled him by the arm towards the door. So even nodding was lost to him. Dick had never felt so cut off. Any hope he’d had of writing to communicate with Bruce and Tim died. He was without any way to say how he was or tell them what happened.
For perhaps the umpteenth time, Dick silently cursed Nimue.
He only hoped that Bruce through their years working together really could read his mind. Batman and Robin– though Dick wasn’t half the equation anymore–hadn’t everyone always said they moved as if they didn’t need to talk? Perhaps this was the ultimate test of it.
The journey to the manor was not silent. Dick would have laughed if he could. Bruce had pushed his cowl back the second they were in the car, and had–stranger still–kept up a constant stream of conversion the whole way back. Dick listened to it and tried not to get frustrated when every question Bruce asked him, Dick found he still couldn’t answer.
Tim beat them back to the cave. Dick huffed as the boy ran headlong at him, colliding at a near painful speed.
“Tim!” Bruce chided gently as he watched Dick’s face for any sign of discomfort. “He can’t talk, so just be gentle. We don’t know if he’s injured internally yet.”
Tim leapt back from Dick as if he were suddenly on fire. “Right. Sorry.”
Dick shook his head and once again watched Bruce frown.
“He can’t speak, sign, shake or nod his head and can’t use other objects to make sound.” Bruce took Dick by the arm and pulled him towards the medical bay.
Tim hummed. “We should see if he can write.”
Dick allowed Bruce to push him on to a cot to examine him, but had little expectations for the success of Tim’s idea. It seemed too easy a loophole for it to work.
Dick tried not to let Tim’s disappointment phase him when he put the pen down. All the words he had so carefully penned were pure gibberish.
“Well, he can’t write then.” Bruce sighed, picking up a stethoscope. “Dick, you should stay with one of us until we figu–”
Bruce’s eyes went wide, the cold metal disk he had been pressing into Dick’s back dropped. Bruce ripped his gloves off and pressed two fingers into Dick’s neck.
“What’s wrong?” Tim asked, his voice a pitch too high.
“He doesn’t have a pulse.” Bruce dropped his fingers from his neck and grabbed at Dick’s own gloved hands, pulling at the fabric nearly feverishly.
Dick felt his heart quicken in his chest and wished he had a way to ease the panic in Bruce’s eyes. His heart was beating, just silent. It was a sick joke. Bruce fumbled for the rhythm that should be found in his inner wrist. Dick twisted his hand around and reaching out he took Bruce’s hand in his own, and squeezed. While he couldn’t speak and even the rhythm of his heart was muted, he could at least still feel.
Bruce’s eyes snapped to his own. Dick smiled and tried to put every ounce of reassurance in it he had.
I’m here. I’m alive; you just can’t hear.
He willed Bruce to understand. He willed the fear and confusion away. He held it and projected it as loudly as he could with his mind and hoped it was enough.
I’m here and not leaving, B.
Dick would never know if Bruce understood him in that moment. Later he would be too scared to ask, but he thought just maybe Bruce did.
“Well for a man with no pulse, he’s breathing fine.” Tim said, putting an oximeter on Dick’s now ungloved hand.
Bruce laughed humorlessly. “Yes. Sorry, Chum, I just didn’t expect that to be silent too.”
Bruce squeezed Dick’s hand once, dropped it and turned away.
“So, do we think magic?” Tim asked the room at large.
Dick watched Bruce’s back carefully, wishing he could shoo Tim away to give him a moment of privacy. He wondered just how hard it had been having Dick go silent and disappear. From all he had ever gathered about Jason’s disappearance and subsequent death, he wondered if Bruce had been as fervent in his search then as he had sounded in the hallway tonight. He’d never thought to ask.
Dick hoped that wherever the Red Hood was tonight that he was okay–no matter how much or little of Jason remained. He watched Bruce wearily, it had been a rough few months–it had been half the reason Dick had so readily agreed to come.
“Yes, no tech could do this. It would end at his body if it were. The effect it has on other objects around him that he is affecting leaves nothing but magic.” Bruce’s voice was even when he spoke and when he turned back now holding a portable x-ray panel, his hands were steady.
“Then, I'm going to see if we can get a magic user here to look at him.” Tim said, practically running to the batcomputer. “I’ll call Alfred too and let him know we found him.”
Dick frowned, but made no attempt to question or gesture in confusion. It would make no difference anyway.
“Tell Alfred to cancel his flight back too!” Bruce called after Tim. “No reason for him to come home early now that–well now that we know what’s happened.”
Bruce’s gaze was heavy as it often was these days. Dick smiled in the hopes that Bruce would smile back.
He didn’t.
Dick let Bruce scan him and poke and prod him. The man was only satisfied after nearly an hour’s examination. Dick was fine , just silent.
Tim came back just as Dick had pulled on a pair of loaned sweatpants. “Well, nothing to do but wait for it to wear off, according to Constantine. He said it sounds like a disappearing charm that was only half performed.”
Dick frowned.
“Half performed?” Bruce jumped up on the counter, his legs bumping the cabinet doors noisily. “How is he sure it wasn’t fully done and just hasn’t taken effect?”
“I hacked the boat's surveillance. We both watched and she–some lady Constantine thought was called Madame Xanadu–didn’t finish the incantation.”
“But why?” Bruce pulled one leg up so that his chin rested on his knee. “Why not finish the spell, did Dick prevent her from doing it?”
Dick groaned silently and sank back onto the cot. He wanted nothing more than to shout in frustration at the whole mess. Dick had no idea her motives but the fact the spell would wear off was a relief. When it did, he would track her down and find away to curse her into silence. That would show her.
“From what we could tell, it looks like she just did it because she was mad. Constantine said that tonight the spirits were oddly active and thought maybe she was trying to summon someone. Dick probably messed up the seance or something.” Tim shrugged and pulled three bottles of water out from the mini fridge, tossing one to Bruce and Dick each before taking a sip of the third.
“So how long?” Bruce said with a glance at Dick.
“Maybe a few more hours. Constantine said the incompleteness of it, plus the distance of the caster, multiplied by the angle of the moon–or something or other–would leave the spell with an exponential half life.”
Bruce raised his eyebrows. “The angle of the moon?”
“I don’t know. It’s what he said. He was a little grumpy when I called, to be honest.” Tim shrugged and chugged the rest of the water bottle. “I better head home though. I’ve got a math test in the morning.”
Bruce nodded and thanked Tim for his help. Dick didn’t even bother to wave as Tim left.
“Well, Chum.” Bruce said to the now silent cave. “I’m going to change, but I’d appreciate it if you slept here tonight, just to make sure it does wear off.”
Dick stood up and simply walked to the stairs. What was the point in arguing with sound logic–no matter how much he disliked the idea.
Bruce checked on him a total of fourteen times before turning in himself.
Dick tried not to feel smothered. But there in this room, every teenage year and fight seemed to weigh on him. The lack of voice to push back against Bruce fed into it, he knew that. Bruce and him had mended bridges and worked hard to get things back on track. This was dredging up past feelings he had thought long dead and buried.
He wanted nothing more than to call Donna and have her talk him down. But that was out of the question. Should he call her and then not say anything, he knew he would cause a Titans wide panic. Gaining any comfort from his friend would have to wait.
Dick tossed and turned; his bed neither creaked nor rustled. It was unnerving. Not even the fan’s hum helped. Sleep seemed impossible.
So Dick lay in his childhood bed attempting to click his tongue every few minutes to see if it made any sound. After trying until his jaw grew tight, he rolled over and looked at the clock on his bedside table.
Four a.m.
Giving up sleep as a bad job, Dick pushed himself up and headed for the kitchen. Dinner seemed a long time ago.
Bruce stumbled down around eight. “Morning, Chum. Any luck?”
Dick clicked his tongue and frowned. He went back to swirling his cereal and milk dregs with a spoon aimlessly.
“No, then.” Bruce plopped into the banquette opposite Dick at the breakfast table. “I’ll stay home. I don’t want anything to happen and you not be near anyone.”
Dick rolled his eyes, but doubted Bruce could even see it.
“I know I’m pissing you off but–if something happened, you couldn’t call for help.” Bruce shrugged.
Dick crossed his arms. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or the situation as a whole, but he was already over Bruce’s hovering and the day had hardly started.
Bruce chuckled. “I’ll be in the study. I’ve got some contracts to look at.”
Dick watched him go, and wished he were home. His own place seemed a luxury. Sure Bruce’s logic was sound and according to Tim he only had hours of the spell to wait out, but Dick wanted nothing more than to run from the manor.
The day became Dick moving from room to room, clicking his tongue constantly to see if he could hear it. He attempted to watch old movies, but the photo of Jason on the mantle made it hard to focus on the plot. He went out to the greenhouse and stationed himself on the tire swing Bruce had hung for him when Dick first arrived at the manor. He tried working out and taking advantage of the gym, but the silence everywhere he went unnerved him.
“Hey, Chum.” Bruce threw a towel at him as Dick leapt down from the high bars. “I have tuna sandwiches or pasta salad for lunch.”
Dick glanced at the clock. It had been nearly fifteen hours and he still was mute. He wondered if Tim had it wrong. He hoped not.
Dick followed Bruce back to the kitchen. He snatched up a sandwich and flopped down at the table. Dick only half listened to Bruce talk about his morning. Shipping laws and ocean currents impacting travel times could only hold his attention for so long. Bruce seemed to be grasping at the mundane in an attempt to bring a sense of normalcy.
Dick just chewed his tuna sandwich and stared out the window.
Bruce leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry this has been such a headache. I’ll call Constantine again and see if he has any other theories. Tim thought the spell would be over by now based on the calculations Constantine gave him last night, but–well, I thought you would be better by now.”
Dick nodded out of habit, but Bruce’s furrowed eyebrows made it clear that whatever had been done to him was still working.
The afternoon was much the same as the morning, except now Bruce was hovering more than ever. Constantine, it turned out, had no clue why the curse or spell or whatever it was hadn’t worn off.
Dick felt all of fifteen again. He hated the constant check-ins. Nearly every half-hour, Bruce would wander into whatever room Dick was in, quickly look over him and then leave. Bruce seemed to have given up small talk. Dick knew it was a sign of worry, but the abruptness was grating.
It was nearly three in the afternoon when Dick decided he could ignore his phone no longer. He had received several texts from Donna, Roy, Kori and Wally. While Dick couldn’t respond himself, he knew that leaving them unanswered would cause them to worry.
Dick found himself at the door of the study wondering if Bruce would understand his request. Perhaps it was better to let his friends worry rather than hope that Bruce would figure it out. Surely he didn’t have much longer to wait.
Just as Dick was about to turn back and wander to the library to find some book to occupy himself with, the door opened. Bruce started and jerked to a halt, the doorknob still in his hand.
“I was just coming to find you,” Bruce said awkwardly.
Dick sighed and held out his phone.
Bruce reached out automatically and took it.
“I assume you want me to look at something on here if you are giving me this,” Bruce said, stepping back into the study and gesturing for Dick to follow him.
Dick crossed to an old leather loveseat in the corner. The aged leather didn’t squeak as he sank into it. Dick gritted his teeth.
“Oh, I see,” Bruce said after staring at the screen for a bit. “I’m just going to send them all, ‘This is Bruce. Dick is fine, just is unable to talk himself at the moment. When he can, he will reach out. I will let you know if this changes.’ Is that okay?”
Bruce looked up at him as if waiting for Dick to lunge for the phone and take it back. When he didn't, Bruce turned back to type out the message.
“Sent.” Bruce handed the phone back to Dick and watched him carefully. “So… still no sound or ability to communicate?”
Dick glared at him.
“Right.” Bruce’s gaze was heavy. “I’m almost done with work. Maybe we can go get ice cream or–or–”
Dick didn’t wait for Bruce to find something to say. He wasn’t fully sure why he was so irritated, but listening and not being able to answer felt suffocating. He stood, snatched his phone back and left the room. Maybe he would go home anyway. Maybe he would get on his bike and just race home.
No. No, that was stupid.
He shook his head as if it would clear his mind. Motorcycles relied on sound to add safety. Gotham and Bludhaven already weren’t the safest places to drive a Motorcycle, but adding not being able to communicate? No, that was reckless. What if his turn signals didn’t work? What if he wasn’t seen by traffic because he tried to use them? The experiment wasn’t worth the risk. No, he had to be smart about this.
Dick let his feet wander aimlessly. He found himself in the library eventually, pulling books off the shelf at random. The tick, tick, tick of the clock seemed to grow quieter the longer Dick read.
“Dick?” Bruce called out from the hallway.
Dick snapped his book shut.
“Would you leave me alone? I’m fine! I’ve not fallen, or gotten so much as a paper cut!” Dick yelled then felt his jaw drop. He had–He could hear himself.
Bruce ran into the library, a wide smile on his face.
Dick grinned back.
“I never thought I’d be so happy to hear you yell at me,” Bruce said softly.
“You can hear me?” Dick thought it was too good to be true. He stomped a few times, savoring the thud his boots made.
“Yeah. I hear you,” Bruce stepped forward and pulled Dick into a hug.
Dick laughed into Bruce’s shoulder. All the anger seemed silly now, all the frustration with Bruce. It had been less than a day.
“You feeling okay?” Bruce asked, pulling back from Dick.
Dick nodded. “I’m fine, I’ve been fine the whole time.”
“I’m glad. Tim and I were rather worried.” Bruce was eyeing him warily. “You want to head home? You must be tired.”
“No.” Dick shook his head and smiled. He knew the perfect way to vent all the frustration he’d felt the past day. “Now we need to hunt a witch.”