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Bruce hasn't slept in a long time.
If the pulse that's been thumping behind his eyeballs for hours — maybe days, now — weren't evidence enough, the way that the words on the Batcomputer screen have begun to smear would settle it.
He scrubs at one of his dry eyes with a thumb, the dry, burning discomfort waking him up a little.
But not enough.
He growls in frustration — every second he wastes on his body's weakness, a killer gets closer to getting away with it.
Every minute he wastes, someone else in his city is dying. He can never catch up.
The thought of his bed drifts through his head. He can almost feel Dick's hand on his shoulder, trying to coax him towards it.
He pulls up one of the crime scene photos like cracking a whip at his own mind.
A boy is on the floor like a broken doll. Blood covers his pale skin and spreads out like a halo through his black curls.
He squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them.
It's not a boy. It's a young woman, mid-twenties. Her hair is brown.
His chair clatters against the stone floor as he kicks it back away from him, pain flaring through his cracked ribs and digging into his spine like a knot of thorns tightening. He's overdue for his pain meds, he realizes as he's forced to take a moment to lean against the desk and breathe through it. There’s been no one to remind him — Tim’s training is on hold while he’s at home with his parents for the week, and Alfred’s been on strike from coming downstairs to try and force him to take care of himself since the third meal he’d rejected, an unknown number of meals ago. He hadn’t even realized how much sitting in front of the computer had been straining his body until now.
The spasms pass in the slow waves of a tide drawing out.
He forces his eyes open again when he feels himself sway.
And then he makes his way to the medbay for his meds. Moving around will help, and he knows he won't be able to get anything done with his body screaming at him like this.
His stomach cramps in protest at the pills he forces down into it. The last few in the bottle — he leaves it out as a reminder to himself to call Leslie himself, if Alfred is still on strike by the time he needs another dose. He drinks some water straight from the sink, cupped in his hands, and then fills the electric kettle on the counter.
The sachet of herbs is tucked away at the back of one of the drawers right where he left it, tucked behind the bandages, safe from being accidentally mixed in with any of Alfred’s sizable tea collection. A League blend, designed to promote focus and alertness during long stakeouts.
Talia used to send him a fresh packet on the rare occasions when she’d write to him. But he hasn’t heard from her since…
Not since Jason.
He hasn’t touched the tea in a long time either. He hasn’t wanted to waste it.
But he can admit that he needs the help tonight.
The bitter, peppery aroma almost burns his nose when he adds the steaming water, and already he can feel his mind coming back to him by inches. The pain in his skull remains a steady beat, but it doesn’t feel like his thoughts are sloshing along with every blow.
Perhaps he has pushed himself too far, he allows, feeling the lethargy weighing down his feet, leaving him swaying again as he stares down into the water darkening in his mug. He can’t allow himself to become so tired he begins to make mistakes in the case.
But the tea will help.
Just a little longer, then. There’s some clues to suggest it may have been a coworker. If he can access the victim’s work email, see who she’s been corresponding with…
His mind wanders.
He blinks, and there’s no more steam rising from his mug.
The pain in his back and ribs has softened, the painkillers wrapping around him like a cloud. He thinks that if he wanted to, he could lie down on the floor right now and be asleep in seconds.
He doesn’t. He takes his mug and trudges back to the computer.
Just a little while longer, he tells himself, as he focuses again on the images on the screen. Just until I have access to her emails. Then I’ll rest.
The bitter tea washes away the taste of ash on his tongue as he gets back to work.
He’s not sure how much time exactly passes. The soft, cottony feeling of medication grows thicker — oppressive. His head isn’t pounding anymore. It feels almost like there’s pressure — the hammer’s come down and stayed there.
There are emails on the monitor, he thinks. He can’t remember getting there.
No matter how hard he squints, they won’t un-blur, contact names and subject lines smearing, dripping down the screen —
He shuts his eyes. The cave feels like it’s rocking him like a great stone cradle.
Maybe he could lie down, just for a little bit, a voice murmurs from somewhere in his cotton-stuffed head.
It sounds like Dick’s exasperated brand of disapproval. Or perhaps Tim’s.
“Okay,” he mumbles, his tongue thick inside his mouth. “Jus’ — jus’ for a little while.”
He pushes up from the desk with great effort, stumbling towards the medbay and its open cot as though already in a dream. The thin mattress and white blankets rise up to meet him. With just a little more effort, he drags his heavy body up into their embrace, rolling onto his side facing out towards the cave.
The scenery is blurred like someone’s taken sandpaper to an oil painting. He finds it more pleasant than he probably should — the inability to focus on any single object. It’s a relief, almost — like he’s been set free of the responsibility to try.
As he gazes out into the soft blackness, a streak of yellow flutters, unfolds into a hazy shape. He watches it approach, kneel down next to his cot.
He can’t make out the details of the face, but he doesn’t need to.
“Jason,” he sighs, and lets sleep take him, feeling calm for the first time in a very long time.
***
It’s been almost three weeks since Dick has been back to the Manor to visit.
Which is better than the months before that, or the year before that. All in all, the trend is a good one.
Tim’s helped a lot — both more than Dick was expecting and less than he was hoping.
It was always a bit naive to think anything would ever just snap back to the way things were before. Dick knows that as well as he understands that he himself can’t go back to the way things were before.
But he always has been a bit of an optimist.
Bruce is…
Well. He’s still Bruce.
But Dick really does believe he’s improving. He came upstairs to eat dinner with Dick and Tim the last time he’d been here, and from what Tim reports, he’s lost the harsh edge he brought to their initial training sessions, when Dick knows he was still trying to scare his new Robin off before he ever hit the streets.
He’s hoping he can keep that trend going tomorrow at breakfast — Tim’s parents are flying out early in the morning, and Dick has every intention of yoinking Tim out of his empty house as soon as he’s awake and dragging him next door to experience Alfred’s pancakes.
The fact that he hasn’t done so already is just proof that he’s got his own improvements to make. There’s so much he wishes he’d done differently with Jason. With Tim, he’s resolved to do better.
So. Pancakes to start.
It’s late by the time he pulls up in front of the Manor, or early depending on how you look at it, and a drizzly, misty rain patters down through his headlights as he pulls into the garage. As he glances at the clock on his dash, he realizes Alfred’s probably gone to bed by now, and wishes he’d parked in the carport instead — the butler’s quarters are close enough to the garage that the sound of the door might have woken him up.
Fortunately, when he slips inside, the house is quiet, the humming of the refrigerator the only sound in the darkened kitchen. He leaves his shoes by the garage door, padding upstairs on silent feet, planning on slipping straight into bed.
He only makes it as far as the study. The door is closed, but there’s still light coming from underneath.
He knocks softly twice. No response from within — not even a grunt.
In the solitude of the quiet hallway, he allows himself to heave a sigh. Then, he drops his overnight bag next to the door and goes in, heading straight for the clock.
It’s already nearing four in the morning. If Dick’s dream of a happy breakfast with Bruce and Tim has any hope of coming true, he’ll need to wrestle Bruce into bed sooner rather than later.
He makes a point to allow his bare feet to slap loudly against the stone on the way down, hoping it’ll give Bruce a head start on accepting his fate. "Bru-uce!" he calls.
But he finds the chair in front of the monitors empty, the screens black.
He stops in his tracks, scanning the cave. He can’t hear anything other than the chittering of the bats, and the lights have all gone dim for lack of motion. Maybe Bruce actually did get himself to bed at a reasonable hour tonight, he thinks, pleasantly surprised.
He's turning to go back upstairs when he sees him on the medbay cot.
His feet carry him without thought at a jog towards the medbay, something tight and cold seizing in his chest, anger sparking at the thought that he's been injured and nobody called him, again —
Then he gets closer.
There are no wires connected to Bruce, no IVs. He’s dressed not in a medical gown or the soft clothes they keep down here for stays in the medbay, but his typical black undershirt and leggings that he wears under the suit.
Dick takes his eyes off him, heart still beating too fast as he looks around.
There’s an empty mug of tea sitting beside the keyboard. A notepad with scrawled writing lies open next to it, instead of put away in the secure box with the rest of his physical notes where they always go when Bruce leaves the cave for the night.
This time, Dick suppresses his sigh.
It’s not the first time Bruce has worked to the point of exhaustion and laid down for a nap instead of allowing himself to go upstairs and get some real rest. But it’s been awhile since Dick’s been here to see it.
Quietly, he pads up the steps to the medbay, coming to stand in front of his mentor. He must really be down for the count — he hasn’t even stirred at the sound of Dick's entrance.
Dick takes him in, in this rare moment of vulnerability. He can’t actually remember the last time he saw him asleep. Probably not since he was a kid.
He thinks about leaving him there. Letting him rest.
But he knows from Alfred that he’s already taken some rough hits recently, and the medbay cots aren’t exactly luxurious. He'd never say it, but Dick knows he'll suffer tomorrow if he stays down here.
Deserved, maybe, but Dick's never denied that he's got a softer spot for the man than he's ever fully earned.
He leans down, pressing gently on Bruce’s shoulder. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Sleeping in a cave? Kinda taking the bat-lifestyle thing a little far now, aren’t we B?”
Bruce doesn’t stir at all.
The realization that something is wrong almost clicks into place, like his train of thought has snapped onto another track.
Just like that, everything is different.
“Bruce,” he says sharply, and this time it’s loud enough to border on a shout. He doesn’t shake him — Alfred had said hairline fracture on his vertebrae, and Dick hadn’t bothered to ask which vertebrae, didn’t ask any followups, why didn’t he —
His fingers find Bruce’s pulse — slow, too slow by a mile, his skin clammy under Dick’s fingertips. He needs to get Alfred down here, he doesn’t know enough about Bruce’s injuries, doesn’t know what kind of complications —
There’s a call button on the wall. He takes three quick steps away towards it away from Bruce.
And then he stops.
There’s a pill bottle out on the counter.
The clock in his head is ticking a constant, terrible beat as he changes direction.
But there’s an even worse suspicion dawning.
He wouldn’t, he thinks, and almost believes it.
Not like this, he thinks, and almost convinces himself.
He picks up the bottle. It’s light in his hand.
The next thing he knows, his hand is slamming down on the panic button, and he’s screaming.
Bruce stays silent.
He almost looks like he’s smiling.
***
Bruce wakes up feeling like he’s been run over by a train.
He tries to swallow, but the muscles feel weak, his throat pinned together with slivers of glass. He's been intubated at some point.
He’s hurt. Badly. He must have been.
His brain’s as useless as the rest of him. He doesn’t remember anything. Just exhaustion, dragging at his limbs like tar.
It clings to him still, but he fights it. Some instinct tells him this isn’t the first time he’s woken up — just the first time he’s been aware enough to remember it.
And now that he is, he can’t rest again until he knows what’s happened to him.
He tries to perform a body scan. His back aches, a dull, tight knot just below his shoulder blades. There’s a similar pain threading its way up through his ribs like the roots of a tree on fire.
Both pains are familiar — he can remember the incident with Killer Croc. It doesn’t feel like either set of injuries are worse than the last he can remember.
His stomach aches, giving a nauseous, hollow twist. It’s been awhile since he was conscious, then.
Or… he remembers being in the cave, working. He can remember being hungry then, too, but ignoring it.
Perhaps not so long asleep, then.
But the nausea speaks to more than hunger.
He’s been drugged, he thinks. The only question is if it was malicious, or medically warranted.
He extends his senses outwards.
The air is cool and humid and has the familiar, earthy smell of underground. A machine beeps, low and rhythmic, close to him. Further out, he can hear the soft chittering of bats, quiet as rain on a distant window.
He relaxes immediately. He’s still not sure what’s happened to him, exactly, but he knows he’s home. He can afford to slip back into sleep, just for a little longer. Alfred will wake him up if there’s an emergency.
He sighs, rolling his aching shoulders lightly as he shifts on the pillow, seeking out a fresh, cool spot, already half-way back to sleep.
Movement — the soft rustling of fabric stirring, right next to the bed. The faint popping of joints stretching.
And then a sharp inhale.
“Nuh uh,” Dick’s voice says firmly. “No you don’t. Open your eyes.”
Bruce obeys.
The medbay lights have been turned way down, but even the dim light that makes it through his cracked lids makes the fuzzy feeling in his skull develop spikes. His throat clicks drily, and he thinks he makes a sound of discomfort.
He watches the blurry shape of Dick moving around, reaching towards him with something in his hands. A straw presses against his lips, and he drinks the lukewarm water gratefully.
When he’s done, it’s easier to croak out, “Nightwing. Report.”
“Don’t you Nightwing me.” His voice sounds strange — odd and flat and relieved at once.
Bruce squints at him. He’s out of uniform, and he looks exhausted — hair greasy, dark circles under his eyes.
“How long?” Bruce asks.
Dick leans forward, crossing his legs under him in the plastic hospital-style chair. “Two days,” he says. “Give or take a couple of hours.” He tilts his head. There’s something off about the way he’s looking at Bruce — too sharp, the line of his jaw too tight. It scares Bruce more than waking up like this ever could have on its own. “Most of that was just you, though. We pumped your stomach yesterday, blood tests showed the worst of it was out of your system by last night. Apparently, you just really, really needed some rest.”
Bruce processes this, adding details to the file on himself that he’s started in his head. Poison, then?
“I don’t remember,” he says slowly, shaking his head and then stopping abruptly when it makes the pain in his skull worse. “Something… in the water?” he guesses, feeling frustratingly stupid.
Dick’s throat bobs. “No,” he says. He’s scrutinizing Bruce’s face as though looking for evidence.
Whatever he finds, it makes the corners of his mouth quiver before he can get himself back under control.
"Bruce," he says hoarsely. "Do you remember taking pills?"
Bruce squints at him. A muddy memory — tapping an orange bottle against his palm, a mental note to get a refill. "My painkillers?" he says, confused and alarmed, his brain starting to run through where in the supply chain someone else could have had access to them. "Were they tampered with?"
But Dick shakes his head. "You took all the pills you had left, Bruce. Alfred confirmed it." He takes another slow, careful breath, like a man trying to calm himself. "Not enough to do damage on their own, but you also drank some tea. Alfred didn't recognize the blend." His knuckles are white where he's squeezing his hands together. "But when we tested your mug, we found several herbs, including Valerian."
Through the haze, pieces are clicking into place. The painkillers, his aching back, the tea Talia gave him —
He'd been so tired.
He hadn't even stopped to consider the interactions of the herbs in the mix with the drugs he'd taken. It hadn't even crossed his mind.
He squeezes his eyes shut. God, he's so stupid.
His thoughts are still syrup-thick. He realizes too late how many seconds have trickled by as he tries to process this — not until Dick sucks in a hard breath.
When Bruce opens his eyes again, his face has gone gray. "Oh my god," he murmurs. "You did know, didn't you? You did it on purpose —"
"No," Bruce says, but Dick doesn't seem to hear him.
"I wasn't even supposed to be here," he says, picking up speed and force with every word. "I was going to surprise you and Tim for breakfast in the morning. It wasn't supposed to be me who found you. You were going to do that to Alfred? Or, god, Tim?"
Bruce wrestles an arm out from under the crisp medbay blanket, tucked in around him with military precision in the way Alfred does when he's feeling especially fussy, ignoring the tug of the IV needle in his arm.
He reaches out and grabs Dick's wrist.
His son's eyes snap to him, bright blue and shining with tears. "Why didn't you just call me, Bruce?" he says softly. "You could have called me. You can always call me. I would have — I would have picked up — "
"Dick," Bruce says, as strongly as he can manage in his current state. For Dick, he can almost make himself sound whole. "It was an accident."
Finally, he sees Dick's gaze sharpen out of that terrible grief, and the way he looks at Bruce feels present again.
Bruce swallows, guilty and relieved. "I was tired," he says quietly, and then at Dick's disbelieving look, he amends, "I was exhausted. I… the tea is a League blend. It was to help me focus on the case I was working on." He lets out a slow breath, remembering the empty pill bottle he'd left on the counter, how it must have looked. "I only took a few pills," he says softly. "Whatever was left in the bottle. Just for my back, that's all, Dick, I promise. Both things were harmless on their own, and I was so focused on getting back to the case, I didn't think about…"
He swallows, and says what he so rarely has said to any of his children. "I'm sorry. I should have thought about what could happen if I mixed them. I didn't… I never meant to frighten you like that."
He feels Dick's wrist flex in his hand, and he reluctantly eases his grip.
But Dick doesn't pull his hand away. Just flips it over, lacing his fingers with Bruce's and squeezing tightly. "Fuck, Bruce," he sighs raggedly. He covers his face with his free hand, and Bruce's heart clenches tight at the way his son's shoulders shudder. After a moment, he lowers it, and his eyes, if anything, are even shinier than they were before. "You can't keep doing this to yourself," he says quietly.
Bruce frowns. "I told you, it was an —"
"Accident that only happened because you were working yourself to the bone again," Dick cuts him off, sounding almost as exhausted as Bruce. He squeezes his hand, so tight it makes his knuckles ache. "We almost lost you, Bruce."
Any protest Bruce could have tried to muster dies in his throat. His mouth tastes rotten.
Dick carefully tucks his arm back under the edge of the blanket, mindful of his IVs, though he doesn't let go of Bruce's hand. "Get some more rest," he says softly. "Tim and Alfred are going to want to see you the next time you wake up." He squeezes his hand lightly. "I love you, B."
The guilt isn't enough to keep him awake this time, not with Dick right there. He lets his eyes slip shut, and thinks again, I'm sorry.