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Dick looked out the window: the city was coming alive at that moment, vibrating with nervous, sometimes anxious, but so alive energy.
Bruce would have loved the view.
He loved Gotham, even when the city didn't love him back, and especially then.
Well, Bruce, look where your love has brought you: to a luxurious hospital room, an entire floor just for you, your life hanging by a thread.
Gotham didn't deserve any more Wayne blood.
"You look like death on your feet," a familiar voice commented. Dick put on a fragile smile and turned around.
Clark wasn't in any better shape than he was, except that in addition to fearing for the life of his best friend/situationship of decades, he'd also had to stop Ultraman from destroying Metropolis.
“I came as soon as I read the message…” he said, as if an excuse were needed, as if not prioritizing Bruce was a sin. “How is he? What did the doctors say?”
“He had a stroke,” the words tasted like sand as Dick spoke. “Under other circumstances, given his age, the doctors would be optimistic. But…”
But Bane had ravaged Bruce’s body. For years, Gotham’s criminals had tried to deal the final blow to the bat, and Bane had finally succeeded. A short-lived victory: Jason killed him immediately afterward, sending a signal to everyone else.
(Too little, too late. If only they had been close, if they had arrived sooner, Bruce wouldn’t be immobile, broken, catatonic, needing their care like a newborn. If only…)
Clark’s lips tightened. “How much time do they give him?”
“Clark, it’s not…”
“I know how doctors talk. Dick, how much time did they give him?”
“Six months, maybe more if the treatment continues…”
Six months was nothing. It could be everything if Dick and the others continued to treat him, if they gave him a reason to keep fighting. Bruce had never been one to give up.
Even though it was easy to forget that he couldn't be there like before.
(Which Stephanie had done, when after a fight with Black Mask, she'd yelled at Bruce for not coming as soon as he saw the signal, only to remember that no, Bruce couldn't. She didn't know what was worse, Stephanie's expression afterward or Bruce's, in which she'd hoped to see a spark of something, of awareness. There wasn't one.)
“Dick, he's already had a stroke. Six months is enough if you want to be optimistic.”
“The doctors in Gotham are excellent, I'm sure…”
“They're no better than Kryptonian technology.”
Dick looked at him skeptically, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I could take him to the Fortress and try something there. Yes, some things are purely experimental and there are risks, but with Kara and the AI's knowledge…”
“No,” Dick exhaled. That was already an answer. He shouldn't have explained too much.
But Clark didn't understand.
“No? But Dick…we could save him! Think of all the things…how many procedures unknown on Earth we could try…”
“So we'd be using him as a guinea pig? Yeah, no, bad idea.”
“I'm just saying he would benefit from…”
“Oh, stop it, Clark. You are not his family,” Dick snapped, "I won't torture Bruce for your unhealthy need to always be a hero!”
Clark was stunned, as if he couldn't believe Dick, of all people, was speaking to him that way. Dick, who since he was a child had always looked up to Superman as a role model, who had shaped Nightwing as much by the legacy of Batman as Superman.
The Kryptonian's gaze hardened, "I love him more than any of you ever have.”
“Really? You? “ Dick mocked him,” The one who never had the balls to talk about his feelings with his best friend? Oh yeah, you definitely loved him more than his family.”
“But unlike his so-called family, I haven't abandoned him."
The accusation stung Dick, "Neither have we! We did everything we could…”
"Everything? Don't make me laugh, Dick, “ Clark interrupted him abruptly,” Why was he alone against Bane? Why did nobody reply to his signal?”
“We…”
Clark didn’t give him the time to talk,” Oh, and don't forget how long Bruce has been living alone! Has anyone had contact with him except for patrols and fights? No, you didn’t! You didn't want to talk to him unless it was absolutely necessary.”
Dick jumped, recognizing the words he'd once said, back at the Tower, when Batman had come to speak to him on behalf of the League. He hadn't thought much about them, not when he'd meant them more as an accusation against Bruce for showing up when needed. But that wasn't the case, was it? Bruce was just looking for an excuse to see him, because Dick hadn't left him any opening to contact him unnecessarily.
(He'd like to blame it on Bruce's inability to communicate like a normal person, but that would be a lie. Not even Dick had been able to speak like a fucking adult, without resorting to sarcasm and passive aggressiveness.)
Clark continued, “You only remembered him when you needed him. Do you know how many times I made him come to me because the thought of him alone was unbearable? Do you know how many times he said no because one of you needed him? You're close to him now, but before? When he needed you, where were you?"
Dick knew where they were. Not here. They were all too busy with their own lives to worry about Gotham and, by extension, Bruce.
Each with their own petty antics, each with their own grudges.
Bruce was an adult, he could handle himself.
And they didn't want to live in his shadow.
He breathed slowly, "Yeah, it sucked, but we're here now. We can work this out..."
"Can you? Dick, you had to take him to the hospital because he got worse. You are here alone! Where are the others? They can't handle all this and probably hope someone else here will take care of Bruce!"
"They were here! Not everyone could see Bruce like this! It's a human reaction! I don't think you could understand..."
Clark stared at him, expressionless, and Dick felt guilty for that.
He tried to apologize, but Clark was quicker, "It's true. I'm not human. But my parents, my friends, Bruce, they always made me feel human. I understand the emotional burden of dealing with a sick parent, the frustration of not being able to do more, wishing either for them to die or for someone else to take care of them, because you can't take it anymore. I know, Dick. I know that even the best relationships deteriorate, and face it, your relationship has been stale for years. So, I'll say it again: let me take him to the Fortress for treatment. Let me help.”
"Do it."
It wasn't Dick who spoke. It was Jason.
The young man's eyes were still red from spending the whole night awake sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the hallway, staring at the door, waiting.
Not even Cassandra had been able to convince him to switch and go home to rest.
"Take him to your Fortress, Clark."
"This isn't a decision you can make alone," Dick accused, and Jason, deadpan, said, "Not even you. Who gave you permission to make all of Bruce's medical decisions?"
"I am..."
"You're the firstborn, the favorite, the Golden Boy, we know that," Jason retorted, without any bite, just a lot of weariness, "Believe me, I already know. Everyone knows it. But if you want to keep this joint family charade going, you should at least try talking to the rest of us, and not decide on your own."
"You didn't."
"No, but how much do you want to bet that Cassandra, Stephanie, and Duke will agree with me? Maybe even Damian and Tim, once they know the alternative is letting him die."
"That's not the alternative," Dick denied vehemently. "It's not! The doctors..."
"Doctors don't work miracles. Earth technology has its limits. Alien technology, on the other hand..." Jason didn't need to finish his sentence. Dick wasn't stupid.
Dick pursed his lips, "He needs us.”
Jason mocked him,” Oh, sure. He needs people yelling at him at the slightest inconvenience, complaining about him in front of him, Alfred and Leslie not knowing how to treat him like a human. But go ahead Dick and think he needs our loving care.”
Dick's heart sank.
"We could improve," Dick insisted. "There haven't been any more incidents, we…”
Jason said, “Just because we felt like shit! Just because Stephanie and Tim felt stupid to yell to someone who didn't do a damn thing! But here is the problem, Dick. It's an ingrained habit, blaming Bruce for something. Even when it's our fault. How long would it take before we reverted to old habits? You insist so much on treating him, but it's not like we're in the right condition to do it! You can call it frustration, exhaustion, or whatever the fuck you want. But let's face it: we can't take care of him."
"That's not true," Dick forcefully denied, feeling Clark's judgmental gaze on the back of his neck, "We can do it!”
"Of course, he's doing so well! It's not like we're stressing him out and putting more pressure on him! Oh no, it's all normal. Just like we're constantly mad at him! Come on, you're not stupid. You know, Bruce deserves better. We can't give it to him."
Dick wanted to scream that he wasn't. He wanted to scream so loudly that the whole hospital would come to see what was happening.
He refused to believe that he wasn't good enough for Bruce.
(As he always did, whenever he wondered about his place in the man's life, after all these years.)
But another part of him knew Jason was right, and he hated that he was right.
It shouldn't be like this. They should be together, a team.
Not whatever was going on right now.
"Let's talk to the others," he said finally, feeling defeated. "They'll agree with me."
Jason snorted, "I wouldn't swear to that, Dick.”
(As usual, Jason was right. The others agreed. But Dick could never be sure it was genuine love for Bruce, and not a desire to get rid of him. He was afraid to find out.)