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Dick was huddled under two blankets, head resting on the plush arm of the couch, his eyes closed to help keep his light aversion and resulting headache at bay. There was a fire crackling in the hearth nearby and Alfred had checked in earlier with soft words, appropriate pain medication, and a steaming mug of hot cocoa. He wasn’t sure any of it was helping all that much but for the first time in four hours he was mostly comfortable and relaxed and he’d take the small, but significant, win. The thugs he’d been helping Batman and Robin with last night had gotten a single lucky shot at him, but it had been enough. The hit had resulted in a minor concussion with limited symptoms and an unexpected swim in Gotham’s harbor and, as a result, Bruce had ordered him to take it easy for at least the next three days.
Not that Dick was complaining. His symptoms—a persistent headache, dizziness with too much movement, sensitivity to light and noise, fatigue—minor as they may be compared to other concussions he’d dealt with, were annoying enough to persuade him that maybe he could relax this time instead of pushing through it. And he still felt an involuntary chill shudder through his body from time to time, thanks to his time engulfed in a harbor nearly frozen over, but the hot cocoa had helped somewhat. He had a sneaking suspicion that Bruce was using his injury as an excuse to keep him at Wayne Manor for a few extra days, a suspicion all but confirmed as fact by the boy sitting on the couch with him. Last time he’d dared to open his eyes, Damian was reading a book and seemed deeply interested in the pages, but Dick was sure he was also keeping a watchful eye over him in case any of his symptoms worsened.
He didn’t mind. In fact, he appreciated the company. It was a nice change of pace to have someone nearby while he was feeling miserable. Usually, he had to tend to any resulting injuries from his evening escapades as Nightwing unaided and alone. He shifted, a little restless and also trying to ease the growing ache in his muscles from being still for too long, wincing as the small cut and corresponding bruise on the back of his head brushed against the fabric of the couch. The dull ache behind his eyes expanded to a pulsing pain in a matter of seconds. So much for being comfortable, he thought.
“Grayson?” a hushed but worried voice said from the other end of the couch.
Dick opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly, peering at the figure sitting at his feet. “‘M okay, Damian. Just…moved the wrong way.”
The boy narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t Father and Pennyworth both tell you not to move? Perhaps you have a more significant injury than we thought, if you aren’t remembering things well.”
Dick smiled. “I’m fine. Promise.”
“Is that so? This is the third time we’ve had this conversation in the last hour.”
He frowned. There was no way…that couldn’t be right. He’d had a concussion once that affected his short term memory, and the symptoms had been much worse than what he was experiencing now. Dick narrowed his eyes. “You’re joking.”
Damian smirked. “Of course.”
He sighed and laughed softly as he lowered his head back down, careful to avoid the injured area this time. “Very funny.”
“And you think I don’t understand humor.”
The corner of his mouth tipped upward in a grin. “You’re learning.”
“Mmm,” Damian hummed. “Are you any warmer than you were earlier?”
The smile fell from Dick’s features as he answered softly, “A little. The hot cocoa helped a bit.”
“I knew it would,” the boy’s voice was full of pride, as though he’d suggested the drink for Alfred to prepare in the first place. Maybe he had. Dick hadn’t exactly been paying close attention to his surroundings for the first hour or so after they’d returned to the mansion. He’d been preoccupied with warming up and getting the Batcave to stop spinning quite so much. “It may be a juvenile drink, but I’ve discovered it helps in situations such as this.”
Dick’s smile was back. “It certainly does.” He was about to say something else when one of the bookshelves in the room swung outward on soundless hinges and Bruce stepped from behind it in his normal clothes: a pair of silk pajamas, complete with a matching house robe and slippers. Appropriate attire, as it was nearing seven in the morning according to the grandfather clock in the corner and more normal people would be getting out of bed and preparing for the day ahead by now.
Bruce took in the room and almost immediately frowned. “How are you feeling, chum? Wouldn’t your bed be more comfortable?”
Dick smiled at the old nickname, even if the word itself was antiquated and belied both Bruce’s age and upbringing. It always comforted him when Bruce used it, and he relaxed a little more with him in the room. “I’m okay, B. And it probably would, but…there’s a fireplace in here.”
“Grayson is still cold,” Damian supplied helpfully.
Bruce nodded and reached down to add another log to the fire, stoking it as the flames leapt a little higher and new warmth spread through the room. He stepped back and glanced at the empty mug resting on the floor next to Dick. “I take it Alfred made hot cocoa?”
“It was much appreciated,” Dick said, letting his eyes slip closed against the renewed brightness of the fire. He felt Bruce step nearer and heard the faint sound of the ceramic mug scraping against the floor as it was lifted.
“I’ll ask him to make more, then,” Bruce laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, and if he noticed Dick leaning into the touch ever so slightly, he didn’t say anything. “Get some rest.” The hand left, and Bruce’s slippered feet padded from the room. Soon enough, the only noise in the room came from the popping of the fire.
It was a soothing sound, and Dick found himself getting quickly lulled into a state between waking and sleeping. He really was exhausted…typically he would try to stay awake longer after a concussive blow to the head, just in case, but even Bruce had told him to rest, and if he thought it was okay then it must be. He was about to let himself slip into a deeper sleep when a soft voice broke the silence.
“Richard.”
He was instantly alert, all thoughts of rest vanishing. It took some effort, his body not quite able to keep up with his wishes, but he pried his eyes open and looked toward the boy who was staring into the fire. “Damian?” he mumbled, sleep clinging to him stubbornly despite his racing mind. Damian rarely used his first name; any occasion in which he did was cause for concern because it usually meant something bad had happened or was about to happen. He immediately ran a practiced eye over Damian, searching for sign of injury. With all the focus on Dick, there was every possibility the younger Robin had hidden something from them in favor of getting him help. “Are you okay?”
Damian turned to look Dick in the eye, his gaze unreadable as he said, “Only because you took the hit meant for me.”
He stared back at the boy for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He’d hoped Damian hadn’t noticed it while they were fighting. Batman had been busy with several guys, Robin had been dealing with two, and Nightwing had just taken care of the one he’d been fighting when he’d seen another thug come from the shadows and rush toward Robin’s undefended back. Naturally, he’d stepped in. But not quick enough. Only quick enough to take the hit and spare Robin, but not to spare himself. He hadn’t managed to get his escrima sticks up in time, but at least he’d taken the guy over the harbor wall with him when he fell into the icy water.
“You noticed?” Dick asked.
“I notice everything,” Damian said. “Why did you step in? I could have handled it.”
“I know,” he said. “But you would have gotten hurt in the process. I didn’t want that to happen.”
“So you willingly let yourself get injured instead?” Damian seemed angry. “Why?” he asked again.
Dick smiled softly, knowing exactly how to dispel the boy’s anger and make the issue disappear. “You’d do the same for me.”
Damian grunted softly and turned his head, resuming his glare into the fire, arms crossed. Knowing he’d won the argument, Dick watched him for a moment before closing his eyes again. He breathed deeply and evenly to try to calm his racing heart, and eventually it began to work. He’d been so sure something was wrong. Trust Damian to be angry over someone saving him from harm; though, if Dick were honest with himself, he’d been much the same when he was Robin. He remembered feeling annoyed and even a little ashamed when Bruce would have to save him, and he’d always felt guilty when Bruce was injured because of it. It wasn’t too hard to guess something similar went through Damian’s mind whenever it happened to him. Dick understood, probably better than he realized.
With the continued silence and the soft hissing of the fire in the hearth, Dick’s body began to relax again, the tension leaving him little by little. His head still ached, and he wasn’t much warmer than he’d been before, but he was content. He eventually slipped back into a hazy state between consciousness and sleep, where something could tip him easily in either direction, when that soft voice spoke again.
“Grayson.”
He didn’t have the energy to pull himself completely out of his daze this time, so all he managed was a short, “Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
“Always, Damian,” Dick said, his voice a soft whisper. He’d always protect him, no matter what. And there would never be a need to thank him. It’s just what they did for each other, Batman and his Robins. They looked out for each other.
“Go to sleep, Grayson.”
That sounded like a decent idea. Dick hummed in response, and a few moments later he fell asleep to the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of turning pages. He knew instinctively that when he awoke later, Damian would still be there, watching over him. The thought comforted him.