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“Robin. Status report.”
For godssake, B, Dick wants to snap, it’s just the two of us working this job. You don’t have to talk to me like I’m your soldier. The words crowd against his teeth, pushed there by a now-familiar swell of resentment in his chest. Instead, what comes out is: “Everyone’s been rounded up and handed over to the cops on my side. I’ve passed on the coordinates and date of the next big meeting with their boss.”
There’s a brief pause on the other side of the communicator. “Next meeting?” Bruce says, with the same sort of delicate scepticism that he might employ when Dick’s reaching for his third slice of butter sponge cake at the dinner table.
Dick grits his teeth. “Maroni got away this time,” he admits.
“I see.” There’s a snap and a click, and the distinct low hum of the Batmobile powering up. “I expect a full report at the Cave this morning.”
“I’m—” Dick shifts, swallows a gasp.
“… do you need me to pick you up?”
Dick looks down at the blade stuck in his gut and the blood seeping through between the armour plates of his costume, and thinks about it. He definitely needs medical attention but the thought of going back to the Cave, to sit there alone at the centre of its yawning blackness to convalesce, stewing in the ways he had failed—well. Dick can’t even stand the thought of it.
“I’m good,” he says. “Catch up with you soon.” With that, he turns off his communicator before Bruce can reply.
It’s like a string that’s been holding him upright has been cut. He slumps back against the grimy alley wall, breath stuttering with every inhale. The mesh of his uniform and the armour plates are doing a good job in securing the blade and to prevent, well, torrential bleeding, but that’s not going to hold if he starts moving. But if he doesn’t move and get some goddamned help, he’s going to bleed out anyway. He’s fucked unless he can get help to come to him, which—
which—
(we’re over, dick.)
No. No. This is fine. Things could’ve been worse—he could’ve been shot, which could’ve caused a perforating injury instead of merely a penetrating one, more tissue damage, and a greater chance of infection. Given the angle and position of the blade, it likely didn’t hit his liver or his pancreas, which means fewer chances of imminent death-by-exsanguination or auto-digestion. That the knife was able to penetrate him at all through the miniscule gaps in his armour must mean the blade is very fine and thin, so if he can just keep it in place long enough for him to seek help, he might be able to prevent the one complication with the power to kill him: infection.
So, you know. Bar a contrast-CT scan or two, Dick is very optimistic about his chances. He might as well get a headstart on writing that report for Bruce in his head:
In my first mission after losing a close friend and losing my team, I managed to lose a straightforward fight, lose the crime boss I could’ve normally captured in my sleep, and I’m probably going to lose a little bit of my intestine and shit in a bag for a little bit. Just an all-round loser losing things.
Very punchy, off-puttingly whiny, and utterly unprofessional. Bruce would absolutely hate it, but at least it would be something other than the vaguely disapproving looks he’s been giving Dick ever since he crawled back to Gotham like a pathetic thing.
Taking as deep a breath as he dares and securing the blade in his abdomen with one hand, he grabs the lip of a nearby dumpster with the other and begins to pull himself upright. Every inch of movement is like being stabbed all over again—an icy, electric pain that shoots up into his chest and squeezes his lungs. The pain makes his breathing progressively fast and shallow, which just worsens the pain, and by the time he’s able to extricate his mind out of that vicious cycle he’s sprawled on the ground again and the knife in his gut is smearing his blood on concrete approximately a foot away from him.
Well, fuck.
Dick thinks briefly, giddily, about putting the knife back in to plug the hole in his gut, wastes a few more precious moments berating himself for even thinking that, then removes his communicator from his belt. His fingers leave bloody, webbed smears all over the keypad and the screen wavers in and out of focus; he squints and pants and steadily scrolls past his long list of contacts.
To call any of the Lanterns or Superman would mean the Justice League would know about this, and that would mean Bruce would know about this. The Titans… well, clearly they’re out of the picture. (Donna would probably come and help him if he asks but the thought of facing her after letting her down so spectacularly feels like someone’s flaying the inside of his chest.) Roy can’t possibly make it on time.
That only really leaves Wally. He’s another bridge Dick’s managed to burn, but maybe—just maybe—
This number has been deactivated.
Oh, Dick thinks. His mouth feels dry and slimy, and blood trickles steadily around his now-slack fingers covering his wound. I didn’t know that. He can’t remember the last time he actually called Wally (or Wally called him), when he last remembered to properly sync his communicator with the Batcave and JL servers, can’t remember the last time he remembered to do things other than breathe through the ball of guilt and stress that had taken residence in his chest and smile and fight and eat and wake up the next morning to do it all over again.
Dick presses his forehead to the crook of his elbow, takes a shaky breath, feeling suddenly, soulcrushingly alone.
Minutes pass like hours, and more of Dick seeps out over Gotham pavement, his blood black in the moonlight. His heart is pounding in his chest, his head is gripped in a vise of pain, and he barely has the energy to keep pressure on the hole in his gut. Nausea crashes into him in waves, and at some point, he does throw up bloody bile, his throat burning, his guts feeling like they’re being stirred with a white-hot poker.
He still doesn’t call Bruce.
It’s… it’s probably not a terrible idea to fade away right here. He’s fucked up so much, much more than he’d ever realised, fucked up in ways that seem irreversible, and if his punishment for that is to die, alone and cold, in a dirty Gotham alleyway, then so be it.
so you’re going to roll over and give up. i thought i taught you better than that.
The familiar voice drags a chuckle from Dick. His eyes are open to slits at this point and what he can see is blurry, but he can just about make out Bruce, dressed impeccably in a suit, bending and peering at Dick like he’s a particularly interesting piece of roadkill. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” Dick rasps.
you summon me for a personal crisis at least every other month. Bruce grins sharply. i wouldn’t have wanted to miss this doozy, would i?
“Nothin’ much you can do,” Dick slurs.
that’s true, Bruce agrees. but i wouldn’t be here if some long-suffering survival instinct in that brain of yours isn’t throwing a hail mary so that you don’t kill yourself.
“You’ve never been the reason I’ve tried to stay alive,” Dick says.
oh, good, Bruce says. then what’s the reason? the glorified friends’ club you called a team? the memories of all the people you’ve gotten killed? or maybe the so-called friends who are still alive, when you can’t even bring yourself to even bother to keep in touch with them?
“I—” Dick blinks, long and slow. When he opens his eyes, Bruce is gone. “I don’t know,” he says.
He blinks again, and when he opens his eyes this time, it’s daylight, he’s lying on something warm and soft, and the pain in his gut isn’t nearly as sharp. He can hear a faint, steady beeping. He stares at the ceiling for a long moment before looking to his side and meeting Bruce’s steady gaze.
“You’re in Gotham General,” Bruce says. “It’s been two days since I found you, nearly dead, just off the docks. It’s really unfortunate,” he picks delicately at his sleeve cuff, “that you were mugged like that.”
Location, time, cover story—Bruce is nothing if not efficient and to-the-point. Usually Dick strives to match that discipline with his own, but his thoughts are too scattered, his chest too hollow, to really try. He just grunts in response.
Bruce frowns and leans forward. “You were bleeding out for hours and you didn’t try to call anybody for help—in fact, you lied to me about being injured at all. This is beyond being irresponsible, Dick—this is outright reckless.” He pauses. “I thought I taught you better than that.”
Dick thinks he knows the response to this. It’s not usually difficult to get out, even when he’s injured like this. But there’s something devastating about going to sleep thinking you’ve lost everything you’ve ever had to lose, and waking up to find that you were wrong about that last part.
i thought i taught you better than that.
Dick’s eyes burn, and tears drip steadily into his hair.
Bruce looks stricken, just for a moment—he reaches out, touches Dick’s hair—says, “Dickie,” like Dick’s twelve years old again and desperately, shatteringly alone and Bruce is still visibly trying—
He gets up, a little abruptly. When he speaks, it isn’t with the Batman growl, but with the mildest quaver, something that goes well with his rapidly-greying hair and deep lines bracketing his eyes. “I’ll go fetch Alfred—I’ll let him know you’re awake.” With that, he leaves the room.
Dick closes his eyes.