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“B-Bruce, s’fine.”
Bruce doesn’t listen. He immediately sets Dick down onto the cot, guiding his son’s left arm to hold the sterile cloth– staunching the gaping hole in his right shoulder– in place while he works on getting out of his uniform and into sterile scrubs.
It only takes him two minutes, two minutes during which he keeps asking Dick to talk, about anything– just to keep him awake.
Dick does, sounding almost bored, uninterested.
And Bruce– he thinks that Dick seeming so unphased by his own mangled shoulder is probably what’s setting him on edge the most.
Surely enough, he’d dropped out from medical school only after four and a half years, but the reasons behind Dick’s lack of engagement, or rather, acknowledgement of the entity of the situation, have alarms blaring in his head as he runs through all the possibilities.
Hypovolemic shock, prodromal phase, cerebrovascular accident–
Bruce is back at Dick’s side, gently stripping the boy out of his sodden shirt– he cuts the kevlar, because there’s no way that his son can move that arm, now.
“You’re going to be okay.” he says, his own voice sounding foreign. “I’m going to fix it, I’m right here, chum.”
Dick hums, low. “I know.” then, quieter, “Calm do-down, dad.”
The eldest shakes his head. He carefully examines the wound– 9x19mm Parabellum calibre, no exit hole. Bruce is quick to run x-rays, instantly assessing the situation– the bullet’s pathway is rather clean, at least, and Bruce finds he can breathe a little easier after that. The metal’s lodged in the deltoid, too close for comfort to the cephalic vein.
“Bruce, d-dad–”
“I’m going to fix it.”
Bruce’s hands shake almost dangerously as he administers a nerve block to numb the area around the bleeding wound. Bruce knows it’s going to take a moment for it to kick in, but he can’t stay still.
He can’t, not when his son is bleeding and in pain and dying and–
“Dad, it’s– m’going to be fine.” Dick calls, weak, offering a tired, encouraging grin.
And oh, oh, he shouldn’t be the one comforting Bruce right now– Bruce knows– it should definitely be the other way around, it should be Bruce, an adult, to comfort Dick, an injured child, his injured child.
Bruce trembles, struggling to catch his breath. His hands shake uncontrollably as a wave of dizziness washes over him. He squeezes his eyes– can’t let it get to him, not here, not now, not when Dick is–
He takes a steadying breath, grabbing the oximeter from the designated drawer and clipping it to the flesh part of Dick’s left index, squeezing his son’s hand a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Dick returns the hold, squeezing just as tight before Bruce lets go, placing a nasal cannula on Dick’s face. The teen moans, because he’s fine, it’s fine, it’s just a bullet in the shoulder, he’s had worse, but Bruce seems– frantic, so Dick lets him fuss.
Bruce then sets up an IV to administer fluids and a mild sedative, not enough to knock Dick out, but enough for him to hopefully let his eyes fall shut and drift into a dreamless sleep.
The man then reaches for the surgical covers and antiseptic, placing the bottle on the tray on which the needed surgical instruments are all lined up.
“Don’t–” Bruce’s voice cracks, “Don’t look.”
Dick nods, just barely, not bothering to bring a fist up to stifle his yawn. He doesn’t actually turn his head– instead, he closes his eyes, peaceful.
When Bruce is sure that Dick’s right arm has temporarily lost all feeling, after prodding at it a few times, here and there, without Dick even acknowledging the touch and pressure, the man eventually begins the delicate process of extracting the bullet from Dick’s shoulder.
He makes an incision near the entry wound, carefully probing the area with precision tools to locate the bullet lodged deep within the muscle tissue– he glances at the x-ray, and hums.
As he works, Bruce murmurs each step of the procedure under his breath– he thinks he needs it more than Dick, whose eyes are still closed, whose pulse and oxygen levels are still within acceptable range.
Every now and then, Dick nods or hums weakly.
When the forceps finally grasp the bullet, Bruce lets out a choked, relieved sob. He’s careful to pull it out of the shoulder. He stares for a moment at the blood-stained metal stained in crimson, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights of the medbay.
“I’m going to stitch the wound.” he mutters, low.
And just as Bruce is about to close the wound, needle and thread in hand, Dick’s eyes flutter open, and then– then they flutter closed, and something’s different, Bruce notices instantly. The man’s eyes immediately snap up, he’s on his feet before he knows it, a hand already extended to shake Dick awake–
Dick blinks.
“Sorry, ‘was sleepy.” he slurs, sheepish.
Bruce sags back into the stool, shaking. A quick glance to the monitors confirms that Dick is fine, he’s alright, just understandably exhausted, but he’s awake, he’s okay, he’s alive.
The man doesn’t have time to gawk at the wonders of the human body when the adrenaline coursing through his veins for the scare somehow wills his hands to stop shaking– instead, Bruce quickly finishes stitching up the wound, applying a sterile dressing to protect it and prevent infection as soon as he’s done.
Dick’s eyes are shut again, he’s snoring softly. And it’s not that Bruce doesn’t trust his equipment, but he still presses two fingers against his son’s uninjured arm’s wrist, then pulls the cannula out to check if it’s still pushing out the oxygen– it is– before placing it again under Dick’s blood-caked nostrils.
Bruce meticulously sets all the dirty tools and sodden gauzes in a plastic bag with a big hazard symbol on it, then fastens it, setting it aside for– later. He can’t leave Dick’s side now. He could ask Alfred, but the man won’t be home for another two hours, and Bruce only now realises that he has a lot of explaining to do, and that Alfred may never forgive him for not fetching him immediately.
Rain.
Bruce sighs, running a now-bare hand in his hair.
Gunpowder.
He sits down on the stool, hunched forward. He pinches the bridge of his nose so tight that, when he moves his hands to press his knuckles against the inner corner of the eyes, the skin is red.
Copper
He’s trying to take deep, steadying breaths to will the panic away before he even realises it. Bruce’s chest feels tight and constricted, heart racing, because Dick could’ve died, his son, his little son, his Robin, he could’ve–
Tears.
Bruce wheezes.
He closes his eyes, blood staining his vision.
Rain, gunpowder, copper, tears dripping on the cold, wet asphalt, a pool of crimson growing and growing and growing under his parents’ cold, wet bodies.
Rain, gunpowder, copper, tears dripping on the cold, wet asphalt, a pool of crimson growing and growing and growing under Dick’s sprawled form–
“Br’ss?”
Bruce jolts awake– when had he…?
“Hey, chum,” he calls, blinking the dizziness away as he moves to smooth his son’s sweaty bangs back, heart hammering. “How’re we feeling?”
He quickly glances at the monitors– still nothing out of the ordinary.
Dick offers a half-smile, eyelids drooping as he does so– he leans into his father’s touch as the man cups his cheek comfortingly.
“M’good.”
Bruce nods. And– and he should wait, he should wait for Dick to recuperate, he should wait for his own mind to clear, for Alfred, for his parents to tell him what to do in his dreams, in his nightmares, as the voices he hears–
“Dickie.” the man calls, “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”
Dick makes a face, prying one eye only open. “S’not, s’my fault, shouldn’t h-have–”
“I–” Bruce’s voice shakes, so do his hands, curled around Dick’s uninjured one, tight, so tight that Dick still feels it despite the propofol in his system.
“Dickie, chum, listen,” Bruce starts again, lips quivering, ears deaf as the incessant throbbing in his head drowns his own voice out, “you remember our oath, yeah?”
A nod, faint, hesitant.
“When I– when you first donned the Robin cape, I was ecstatic. And– and I still am. You’re a hero, Dick. Brave, smart, compassionate– you’re many things I never was and, probably, never will be.” Bruce breathes out, slow, “But today, when– when the gun fired, in that exact moment, I realised that maybe, maybe I don’t want you to be a hero, after all.”
Dick shakes, shrugging Bruce’s hands away when he tries to push him back into a lying position. The teen props himself up on his uninjured elbow, shaking with exhaustion and blood loss and fear.
“Br’ss, don’t–”
Bruce is looking at his own hands, now cradled in his lap, fingers trembling uncontrollably. “I can’t let you be Robin anymore.”
“B-Bruce,” Dick is shuddering violently, eyes struggling to focus on Bruce’s hunched, quaking form “you c-can’t.”
“I– I have to.”
“You d-don’t.” Dick seethes, livid and absolutely terrified, eyes now wide, chest heaving, “This was– n’accident, m’fine now, pl-please, please, you can’t–”
“Dick.” Bruce calls, firm, and Dick shakes harder, “Not like this. I can’t let you– I can’t let you fight my battles anymore, I can’t keep doing this to you.”
“Pl’se–”
“You’re a child, Dick.” Bruce whimpers, audibly pained, numb hands dragging down across his face, “You were a child when I made you– when I allowed you to join me. I shouldn’t have done that, ever. I was barely twenty-five, stupid and naive and– and I wanted to help you, I did, and I still do, but I can’t–” he lets out a dry sob.
Dick stills, unmoving like a deer in the headlights.
“I’m sorry.” the man calls, standing up abruptly as the stool clatters to the ground, sending a spike of pain through Dick’s aching skull.
The man’s voice is wet, thick. “I’m sorry, but that’s– that’s final.”
“Robin is mine.” Dick calls, and he moves to get up too, but his legs are numb, jelly under his weight when he collapses, barely catching himself on the cot. Bruce doesn’t reach out to help him, and instead stares at the floor, wide-eyed.
“Robin is– he’s mine.” Dick repeats, blinking hard against the spots dancing across his blurry vision, “He’s mine, y-you c-can’t take him fro-from me, he’s mine.”
“Dick, I–” Bruce starts, then stops. He sighs– not annoyed, not mad, but agonising, devastated, “I can’t do this now.”
“You can’t?” Dick chuckles, bitter, “I’m– you’re th’ one who’s hurtin’ me, Bruce, n-not the oth-other way around!”
“Dick–”
“No, no.” the boy takes one step, then another– he has Bruce’s collar in his fist, white-tight.
Bruce doesn’t even bend down to accommodate his son, barely glancing at Dick’s arms– the right hangs limply at his side, and the left is bleeding from the crook of the elbow, IV ripped out with brute force.
“You c-can’t do th-this t’ me.” Dick slurs, eyebrows furrowed in visceral rage, eyes shifting in and out of focus as he struggles to keep upright, “I g-get it. Y’re scared, I sc-scared you and m’sorry, m’sorry, it was n’accident and it w-won’t happen again. Jus’– don’t do th-this t’me. Please.”
And Bruce– Bruce actually looks like he might be considering Dick’s words. For a moment, just for a moment, Dick sees something shine in Bruce’s eyes, something like hope, trust.
The man’s callous hands delicately rise to free the shirt from Dick’s shaky grip, and then to guide him back to bed with ease. Bruce is silent as he disinfects the tiny wound where Dick’s IV line used to run, and inserts a new one.
He gets up, and Dick just stares, silent, expectant.
Bruce tucks his son in, fluffs up his pillows and checks the IV drip– Dick watches, dazed, as the man pushes another syringe in, warmth instantly spreading across the boy’s mind.
“I’m sorry.” Bruce murmurs after a moment, perched at the edge of Dick’s cot.
The youngest’s eyes widen slightly, just as much as the sedative that has just now entered in his system allows him to.
“Br’ss…”
Fat, warm tears well up in Dick’s eyes. Bruce moves to plant a soft kiss atop of his head, but Dick violently wrenches it away– he feels like he does, but to Bruce, the movement is imperceptible. Yet, he relents, understanding immediately.
“I’m sorry, Dick. I really am.”
“I,” a wheeze, low, outraged, “h-hate y’.”
He gets up. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Dick watches as Bruce turns around, limping dazed across the Cave, and takes the stairs up to the Manor.
Dick watches as Bruce disappears from his sight.
And Dick screams.