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Dick isn’t even supposed to be here. He should be in Bludhaven, on patrol or relaxing in his little shithole of an apartment – not crouching under a grubby, fast-food restaurant table, face pressed uncomfortably close to Bruce’s, the hard frame of his seat digging into his back. But, then, when has anything in Dick’s life gone the way it’s supposed to?
The only reason he’s here is because of Jason. Because it’s the kid’s birthday, and Jason had asked, and whatever Dick’s feelings towards Bruce at the moment, he couldn’t refuse when the kid had so genuinely seemed to want him there. So, he had spent an awkward evening playing tenpin bowling and watching a movie. And it had been worth it to see the happiness on Jason’s face, even if Bruce had spent the whole night being tense and gruff and obviously unhappy. They had finished it up with chili dogs at some godawful fast food joint that Bruce wouldn’t have been seen dead in if Jason hadn’t begged him. Then they had followed that up with an armed robbery turned hostage situation, because wasn’t that what every thirteen-year-old dreamed of?
Bruce had seen them first, because even as a civilian, he couldn’t turn off his paranoia-induced hyper-vigilance. He had gone stiff and pale – well, stiffer and paler – then he’d growled “Down” and disappeared under the table, dragging Jason with him as he went. Dick had obeyed automatically - because of course he did, even though he hated himself for it - and then they’d all been crowded under the table, bracketed on either side by the low booth benches, pressed right up against the table support and each other. The gunshots had followed less than a few seconds later.
Get under the table. Keep your head down. Do exactly what they say and don’t make any trouble. Don’t try to be a hero. You can’t rely on the police, but if you’re lucky the Bats will turn up and then all you need to do is keep out of the way and make sure you aren’t caught up in the crossfire. Almost everyone in Gotham knows the drill. Hell, Bruce had given Dick his own version of the instructions just weeks after he had taken him in. You never know when you’re going to be caught up in some supervillain scheme, or a hostage situation, or even something as mundane as a robbery gone wrong.
They aren’t going to be lucky tonight – all of the Bats are here, conveniently collected all in the same place, and not a single one of them with their suits. Well, Bruce probably has at least a few gadgets hidden on him right now, but there’s not much he can do with them as Bruce Wayne. Batman isn’t likely to turn up tonight.
The gunshots stutter to a halt. No screams, no crying - so most likely no one’s hurt. Just warning shots then. Dick huffs out a relieved breath, feels Bruce relax almost imperceptibly against him. In the silence that follows, he can hear his father’s low, slow breaths, the shallow pants that Jason is making. Can practically hear their hearts beating.
“Everybody out!” Loud and rough. A thick, Gothamite accent. Nobody moves. “I said everybody get out here right now, before I come ‘round and blow you out.”
Not the word choice Dick would have used, but it spurs the diner into action anyway. Dick moves first, unfolding himself from under the table, but keeping low. Takes a deliberate sweep of the room before dropping his eyes back to the tile again. Three guys. Five guns. An easy fight for Nightwing, but there’s not much chance of Richie Grayson taking them out if he doesn’t want to blow his cover. Jason emerges behind him, followed closely by Bruce, looming protectively over him, even from his knees. The kid is small for his age, but it still strikes Dick exactly how big Bruce is. For some reason, it seems more noticeable in his civilian clothes, even without the bulk of his armour – or perhaps because of it.
“Get over here,” the gunman snarls, gesturing at the circle of open space by the counter with his rifle. “On your knees.”
They aren’t the only ones in the diner: there’s an elderly couple, the man clutching a cane and clearly in pain as he shuffles along on his knees; three teenage girls; a woman and her young son; and the kid from behind the counter, young and awkward and pimply and obviously terrified. Jason’s gaze zeroes in on the little kid as soon as they start shuffling towards the counter, and, honestly, Dick doesn’t know his new little brother as well as he should do, but he recognises the look on Jason’s face. This isn’t good.
Bruce positions himself mostly in front of the two of them, and Dick jostles Jason even further back with his shoulder, pressing him close behind Bruce and shoring up the other side. It’s not a guarantee of Jason’s safety, especially if the kid decides to make trouble, but it eases some of the tight, not-quite panic in Dick’s chest, knowing that he’s not in the direct line of fire. Jason doesn’t seem to appreciate it much, though, if the glare he sends Dick’s way is anything to go by.
“Phones. Money. Jewellery. In the bag.”
One of the girls beside Dick whimpers and Jason tenses. So, does Bruce, huge shoulders shifting. It’s mostly an act, Dick thinks, because Batman might be calm under pressure, but Bruce Wayne isn’t supposed to be.
Masks cover the gunmen’s faces – generic balaclava style – but Dick gets the distinct impression that the guy who steps forward, a canvas bag clutched in one hand, and a gun in the other, is pretty young. There’s a hesitant quality to the way he moves. When he shakes the bag in the elderly couple’s face, he doesn’t speak.
No one else speaks either, as they deposit their valuables into the bag. No one tries to play hero. The tension in the room is almost a physical thing, but Dick thinks they might get away without any injuries. Even the little boy, too young to really understand what’s happening, is silent – you have to learn quickly in Gotham.
Then the gunman circles around to them, and Dick and Bruce both start systematically shedding themselves of their valuables, and the masked man in front of them says: “Holy shit, it’s Bruce Wayne.”
Shit. Bruce hesitates, the hand currently dropping his expensive watch into the bag hovering mid-air. The tension in the room snaps taught. This has just morphed from a simple robbery into something else, and everyone around them knows it.
“What?” One of masked-man’s friends steps forward, gun hefted in his hand, to cast a critical eye over the three of them. “No way. What would Bruce Wayne be doing at this place? He goes to fancy restaurants and shit.”
“I’m telling you, that’s Wayne,” the first guy argues. Definitely young, if his voice is anything to go by. “Those are his kids right: circus kid and the little street rat.”
Another once over, more considering. Bruce’s shoulders shift again. Not an act this time.
“Damn, you’re right. I can’t believe it, Bruce Wayne in a fucking fast food place? We hit the jackpot.” He leans forward and snatches the watch out of Bruce’s slack hand. Shakes it in his face. “Think you could get away with giving us this old shit, huh? Sitting on mountains of cash and that’s all you can spare us?”
“I’ve given you everything I –“
“Shut up,” the guy snaps and Bruce falls silent. It’s difficult to tell whether the little tremor of fear in his voice is real or not. If they were in costume, this wouldn’t even be a workout – Jason could probably take the three of them down without breaking a sweat. But they aren’t in costume and they don’t have any of their gear and no amount of martial arts training is going to stop a bullet – not the way that Kevlar does. And even after all his years as Batman, Dick knows Bruce still has a hang up about guns. Whatever his and Dick’s relationship is like right now, having them pointed at his kids must have Bruce feeling some type of way.
“Bet you could get us some proper money in a heartbeat, huh? Call up your butler, or whatever, and have it transferred?”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. In front of them, the young guy shifts back and forth in a way that has Dick’s skin prickling. Nervous guy holding a gun is never a good combination.
“Are you sure we should-?”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure.” Behind the mask, Dick sees his eyes flicker over both Dick and Jason and Dick’s skin prickles again. “You need some motivation, Wayne? You gonna make me hurt your kids?”
Then he’s reaching for Jason and Bruce shifts, but the gun is right there and –
“No I don’t -“
Fingers close around Jason’s arm.
“Woah, wait –“
He’s yanked off of the floor. Jason grunts in pain.
“I don’t think we should –“
And, like an idiot, Dick reaches for him and –
Bang.
The gunshot is loud enough to set Dick’s ears ringing, reverberating through his skull and pressing against his ears with an almost physical sensation. The man holding Jason’s arm lets go as if he’s been electrocuted and Dick falls back on his ass, clutching Jason protectively against his chest. Nobody screams – not Dick, not Jason, not Bruce, not any of the people clustered around them. In contrast to the ring of the gunshot in Dick’s ears, the rest of the room is deathly silent.
Warmth splashes against Dick’s chest, as if someone’s thrown their coffee over his shirt, or he’s gotten into a shower still dressed.
Jason’s hit. Shit, Jason’s hit.
The world narrows to the kid in Dick’s arms. Jason’s lying half-across Dick’s lap, still and silent, face pressed into his older brother’s shoulder. Dick shifts onto his knees, holding Jason tight against him with one arm, turning his face away with the other so that he can get a better look at him. There’s blood already soaking Dick’s shirt. Dark red slashed across Jason’s arm, splattered over his neck and cheek.
“Jason? Shit, Jason, where were you hit?”
Wide, white eyes blink back up at him. Around them, the room is silent, the air drawn taught and shivering, fragile as glass. A hand presses against the back of Dick’s neck, huge and warm and – Bruce, Dick had almost forgotten he was here. When he looks up, Bruce is very close.
“Let go of him, Dick. It’s OK.”
Only, it’s not OK, because Dick has never seen that sort of fear on Bruce’s face – not without the cowl to cover the worst of it. His face is so white it almost glows, his eyes a dark counterpoint, his mouth a tight black line. Dick almost flinches under the weight of that gaze.
“Holy shit! You shot his kid. You fucking idiot!”
“Nah, it was an accident. It was an accident. I didn’t sign up to shoot nobody.”
“You just did, asshole. I can’t believe this.”
Dick’s ears are still ringing. The voices seem simultaneously too loud, as if they’re being shouted right in his ear, and very far away. The hand on the back of his neck tightens. Beneath him, Jason makes a soft, frightened sound.
Bruce’s other hand lifts to press firmly against Dick’s shoulder and Dick rocks back with the movement, surprised by his body’s acquiescence. Jason struggles against him, but Dick just tightens his grip. Why is Bruce worried about him? It’s Jason that’s hurt. It’s Jason that might be dying.
“Let go of him,” Bruce says, softly, as he lowers Dick to the ground. “We need to put pressure on the wound.”
Right. They need to get Jason into a better position. Need to find where he’s been hit.
“Shut up! Shut up and stop moving.”
Above him, Bruce goes tense. He doesn’t lift his hands from Dick, just goes perfectly still. His mouth twists - anger and fear and, if he was in costume, Dick would be honestly worried for the thugs.
But he’s not in costume. He’s Bruce Wayne.
“Please,” Bruce begs, voice low and tremulous. And it’s difficult to tell how much of it is his rich idiot Brucie Wayne persona, and how much of it is real. “Please let me call him an ambulance. He’ll die if we don’t do anything.”
Die. Jesus, they can’t let Jason die. That can’t happen.
The gun presses hard into the back of Bruce’s head, bows him forward under the pressure. Bruce grunts. Grits his teeth. Keeps his eyes on Dick.
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I’ll give you as much money as you need, just let me help him.”
“Shit...we can’t...shit!”
The gun disappears and Dick can see the way Bruce relaxes – the droop of his shoulders, the flex of his jaw. The hand on his shoulder slides over to Dick’s chest and presses firmly and -
Heat flares through Dick’s chest. Burns like fire through his lungs, his ribs, his throat. It takes him utterly by surprise. Knocks the breath right out of him. It’s as though he can feel the path the bullet took, burning molten lava right through him, setting every nerve and vein and muscle alight. Dick chokes. Feels blood bubbling at the back of his throat. Wants to scream but can’t even drag in a breath.
Oh, oh. It wasn’t Jason that was shot – it was him. Through the shock and the adrenaline, he hadn’t even felt it.
He feels it now.
“It’s OK, Dick,” Bruce murmurs above him, pressing relentlessly against Dick’s chest. Dick writhes, lets go of Jason to press sweat-slick fingers against Bruce’s wrist, trying desperately to push him away. “It’s OK, I’ve got you.”
“B?” Jason’s face swims into Dick’s view - now that he’s released him - pale and scared and still splattered in blood. Dick’s blood. “Is he -?”
“I need you to call an ambulance,” Bruce interrupts. “I need to keep pressure on this.”
“I don’t-“
“No!”
Jason flinches, eyes flickering to the man suddenly looming over them, pressing himself closer against Bruce’s side almost automatically. Bruce shifts his weight but doesn’t take his hands off Dick’s chest. Fear throbs through Dick, a strange, cold undercurrent to the fiery pain.
“No one is calling anyone, OK? Not until we have our money.”
“I can’t get you the money without calling someone,” Bruce grits out, in a poor approximation of calm. “And my son needs an ambulance right now. Not once the transaction has gone through.”
At least, that’s what Dick thinks he says. The world seems to swim around him, people’s voices oddly distorted, filtering in and out of focus. Dick’s vision is strangely blurry. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s breathing too shallowly, chest constricted beneath an iron band of pain. His head feels too light. Someone touches his cheek, too soft to be Bruce, too small, and besides, Bruce is still pressing relentlessly against Dick’s chest.
“Hey Dickface, don’t pass out on us now.”
Maybe it’s not just the fear that’s cold. Maybe it’s his whole body, because Jason’s hand feels too hot against his face. Dick shivers. Doesn’t have the energy to protest the stupid nickname. He’s too heavy, too tired, too out-of-his-head.
Above him Jason frowns, then he pats his cheek, hard enough that Dick winces. “I said don’t-“
Heavy footsteps. The flash of a gun. Another flinch, cutting off whatever Jason was going to say. Dick wants to reach for his brother. Wants to pull him close and protect him, but his arms are too heavy to lift, and his chest screams at just the thought, burning like a wildfire through his throat. He whimpers.
Bruce leans over them both, shifting, forcing Jason close against Dick’s chest, and Jason lets him, his face pinched and too pale. Small hands press against the mess of blood coating Dick’s front, sliding through the slick liquid pooling on his chest. Then there’s more pressure, more pain. Dick chokes.
“I’ll get you the money,” Bruce is saying, somewhere far away. His hands waver across Dick’s vision - hands up or I’ll shoot - dripping red, like too-bright birds. But his eyes are fixed on Dick. He can see them behind Jason’s head, laser-sharp. Dick shivers again. He’s so cold his teeth are chattering.
“Stay with me,” Jason murmurs, closer and more real than Bruce, and Dick blinks, struggles to focus his vision.
“’M tired,” he tries to say, but he’s not sure if the words actually come out. His tongue is a dead thing in his mouth. Jason’s face seems very far away, floating like the moon somewhere above him.
“I know,” Jason says. “But you have to –“
Only, Dick never finds out what he has to do, because his eyelids are too heavy to keep open any longer, the fog in his head too thick, and Dick slips into the black without any resistance at all.
***
Dick comes back to consciousness as if he’s swimming through treacle. Everything seems slow and sticky. Strange lights waver above him, oddly distorted and too bright. He blinks, tries to turn his head away, but his body doesn’t seem to want to respond to his commands.
“Dick?” The voice is soft, but loud enough for Dick to make sense of it, even through the strange fog in his head, and the steady, rhythmic beeping somewhere beside him. Dick recognises it, in a distant sort of way. “Hey, chum, are you awake?”
Yes. Dick is awake. He thinks. There’s a pleasant heaviness to his body, a warm current through his veins, dragging heavy on his eyelids. But he blinks again and his vision clears a little, and Bruce Wayne’s face materialises above him.
“B?” he manages and, Jesus, his throat is dry. He chokes. For a moment, he can’t breathe, throat contracting painfully around nothing, rough and cracked, as if he’s been swallowing sand.
“Careful,” Bruce murmurs, and a hand presses lightly against his shoulder. For one bright moment, Dick expects pain. But there’s no flash of fire in his chest, just a heady numbness. “Jay, will you get some ice chips for him, lad?” Then, to Dick: “Your throat dry?”
Dick tries a nod. Mostly, his head just lolls, loose, against his pillow. He’s not entirely sure what’s happening – Bruce is here, and Jason, apparently, but he doesn’t know where here is. Maybe the cave? Did Dick get injured on a mission? It wouldn’t be unusual, but, then, he should be in Bludhaven, in his safe house – not at the manor with Bruce. Beside him, the beeping speeds. A rapid, throbbing, pulse.
“Hey, it’s OK. Do you remember what happened?”
Does he? Dick strains, fighting through the fog, struggling against himself. He was – Jason – that’s why he’s in Gotham. It’s Jason’s birthday. They were on patrol – no. That’s not right. There were…chili dogs…a fast food restaurant. A robbery. Guns.
Jason was shot.
Ice pours down Dick’s spine. His chest throbs, heart ricocheting against his ribs.
No. That’s not right either.
“We were at a fast food place.” God, his voice sounds bad. “Somebody - somebody tried to rob it and they shot...oh, they shot me.”
Right. It was Dick that was shot, not Jason.
As if thinking it is some sort of permission, pain throbs through Dick’s chest. Maybe it’s psychological - because he must be hopped up on an absolute shit-load of drugs right now - but that doesn’t stop Dick gritting his teeth against the burn. Doesn’t stop his hand flailing out, looking for purchase on something other than the pain, or maybe just trying to release some of the energy rushing through his veins.
A hand catches his. Dry and warm, enveloping Dick’s fingers easily. Another hand presses through his hair and Dick can’t help turning his face to it.
“It’s OK, you’re OK.”
He doesn’t think he is, but he’s not going to fight Bruce on it.
“Hey - Oh, sorry. I got the ice.”
There are light footsteps, then Jason is beside the bed, clutching a cup of ice chips in one hand, looking unusually awkward.
“Thanks, Jaylad,” Bruce says softly. Softer than Dick has heard him for a long time, and Jason doesn’t bristle the way he half-expects him to. Then he takes the cup from Jason and spoons a chip carefully into Dick’s mouth.
It’s heaven - melting slowly in the desert of Dick’s mouth, trickling down his sore throat. Dick grips Bruce’s wrist and Bruce chuckles and indulgently spoons another one out of the cup.
When his mouth is wet enough, he manages: “Where am I? What happened?” And it comes out as actual words.
Bruce’s face tightens. “You’re at the hospital. You were shot in the chest.” A pause. “You’re very lucky to be alive.”
Beside him, Jason makes a small, unhappy sound.
“Everything OK, Jay?” Dick asks – or wants to. What comes out is more like “K?” on a long exhale of breath. It takes too much energy to form proper words. Jason’s face gets impossibly tighter.
Jason shrugs and his face is tight and unhappy. There’s tension in the set of his shoulders, his tightly crossed arms. “No.”
OK, that’s…surprising. Not surprising that he’s not OK, perhaps - because being caught up in a situation like that is tough on anyone, let alone a kid - but surprising that he would admit it. Dick flicks a glance at Bruce, and it’s difficult to read his father’s face, but there’s a little furrow between his brows that Dick is more used to seeing directed at him.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Jason continues, and his voice is tight with anger.
A long beat of silence. Dick isn’t entirely sure what Jason is talking about – done what? Gotten shot? Asked him if he was OK? Eaten the ice chip? He feels too slow and tired to figure it out. Already, he can feel the drugs and the pain tugging him back towards sleep.
On the other side of the bed, Bruce is a statue, cool and unmoving, his face still blank besides the little wrinkle of concern. Or maybe confusion? Either way, he offers no help.
“Done what?” Dick asks, and manages to squeeze it through the tight ache of his chest.
“You shouldn’t have –“ Jason’s face crumples and Dick is shocked to see the shine of tears in his eyes, welling against his lashes and spilling over his cheeks. It feels a little like Dick’s been punched, the shock an almost physical blow. Jason turns away, scrubbing a hand angrily over his face. “You nearly died, Dickface.”
That was not what Dick was expecting. None of this is. Dick feels strangely adrift.
“Jason,” Bruce starts, voice a low rumble, and Jason spins away from him too, landing heavily against the bed, but avoiding Dick’s injuries in a way that suggests intent behind the motion.
“You don’t need to protect me. I can handle myself. You don’t have to.” His voice is rough, angry, but there’s something else there – a fragile waver that makes Dick’s chest hurt. Dick drags his arm up, against the heavy pull of gravity, and rests it against Jason’s curls, resting close beside him.
“OK,” he says and his eyes meet Bruce’s over Jason’s head. “OK.”
But he does.