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Dick slowly opens his eyes, met by a pale light illuminating what he believes is a warehouse of some kind– he has absolutely no memory of how nor why he got there, but that’s something he prefers not to focus on, not when his head is throbbing at the simple attempt at making some sense of his surroundings.
He sighs, shaky.
“Okay, okay.” Dick murmurs to himself, determined to make it out of– wherever he is.
Awkwardly enough, though, it takes a moment for him to realise that he’s actually– standing, somehow.
And even more awkward is how long it takes him to realise that he doesn’t seem able to move his arms. Masked eyes glance up, and panic seizes his chest as he realises his wrists are tightly bound above his head, ropes sinking painfully into the bare skin, and– wait.
My uniform’s gone.
He swallows the thick lump in his throat. Whoever got him– they left his mask, and took everything else, leaving him in a crumpled undershirt, boxers and– his socks?
Small mercies.
Still, the realisation that, at some point, someone had stripped him bare and stolen his gear– that sends a burst of adrenaline cursing through his veins.
Dick also realises that his chest hurts.
He’s no stranger to positional asphyxiation, and yet, despite having learnt everything on it with Bruce, who’d always been very, very adamant on teaching all of them more-than-basic medical training, Dick can’t help as his stomach twists. Still, he now knows that it’s highly probable that his lightheadedness isn’t the result of him being drugged, or so he hopes– it’s just the compression that’s cutting the blood flow and oxygenation to the brain.
It’s not ideal, and it hurts– but Dick feels somewhat relieved that, somehow, his wrists hurt more. Lifting his head is agony, but through the fringe he can see that the skin on his wrists is jagged, bleeding. It burns.
He’s not sure how long it passes before a voice calling him name almost makes him jump out of his skin in panic.
“Nightwing,” Bruce rumbles in the comm, “status report.”
“M’okay,” he wheezes, and sure, he’s aware he doesn’t sound convincing, “dislocated left shoulder, bruised cor-coracohumeral ligament, possible t-tear to the– the rotator cuff, I think. R-rope burns, too.” he notes, “A-and, positional asphyxiation. M’hanging like a– like a big salami.”
Someone snorts.
“Maybe start with that, next time?” Tim chuckles, nervous.
“ETA six minutes. Can you make it until then?” adds Bruce, voice almost drowned out by the revving of the Batmonbile’s engine, “An ambulance can get there faster if–”
“M’fine.” Dick cuts, breath shallow, “No amb’lance. I can w-wait.”
Bruce grunts. Dick doesn’t hear much after that.
The pain in his chest has begun to intensify sometime around Tim’s snarky remark. He momentarily lets his eyelids droop, only for his eyes to snap open an undetermined amount of time later, which is terrifying.
Dick’s gaze frantically darts around the room, beads of cold sweat dripping steadily from his clammy forehead, thoughts spiralling.
“...wing, Nightwing? You still there?”
Dick nods, he’s not sure why. “Hn.”
“Good,” Tim’s voice hums in the comm, “B and I are almost there, two more minutes tops. I’m tracking the comm signal right now. Is there anyone else in the room?”
“N-no, I– ‘s just me.”
“Okay, just hang on, ‘Wing.”
He lets his eyes drift shut. His wrists throb, and Dick tries hard not to focus on the slick blood trailing down his arm, pooling in the crook of his tense elbow and staining his beige undershirt. The tang of copper makes him wrinkle his nose, head spinning.
Time begins to morph, and Dick’s every breath becomes shallower and more laboured.
“...wing,” there’s a small hand cupping his cheek, “Nightwing, hey.”
He cracks an eye open. “Rob’n?”
A faint smile. “Yeah, sorry we’re late.”
We.
“Br’ss?”
“Names.” Bruce calls, softer than intended.
And only then does Dick realise that his father’s crouching on the floor, guiding Dick’s bottom to lay on his shoulders– it reminds Dick of when Bruce would let him straddle on his shoulders, back when he weighed no more than seventy pounds.
“I’m going to stand slightly, remember to breathe.” he tells Dick, then, “Robin?”
“On it.” Tim is quick to ready the shears.
Bruce nods. And so he hefts his son on his shoulders.
Dick’s world tilts. He can physically feel his organs shift and twirl, bile tickling at the back of his throat when his head drops and his vision whitens. He’s sitting down now, against someone’s broad chest, while someone else undoes the binds around his mangled wrists.
There’s a hiss coming from the latter’s mouth, followed by generic words of reassurance that he’s too out of it to grasp, and then something cold’s being poured on Dick’s wrists.
And– it burns.
It fucking burns.
Dick thrashes, trying to snatch his wrists away from the offending liquid, but strong hands keep him still, and another pair of hands grips tightly just below his elbows, avoiding the bruised and bleeding skin.
“...kay, you’re okay.” Bruce calls, voice as if coming through thick syrup. “Deep breaths, Nightwing, deep breaths.”
Dick tries, he does.
He registers that he’s being cradled in someone’s arms– Bruce’s, no doubt. A yelp escapes his lips, vertigo clawing at his senses. And then, he knows no more.
Not for long, he actually thinks he’s out for a little under ten minutes, because he comes to the low hum of the Batmobile, head cradled in Tim’s lap, the youngest’s hand carding through his sweaty hair. There’s a thin shock blanket wrapped around his frame– he’s shaking slightly, he didn’t notice before.
Something tight envelops his wrists, the sterile cloth looped around the thumbs, from the base of the palms to the elbows.
“...skin grafts? I don’t think that’s…”
“...showing signs of infection…”
More rumbling, more being cradled, more being moved. Dick doesn’t really tune in, he just– sorts of drifts, letting people prod at him. He’s gently eased on a cot.
“...ster Dick?”
“A-Alfie?”
The man smiles, gentle, sitting on a stool next to the bed, a sterile tray on the cot next to Dick’s thigh. “How are you feeling?”
“M’fine.” he hints a small grin, sheepish, tired.
“I’m afraid I cannot take your word for it, now.” the man comments, latex gloves snapping around his wrists, “But I shall reassure you that you are, eventually, going to be alright, my boy.”
“Ch-chest?” Dick asks, eyes closed. “L-lungs? Are they– are they d-damaged?”
“No, thank goodness.” Alfred shakes his head, calm, “With forty-eight hours of total bedrest and proper medication, the pain in your chest shall go away. It’s your wrists I am most worried about.”
He winces, shoulders tense.
“Are you in pain, my boy?”
“I–” Dick nods, faint, “everything h’rts.”
Dick’s eyelids flutter open, gaze trailing down to his wrists. The skin is jagged, littered in angry, purple bruises. Alfred fiddles with his IV, and soon, a sense of unsettling warmth courses through Dick’s throbbing veins.
“Would you like me to hook you up to some oxygen, Master Dick?” Alfred asks, voice sweet, “It should help with the headache I’m sure you have now.”
“N-no,” and Dick’s probably too quick with that, “makes m’head spin.”
The man hesitates, then nods, somber. “Local anaesthetic?”
A shake of the head. “What’d you gi’ me b’fore?”
“A mild sedative and antibiotics, to help you relax and sleep. As I said, bedrest is mandatory in your case, and as I’m sure you know well by now, recuperating while unconscious is easier, both on the body and on the mind.”
“O-okay. No shot, then.”
“If you do change your mind, just say the word, son. Now, Dr Thompkins will come visit you in the morning, and she shall decide what to do. Master Bruce doesn’t think that skin grafts will be necessary, and I’m inclined to agree, but we’d rather let a professional check you over before crying victory. Your shoulder, too, is not too damaged and should not require surgery.” the eldest explains, voice level, tweezers in hands. “May I?”
“Just– do it quick, pl’se.”
Alfred nods, and immediately starts removing the rope threads embedded in Dick’s torn flesh. Dick wimpers, head lolling to the other side.
Alfred stills immediately, eyebrows furrowed. “Master Dick?”
“Hn.”
“I insist you let me administer local anaesthetic. I’m not even halfway done through the first wrist.”
Another shake of the head. “M’good, go.”
The eldest doesn’t move immediately, but after a few moments, when Dick’s breaths even out, he starts again. The whole task is slow, as Alfred painstakingly removes all the residues that could potentially worsen the infection.
It takes approximately fifteen minutes, fifteen long minutes that Dick spends whimpering and trembling, forehead damp, eyes wet. After that, Alfred swiftly disinfects the wound and blisters, applying bruise ointment wherever the skin isn’t cut– it’s wishful thinking, really, believing that the ointment will do any good, but Dick appreciates the thought.
Dick’s halfway passed out by the time Alfred wraps the wrists again, and only vaguely aware of Tim now perched at the edge of the bed, tablet in hand, eyes barely glancing up at Dick and hinting a smile when the eldest blinks.
He lets himself drift.