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Published:
2025-03-21
Updated:
2025-09-12
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3,022
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3/?
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Someone Smaller

Summary:

Blood tests are normal. If you twist it enough, so is Dick lying on a medical cot, staring up at fluorescent lights while Bruce comforts him. This is all normal, an ordinary patrol aftermath.

It doesn’t feel normal.

Notes:

Full disclosure- this might not ever get finished. I’m working on the second chapter but it’s not going well and idk when it’ll be out. The good news is this can kind of be read as a standalone?

Anyway. This is a rather large departure from my usual stuff but I was craving some syrupy hurt/comfort and couldn’t find anything that scratched the itch.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Batman finds Robin, eventually.

Dick is slumped on the ground, barely aware. The concrete pressed to his thighs hurts, vaguely. The stars above him are blurred by the rain streaming down his lenses.

“Robin.” Is the first thing Bruce says, and something carved into Dick stirs at the word, the result of years of training and conditioning. He dimly processes that as the lecturing-slash-yelling voice, the one that means you’ve really put your foot in it now.

He doesn’t care.

“Robin.” Comes again, this time unsure. “Have you been compromised?”

That’s a question.

Dick should…

“Robin.” Again, this time scared. There’s someone crouched in front of him, and he- he should- he kicks his leg out, right at the figure, trying to scramble away. The person reels back with a surprised noise even as pain shoots up Dick’s spine. There’s a grunted exclamation, and panic thrums through his ribs because no, no more, not again-

“It’s Batman.” Comes B’s voice, silhouette shifting slowly. “Dick, it’s only me.”

Batman.

Batman found him.

He can’t make himself move, but soon enough there’s B’s arms around him, pressing Dick to his much larger chest. The armor cuts against his cheek, uncomfortable but something tangible. Something solid.

“Oh, Chum, I’m so sorry.” Bruce whispers, cradling Dick’s head to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

There’s an ache in Dick’s ribs at the words.

There’s an ache in-

In between his-

***

When Dick grays back in, it’s to Bruce’s voice, quiet and sad-sounding. The lights of the city rush by, blurring in the rain droplets clinging to the window. His forehead is rested against the glass. It’s cold.

He’s cold.

Slowly, far too slowly, Batman would be unimpressed, he starts the process of taking stock of himself. He’s in the Batmobile- the buttons and knobs on the dash glow softly. He can’t feel the leather of the seat, because he’s wrapped in something heavy and smooth, like a fabric.

Someone is holding his limp hand over the centre console, thumb running slowly up and down the back of it. Bruce, he thinks dimly. Bruce is holding my hand. Bruce is holding his hand to comfort him, because-

Because-

Something in his hips aches, deep inside of him. Any shifting spikes the pain, aggravating the injury. His mind starts flicking through potential injuries even though he knows what caused this, he knows what this is-

Bruce seems to notice his distress, and his voice shifts into soft hushing, eyes briefly glancing over to him before reverting to the road. “Hey, hey, Chum. It’s okay, you’re going to be okay. We’re taking you home.” He squeezes Dick’s hand in comfort. “We’re almost there.”

“Mkay…” He mumbles, but his jaw isn’t working right, bleary and uncooperative as he tries to move it. Almost there. The Batcave. The Batcave sounds nice right now. He has sweats there, and hoodies, and right now he feels so cold and exposed even with the fabric draped around him. There’s wetness pooled under him, and he knows it must be blood, red and harsh.

Robin doesn’t cry. Not for years now.

***

When they pull in, Dick manages to uncoordinatedly pull himself out of the Batmobile, but is then immediately foiled by the sharp pain in between his legs, and he finds himself leaning on the side of the car. Bruce rushes over to his side, cooing at him as his hands stop a few inches from his ribs, clearly intending to catch him.

“Bruce...” He mumbles, voice weak.

“I’m here, Dick.” He answers, sounding mournful. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”

But- no. It’s not okay. It’s not okay, because Robin was overpowered and pinned down and he’s cold and, and,

“Sh, shh.” Bruce mutters, pulling him to stand up, hands staying planted on his ribs. “Don’t worry. It’s over. We- we can get you clean and dry whenever you’re ready.”

“Bruce.” He whimpers, hands grasping at the older man’s shoulders.

“I know, Dick.” He answers.  “I know.”

He’s soaking wet. He’s shivering. He’s exhausted, a dull, bone deep pain that he hasn’t felt in years, that makes him want to stop existing to get away. He wants out, wants his insides to stop feeling like they’ve been sliced open and twisted around, uncomfortably aware of his own misery.

“It’s over, Chum.” No, it’s not.

***

Dick is rewarded with clean sweats and a worn hoodie for struggling through a shower.

His body is a mess, skin peppered with bruises and cuts- and that leotard is ruined.

It happens all the time, he rationalizes to himself. They’re not especially solid, they get torn and stained and burned weekly. A leotard is nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.

Blood tests are normal. If you twist it enough, so is Dick lying on a medical cot, staring up at fluorescent lights while Bruce comforts him. This is all normal, an ordinary patrol aftermath.

It doesn’t feel normal. Dick doubts it’ll ever feel normal again, when he has this sharp pain in his hips. How long will that take to heal? He’s never had an injury like this, something that feels so- so gross, and weak, and- violating.

…Bruce is still in the Batsuit as he fusses over Dick. Dick, who got overpowered by some two-bit thug and was too scared to break the hold. Dick, who froze and went limp. Dick, who is better than this. He should be on his feet, helping with the night’s report and assuring Bruce and generally proving that this was a fluke, a momentary lapse that won’t happen again.

But he isn’t. He can’t. Nothing is okay and he can’t pretend right now and Bruce knows that, which is so horrible because he already sees Dick as a kid and this is just the proof he’s been looking for that he’s not fit to be Robin, but he can’t argue right now. Not when Bruce’s voice is all sad and he feels so wrong-footed and everything is slipping.

***

Bruce tucks him into bed, blankets up to his shoulders. Dick wants to grab his wrist when he leaves, ask him to stay with him for the night.

He doesn’t.

Chapter 2

Notes:

I’m back baby

Alright. If you want this to stay pure hurt/comfort, good dad Bruce, you should probably stop at chapter 1. He… makes an attempt to help, here.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“He is fourteen.” Alfred says plainly, as he wipes down the medbay.

Something in Bruce’s heart crumbles, like a final support beam giving out into the mess below it.

“He is a soldier.” Bruce says, stony. 

“A contradiction with the fact I have just called him off school.” Alfred snaps. “Do you know what Dick said to me, when I assured him he did not have to indulge in your crusade?”

Bruce doesn’t answer, steeling for the blow.

“You’ve taught him he has to be your soldier, Master Bruce.” Alfred says, cold. “And he’s run himself into this.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, continuing to fiddle with the grapple in his hands. 

Alfred hums, annoyed.

He’s right, Bruce knows. He knows the life he set Dick up for when he gave him that oath. Bruce can’t pin this on his burgeoning independence, or on his friends. This is a failure entirely of his. Something he’ll have to fix.

He will fix it, he promises himself. The image of Dick, slumped over and unresponsive, is seared into the forefront of his mind. He can’t let that happen again.

***

Dick wakes up to sun streaming through his window, landing softly across his bedspread. His sheets are pleasantly warm, the faint sound of birdsong creeping in from outside. It feels like the kind of day he should be on top of the world- leap out of bed, spend all breakfast chattering at Bruce over the morning paper, be ready to ace that test he has in math.

He doesn’t feel like that.

He feels more like he did after that one time when Roy stole them all alcohol and Dick had to spend the next school day pretending he didn’t have a splitting headache, except worse because the pain isn’t in his head. It’s the feeling of phantom concrete on his thighs, the ache in- in his hips. It’s the way his ribs feel like they’re trying to compress whenever he thinks about the latter two.

After who knows how long of staring at the ceiling, he manages- with a great bit of grimacing- to drag himself out of bed. There’s a plate of pancakes on his nightstand, smothered in jam. It’s the kind of thing Dick always begs to eat and knows he won’t get, and he can picture Alfred stressing over the batter.

It only makes him feel sick, now, the thought of dropping sugar into the slimy pit of his stomach.

But, well. Robin eats his breakfast, so Dick carefully flushes the meal down the toilet and carries the plate out cheerfully, ignoring the pain in his hips to try and walk normally. It’s over, and he’ll act like it.

“Morning, Alf.” He chirps, as he walks into the kitchen. Alfred eyes him, clearly not buying it. “Wish me luck, today.” He says, faux-casual, as he rinses his dishes in the sink. “I’ve got that test.”

”Master Bruce has called you out of school, sir.” Alfred says, a bit bracing like he always is when Bruce is doing something stupid.

Dick’s heart sinks.

Bruce has never cared much about Dick’s grades. It doesn’t matter- he’s Robin, at the end of the day. But school has always been important nonetheless- it’s cover. It’s something separating Richard Grayson, average charity case, from Robin, the boy wonder. A facade of normalcy over their little family.

”For the entire week, in fact.” He informs, a consolatory smile on his face.

Bruce called him off school. Bruce is telling everyone something is wrong.

He swallows. “Where’s B?” He asks, feeling like there’s something in his stomach that’s going to overflow at any moment, right onto the kitchen floor. Rain, streaming down his lenses.

”I believe he’s in the cave, Master Dick.” Alfred says. “Do say hi.”

***

Dick comes downstairs at about one.

He needed the sleep, clearly, and he still looks under the weather when he rushes down the stairs. It can't be good for him, he thinks, moving like that when he was obviously injured last night. He’ll have to take him to Leslie.

“Bruce.” He demands, standing next to Bruce’s chair, hands in loose fists at his sides. “You called me off school?”

Bruce sighs, hands stilling on the keyboard. He looks at Dick, briefly.

He has eyebags, which come with the job but make something in Bruce’s chest pang. His pajama shorts are above his knees, exposing the hatchmess of scrapes and scars he always seems to have on them. His eyes look flat, like there’s no one home.

Bruce needs to fix this. Dick is a soldier, Dick is barely a child but last night- last night was too much. Last night was something… past it. Bruce had taught Dick that they were fighting criminals, the worst of Gotham, but even he hadn’t anticipated this.

“Dick.” He says, looking back at the article onscreen. “We need to talk.”

He can feel Dick’s inhale, the way his hands get tighter.

“Bruce, last night-” he starts, “What happened, it was a fluke. I’m better than that. You don’t need to call anything off on my behalf.”

Bruce’s stomach twists. A fluke, he says, and maybe it was. Bruce certainly hadn’t expected this would happen, had taught him hold breaks that might have stopped it. But that’s besides the point. After this, after Dick was hurt so badly, he can’t possibly give it the chance to happen again.

“Dick.” He says, low, “you shouldn’t be in the cave.”

Dick’s expression flickers, hurt and then angry.

“That’s not fair!” He says, grabbing Bruce’s wrist. “It was a mistake!”

“I have no desire,” he explains, “for a sidekick who will make ‘mistakes’ that get him hurt so badly.”

“I’m fine!” He says, “Bruce, look at me! I’m fine! We get hurt all the time, you can’t bench me over this-”

“You aren’t benched, Dick.” Bruce says, finally meeting his eyes. “You’re retired.”

Silence. Dick looks stunned, outraged. Bruce feels pained, seeing him like that- but he has to do this. He’d rather Dick be upset now than attacked like that again.

“You can’t do that.” He says, angry.

“I am your legal guardian." He says, stony, hoping the pain isn’t seeping into his voice. “It is my job to keep you safe. You cannot care for yourself as Robin, and I cannot be there to save you all the time.”

“Bull!” He shouts. “It’s my mantle!”

“It’s my suit.” Bruce says, standing. “Go back upstairs, Dick. I’ll be up for dinner.”

Dick swallows, face twisting. Bruce considers, for an instant, whether he’s too harsh, but then he remembers wrapping Dick up in his cape. He remembers his sidekick, sobbing in his arms over something he shouldn’t have ever had to go through.

“Fine.” Dick mutters, turning on his heel. “Fine.”

Notes:

Next chapter: a very special guest!

Thank you to OnArete for beta reading this :)

Chapter 3

Notes:

…Okay we don’t really get the special guest for more than a line. But. He’s here

Chapter Text

The person he’s really mad at is himself, Dick knows. 

Bruce is right- he fucked up. He froze, he went limp, he didn’t break the hold. He knows he deserves whatever shit he gets for that. 

…It doesn’t stop him from packing his bags and cracking open the piggy bank for a bus ticket. If he’s not Robin, if Bruce doesn’t want him, it’s over. He’s over. He can’t stay here, and he only has half a plan of where to go, but he needs out. Out of this house, out of this room, out of this body and back into the one he had a week ago-

It’s not hard to slip out the window. Alfred spots him on the lawn, he thinks, but he either doesn’t tell Bruce, or doesn’t tell him in time. The trek down to Gotham is long- he forgets, sometimes, that the Manor is actually pretty far from the city when you don’t have a car with you.

(He doesn’t remember where it happened. He doesn’t remember what the man who did it looks like. He jumps at every alleyway, anyway, and his pulse triples when a man pushing a stroller waves at him as he passes. He kicks himself for it, for proving Bruce right. He should be, has to be better than that.)

But he gets there. Waits, for an hour, at the stop. It’s a cold, post-rain day that’s frankly miserable. The sky is a pearly grey, and the cuffs of his jeans are soaked from trekking through puddles and dew.

His hips ache. His heart hasn’t settled. He feels, quite frankly, small. Like all he wants is to be at home in bed, but he can’t have that. Not when Bruce thinks he’s weak, and incompetent, and gross, god-

Stop. He’s not going to pity himself. He’s not going to wallow in how shitty he feels, he’s going to prove Bruce wrong. He’s going to go to the people who don’t think he’s broken, and he’s going to get back on top of things, and then… he doesn’t know. But he’s not going to cry about it, not going to give the time of day to the phantom hands on his skin.

The bus pulls up, and only he and two other people get on. He grabs a seat by the wheelchair section that doesn’t have another seat next to it, and stares at the floor as they start moving.

***

It takes 2 hours by bus to get to Titans HQ.

Green Arrow had paid for it, and so Roy had gotten the most say in the design, and as such there’s giant glass walls in the common room looking out onto the front yard. It is, as Dick had exhaustively informed Roy, a massive privacy risk and they need to install curtains-

But as he unlocks the door, he has to admit it looks nice. They’d driven out of the clouds blanketing the Gotham sky, and the sun is almost setting by the time he gets to the house, so the room is flooded with light.

He wets his lips, dropping his bag at the door and going to collapse on the couch- hips straight, on his stomach. Passively, he notes that there’s an open bag of chips on the coffee table- someone is either here, or hasn’t cleaned up after themselves before they left. Donna or Roy, he thinks, and hopes it’s Donna.

He lies still for a few more moments, and then drags himself off of the couch. Grabs his bag, and then starts upstairs to the room that isn’t his room, really, they’re all guest rooms, but is the one he always stays over in. When he stays over.

Which looks like it’s going to be a lot more frequent. 

He throws his bag on the bed, fishing a spare domino out of his nightstand. He came here to be Robin, and though the masks-on mandate from Bruce has caused a lot more trouble than it’s saved… he’s not ready to give it up yet. No reason to change it right now.

There’s no spare Robin suit, unfortunately. A few leotards in the dresser, but no vest. No boots, or cape. 

(He doesn’t feel so keen on wearing the leotards, either. Not… now.)

He only brought a few things- his diary, a few clothes. Spare batarangs that he’d had stashed in his room, even though there’s weapons down in the basement. His phone, which has been shut off the whole drive here. Everything else was either at the HQ or just another thing to carry, but as he unpacks the room still looks a bit empty. He never decorated his, the way the others did, rarely staying over and not wanting Bruce to get paranoid about the Titans cracking his real name by the books he reads, or something. 

It’s fine. He’ll probably be out of here before he knows it. He’ll need to figure out the costume, though, he might be able to make something himself…

The door swings open.

“Hey, Rob.” Roy says casually, leaning in the doorway. He has a bag of chips in his hand. “What’s up?”

Notes:

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