Chapter Text
Running Up That Hill — Kate Bush
Although his brothers tried to reassure him, Dick couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Peter had been in surgery for almost four hours, and they still hadn't received any news. They didn't know whether the doctors had managed to remove the bullet, whether it had damaged any vital organs, or whether they had found internal bleeding they still couldn't control. They didn't know how much blood he had lost or whether he would need more to keep him alive.
Each of those possibilities played over and over in Dick's head.
Luckily, he and Peter were a match.
If the doctors needed blood, Dick was willing to give him as much as they needed without a second thought. If they needed more, he'd give more. If there was anything else they could take from him to help his brother, he would do it.
He didn't care how much it hurt.
He didn't care how long he had to stay in that hospital.
But he needed news.
He needed to know that Peter was still alive.
Dick was grateful that he had left his job as a detective in Blüdhaven late that night. He had barely gotten into his car when he received the call. At first, he thought it would be Bruce asking when he planned to return to Gotham, but the moment he heard his voice, he knew something was terribly wrong.
Bruce told him what had happened.
A gunshot.
Peter.
The hospital.
Emergency surgery.
Dick couldn't even remember finishing the call before starting the car.
Normally, the drive from Blüdhaven to Gotham took him around an hour. That night, he made it in less than thirty minutes.
He drove like a complete maniac.
He couldn't remember how many traffic lights he'd run, how many times he'd accelerated beyond the speed limit, or how many times he'd changed lanes without even thinking about it.
He had only one thing on his mind.
Peter.
When he finally reached the hospital, he wasn't even sure he'd parked properly. He left the car wherever he could and ran toward the entrance.
He didn't care if he got a ticket later.
He didn't care if his car ended up being towed.
He didn't care about anything.
His little brother was on an operating table.
But this wasn't the first time Dick had been afraid of losing Peter.
The memory of his birth had always been strange to him because he couldn't actually remember it; he had been far too young. He knew about it through the stories his parents had told over the years, through photographs, and through the countless times he'd heard them talk about that day.
Peter's birth had been complicated. His mother had suffered severe bleeding, and the doctors had needed to work quickly to save her. They managed to stabilize her, but Peter was so small and had been born so prematurely that during the first few hours, no one could guarantee he would survive.
He barely weighed three pounds.
He was tiny.
Far too small for the world.
The doctors had prepared his parents for the worst. They explained that Peter might not make it, that the next few hours would be critical, and that even if he survived, he would have to remain in intensive care for a very long time.
But Peter clung to life.
He spent half a year between incubators and intensive care, surrounded by machines, doctors, and nurses who monitored every tiny change in his condition.
And he survived.
Peter had always been like that.
From the very beginning, he'd shown that he was far more stubborn than anyone could have imagined.
Dick saw it a second time many years later.
Bruce had done something that had upset him, and as soon as they returned to the manor, he locked himself in the training room. Dick still remembered how he'd punched the heavy bags. Then he'd climbed onto the bar and started spinning and flipping until, because of one careless mistake, he missed the jump and nearly crashed into the floor. Luckily, he reacted quickly enough to avoid a serious injury.
But he was so frustrated that he ended up punching the wall.
Alfred appeared shortly afterward.
“Master Dick, Master Bruce would like to speak with you.”
Dick had assumed it would probably be a lecture about not punching walls, taking care of his hands, or some other nonsense like that.
However, Alfred didn't take him to the Batcave.
He took him to the courtyard.
Bruce was there, dressed in workout clothes and smiling.
“What is this?” he asked, still annoyed.
“Fun training,” Bruce replied.
Dick stared at him incredulously.
“Fun training?”
He let out a small mocking laugh.
“It's a joke.”
“It isn't.”
“But...”
“I found it!”
Peter's voice made Dick turn his head.
His little brother appeared through the doorway with a basketball in his hands.
Then Peter threw the ball to Bruce.
Bruce caught it with one hand.
“Good,” he said, smiling. “These are the rules.”
Dick approached, still somewhat suspicious.
“What rules?”
Bruce pointed toward the hoop.
“Whoever scores the most points gets the biggest piece of cake tonight.”
Peter's eyes widened, lighting up at the mention of cake.
“The biggest piece?”
“The biggest.”
Peter stared at Bruce for several seconds.
Then he smiled.
“Then I'm going to win.”
Dick remembered letting out a small laugh.
That afternoon became one he would never forget.
There were laughs, jokes, little bits of cheating, and fake arguments about who was cheating. For a few hours, there were no training sessions, no patrols, and no problems in Gotham.
They were just a family playing in the courtyard.
Bruce and Dick let Peter score most of the points. How could they not? Peter was still a child, and although he probably would've complained if he'd realized they were letting him win, neither of them had the heart to take that away from him.
Dick could still see him running across the courtyard with the ball in his hands, completely thrilled every time he managed to make a basket.
During one play, Peter stood too far away from the hoop and began complaining because he couldn't reach it.
Bruce simply walked over, grabbed him around the waist, and lifted him.
“Dad!” Peter burst out laughing, surprised.
Bruce lifted him high enough that he could get close enough to the basket to shoot.
“Now!”
Peter threw the ball.
It went straight through the hoop.
“I scored!”
Peter shouted excitedly while Bruce was still holding him in the air.
Dick couldn't help laughing.
He remembered Peter's smile perfectly.
A huge, completely carefree smile.
Then Peter began coughing.
At first, it was barely a small cough, so insignificant that none of them paid much attention to it. Peter ignored it too and continued playing, but a few minutes later, he coughed again.
This time, it was harder.
Then another.
And another.
The coughing eventually took over.
Peter bent slightly forward as he tried to breathe, but the air seemed unwilling to enter his lungs. The smile disappeared from his face, and his little hands clutched Bruce's shirt.
Alfred, who until then had been sitting quietly on a nearby bench reading a book, immediately looked up.
“Master Bruce?”
Bruce had already stopped smiling.
He lowered Peter into his arms and held him carefully.
“Easy, champ,” he murmured, gently rubbing his back. “It's okay. You just need to catch your breath.”
Peter tried to breathe.
But every breath seemed harder than the last.
Dick watched in horror.
Then he saw it.
Peter's lips were beginning to turn blue.
“Bruce...”
Bruce had seen it too.
His expression changed immediately.
Everything happened too quickly after that.
Dick barely remembered the trip to the hospital. He remembered Bruce carrying Peter, Alfred trying to remain calm, and the emergency room doors opening in front of them.
Then Bruce and Peter disappeared behind them.
Dick stayed in the hallway with Alfred, not knowing what to do.
Hours later, they finally got an answer.
Asthma.
The doctors explained that Peter had been exposed for years to small amounts of smoke, gases, and chemical residue that made their way into the manor or the school. Scarecrow's gases, chemicals used by the Joker, and other dangerous substances could linger anywhere or reach his brother through the wind.
Gotham was a city plagued by dangerous gases, and his little brother's body had eventually paid the price.
The asthma had been developing silently for years.
It had only needed the worst possible moment to reveal itself.
From then on, every time Peter coughed, someone in the family immediately looked up.
Because they had learned that even something as small as a cough could become an emergency when it came to Peter.
After that, the manor changed.
Bruce had special filters installed in the ventilation system, and Alfred began checking everything that entered the house. The clothes Bruce and everyone else wore outside the manor never went directly back to their rooms. Everything had to be cleaned first.
And Peter...
Peter simply learned to live with it.
Dick remembered the first time he saw him using his inhaler.
Peter had tried to hide it behind his back when he realized Dick was watching him.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Pete.”
“I'm not doing anything.”
Dick held out his hand.
Peter sighed before handing it over.
“Don't tell Bruce.”
Dick frowned.
“Why?”
“I don't want him to worry more.”
Dick let out a small laugh.
“Peter, Bruce worries about you even when you're breathing.”
Peter made a face.
“Exactly.”
Dick ended up ruffling his hair.
“You're an idiot.”
“You too.”
And Peter smiled.
That was the memory Dick wanted to keep.
He didn't want to remember Peter hooked up to machines.
He didn't want to imagine him on an operating table.
He wanted to remember the boy who hid his inhaler behind his back and asked him not to tell Bruce.
The boy who cheated while playing basketball.
The boy who had smiled at him from inside that incubator the first time he'd met him.
His little brother.
His little Peter.
Dick rubbed both hands over his face and looked back toward the operating room doors.
Then the doors opened.
Dick stood so quickly that the chair behind him nearly fell over.
Bruce immediately raised his head.
Tim set aside the phone he'd been staring at without actually reading anything, while Duke and Stephanie rose from their seats.
Cassandra, who had remained beside him for nearly four hours, also looked up.
Everyone waited.
The doctor slowly removed his mask and looked at the group.
“Peter Grayson-Wayne's family?”
“Yes,” Bruce answered immediately.
Dick didn't even wait for the doctor to come closer.
“How is he?”
The doctor took a deep breath.
“The surgery was successful.”
Dick felt his legs almost give out.
Tim closed his eyes for a moment and released the breath he'd been holding. Stephanie placed a hand against her chest, while Duke lowered his head in relief.
Even Cassandra, who rarely showed her emotions openly, let out a small breath that seemed to have been trapped inside her since Peter entered the operating room.
Bruce simply closed his eyes.
For the first time in four hours, he seemed to allow himself to breathe.
“Is he alive?” Dick asked, needing to hear it directly.
“Yes. Peter is alive.”
Dick covered his face with both hands.
Alive.
That word was enough.
But the doctor wasn't finished yet.
“However, the bullet caused significant damage to his abdomen. It went through the small intestine and caused considerable internal bleeding. We had to remove the section of intestine that was too badly damaged to save.”
Bruce opened his eyes.
“How much did you have to remove?”
“Approximately twenty-five percent of his small intestine.”
Stephanie went pale.
“Twenty-five percent?”
The doctor nodded.
“Yes. Fortunately, we were able to repair the rest and control the bleeding. However, Peter has lost a significant amount of blood, and his body has gone through considerable trauma. The next few hours will be important.”
Tim clenched his hands over his knees.
“But will he recover?”
“We expect him to. The surgery went well, and for now, he is stable.”
Dick finally felt like he could breathe again.
“Can we see him?”
“Not yet. First, we need to move him to intensive care and make sure he remains stable after the surgery. Once we're finished, two of you can go in at a time.”
Dick nodded.
He could wait.
They all could wait.
After all, Peter was far too stubborn to die.