Chapter 1: Shot
The room extended from one end to another like the length of a basketball court. Gray columns kept the building stable. Large windows defined the walls, allowing any viewer to see Happy Harbor from a distance. Twelve floors; fitted with an engine room, an infirmary, crime lab, training room and—hey, even a home theatre room. Apparently people were for the idea when Bart wrote it on the ballot.
He circled the future comm.-center with a paint roller in hand, dabbing the colors over the walls with delight. A Tower, was what Cassie called it. It was nowhere near the mass of the Watchtower up in the sky (not that he'd ever seen it), but according to Nightwing, it would be perfect for them.
More than perfect, Bart decided in his head. Crash. Amazing! Spectacular. Beautiful.
Padding the room in a seventh round, Bart only stopped when he saw the mannequin-like figures of his friends. He halted, balancing on one leg and gazing up to Robin. A smile graced his lips. "Hi!"
The corner of Robin's mouth curled upward. "Hey."
Jaime whistled skeptically as he observed the handiwork of their speedster. "I don't think Nightwing will be happy about the mess you made, hermano."
Tarp had been laid around the room earlier on in hopes of keeping the floor dry. However, in the hour Bart volunteered to paint, the walls were colored in long strokes with no real beginning or end. Streaks of the approved slate blue, along with neon orange and pink and a yellowish-green color, screamed at every corner and splattered on the cement floor. Right above the window nearest to the entrance, was Cosmo from the Fairly OddParents.
Bart shrugged. "I'll call creative license."
"You're totally in trouble." Jaime grinned.
"Well, he told me I could paint the place. Then gave me this paint, right?" Bart dangled the paint-roller in his hand, which was currently a ghastly mixture of bright pink and periwinkle. Robin moved an inch to the right before paint could drip on his shoe. "So I said, 'okay!' No problem! Slate blue; crash, I could do that. Then I got bored. Like, why should the room always be blue? And if we're rebuilding the cave into a tower, then we should totally use cave colors—"
"Caves aren't neon orange," Robin piped in.
"—and," Bart's eyes gleamed. "Then I decided it was boring. Seriously. When the Flash and Nightwing and all of them inherited the cave, it felt too much like, I dunno—a cave. We should have the walls speak! Shout to the world: we're back and better than ever!"
On the following note, the paint roller fell to the cement floor with an ugly SPLAAAT. Bits of paint shot through the air like fireworks and wetted Bart's calf, along with Robin's civvies-pants and Jaime's Vans. Jaime cursed.
"Oh, uh." Bart scratched his head thoughtfully, smudging excessive paint in his hair. "Whoops."
But then, Robin pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket because Robins were just cool like that. Without any forewarning, he wiped orange paint off Bart's forehead, then allowed the speedster to have it for himself.
"Whoa. Whoa, it totally came off!" Bart dangled the material in the air and eyed it thoughtfully. He split into a grin. "It's got a Bat Symbol and everything!"
"Special material made by Batman himself. It's…what we use to gather liquid evidence during cases." Robin crossed his arms, looking very much like Nightwing at the moment. Only he wasn't. Robin was Robin, and Bart liked that very much.
"So it's not a hanky." He dangled it between his hands.
Robin smirked. "No. It's not."
"Can I keep it?"
The newly equipped intercom system sounded, Nightwing's voice coming through. "I need everyone to meet in the comm.-center for a debriefing on the next mission."
It was still too loud—deafening to anyone within the vicinity and basically anyone in a five-mile radius. As far as they knew, Karen was still messing with the wiring and figuring out their electricity bill. Nonetheless, the trio, along with everyone else who meandered around the Tower, suited up and appeared in the room.
Nightwing totally flipped out. He entered with Flash following in suit—froze, then appeared at the core of their meeting area. A frown fell across his lips as he noted the streak of purple on the projector. Before he could say a word, Wally placed a hand on his shoulder and grinned.
Impulse leaned into Robin's bubble. "You think I'm in trouble?"
Judging by the way Wally was taking it and how Nightwing suddenly face-palmed, he doubted it. Robin shook his head, even offering a pensive smile. "He's in a good mood."
"How can you tell?"
"Trust me. He is."
Ten minutes into the debriefing, Jaime snatched Chicken Whizees out of Bart's hands and shoved them elsewhere. The dilemma was a pattern of kills appearing across the country. At first they appeared to be random, but the seniors deciphered a conclusion.
"These are the first fifteen victims in his killing spree." Nightwing flicked his wrist and the profile of the said fifteen people appeared on a holo-board. "If you take the first letter of every victim's first name and put them together, you get a message."
Paying attention during mission briefings were usually less of a struggle for Bart. Being in the past so long, he knew which missions he needed to listen closely to. Standing between Blue and Robin made him giddy, and he was happy sneaking glances to Tim occasionally, who stood tall and was too slow to notice. He kept looking, even when Wally was giving him a frown under the Flash cowl.
"Flash, Bumblebee, Batgirl and I will be Alpha. We'll hit Phoenix, Arizona, where the most recent killings have taken place." Nightwing turned his head to their little trio and the holo-board behind him shifted, until an HD-hologram of the San Francisco Bay area took form. "Wonder Girl, Superboy, Lagoon Boy, Beast Boy and Impulse will go to San Francisco as Beta. Robin, you will lead the squad."
In that instant, Robin's form slackened, eyes widening beneath his mask for clearly everyone to see. "Me?"
Nightwing nodded tightly, then began to list off the names for the following team. There was a smile on his face—amused and probably even proud. Bart couldn't keep his own grin from spreading across his lips; he elbowed Robin kindly in the ribcage, who hardly seemed phased.
"Me," Robin said again, much quieter for only their trio to hear.
"You're a good leader," Blue Beetle chimed.
Impulse grinned wholesomely, then elbowed the other teen in the ribcage. "C'mon, Fearless Leader! What could possibly go wrong?"
Robin made a face. "A lot of things."
"Yeah? Well, I believe in you." Speaking in softer tones, Impulse nudged his current leader again, even more tactile than usual. His smile strengthened and he stared the other teen in the eye. "You're gonna do great and everything's going to be fine."
For a moment, he was sure Robin was going to frown again, unconvinced. But a second later, he smiled back, returning the bro-nudge. "Thanks."
"Welcome. So. Uh—" Impulse scratched his head. "What's the mission for again?"
xxx
The world stopped breathing.
Whether it was the crackle of the bullet as it pierced through the walls of the now-abandoned ship, or Impulse's blood-curdling scream, everyone forgot their current duties. Wonder Girl nearly dropped a civilian and baby in the ocean as she flew them to safety. Superboy and Lagoon Boy lost leverage on the ship as the howl shot through their ears, and the green elephant Beast Boy hesitated, instantly freezing between shooting water at hissing flames.
Robin's heart hammered in horror. He gripped two freeze-batarangs from his utility belt, face a sickly white and—no. "No."
He couldn't crumble in panic; not as leader in front of the team. So he launched himself toward the ship, running across the boardwalk and hopping across pillars of cement that kept the dock afloat over the waters, then dove onboard.
They'd gone to San Francisco. The primary suspect for every one of these murders was Slade Wilson. Deathstroke. What unnerved Nightwing was the fact nearly every murder was a simpleton—someone unimportant. Someone with a name to play a game with his big brother. Knowing all of these instances, Tim did what he could. He ordered the team to interrogate victims' family or housemates, note certain recurring patterns in the kills, to match Deathstroke's technique. Bart had been more enthusiastic than the others, assuring Tim that he was doing a good job as leader.
It led them to a boat on the San Francisco Bay, which had been set on fire. And now, Robin was finding every means possible to get on that boat and get his speedster out of danger.
"Robin—"
"I've got it," he cut off, ignoring the tremor in his own voice. "All the passengers are off the ship. Bart was sent in to make sure it was clear. I'm getting him out of there. Keep the ship stable."
Superboy hesitated with a response. Finally, "Be careful."
He needn't be told twice. He was squad leader. They'd inspected the area only minutes ago, asking nearby people if they'd noticed anything suspicious when the explosion sounded. Then, Wonder Girl found the sinking ship and reported the hundreds of people that were on board. They needed help. But what was happening right now was his fault. He'd been the one to instruct Bart to return to the ship for stragglers—then too busy stalking the coast for any whereabouts of Deathstroke. Too determined to make Nightwing proud by finding Dick's enemy.
And for that, he was so incredibly stupid.
Through his worry and anxiety, the ship was like a labyrinth. Robin turned every corner, skidded down every corridor, and ripped apart every door. Poker chips and game cars spilled to the floor in one of the rooms, while lottery machines had toppled over. Cabin doors had been thrown open—probably, Tim thought with a metallic taste in his mouth, from when Impulse went scavenging.
Come on. Where was he? Come on.
Robin darted down the stairs into the basement, taking four steps at a time with his adrenaline spiking each time his boots slammed into the ground.
Impulse lay at the end of the cold cellar, smothered in his own pool of blood and curled into the fetal position.
"Bart," he whispered urgently under his breath. Robin collapsed to his knees, dropping the bo stick in hand to examine his fallen comrade. His fault. His mistake.
"Hurts…so…bad—" Bart's hands clawed the disgusting wound where thick red spilled along the coast of skin like an ocean. It blended with the color of Impulse's gloves, soaked his uniform, and dripped—drip, drip, drip… Shaky hands palmed the gash, smearing blood all over his thigh.
In that moment, Robin froze.
He'd seen murder. He witnessed amputation, thrown himself into bullets without hesitation, delved into the situation with amazing courage that Batman dubbed as stupidity, and managed to calculate a plan for everything—even managing to save all three of his mentors' hides using only his wit.
For the past two years, he'd lived the legend as Robin, the Boy Wonder, but suddenly he couldn't even remember how to stand on his own two feet. His hands trembled, forgetting which compartment he kept gauze or padding or sedative or even a rope.
A tutting sound rattled the room. They weren't alone.
Shrouded under the shadows, Deathstroke stepped forward beneath the tiny, wobbly light above them. He was amused, a ghost of a smile lined precariously beneath his mask and tangled with the complicated gun Robin assumed the creep shot Impulse with.
"Tsk, tsk, Robin. What took so long?"
Instantly he reanimated. This was what they were here for. This was why four teams were scattered around, trying to find this disgusting crook. The one who just shot his team mate. "You're going to pay for this."
"Anger doesn't look good on you, boy." Deathstroke hummed, taking steps back. "Your friend doesn't look well."
At the mention of Bart, Tim's resolve evaporated. He looked down to the speedster, who was curled into himself with pain and had a hand tight on his leg. Green orbs looked to him behind slits—not even the smallest tear dripping from the corner of his eye.
"Go," Impulse wheezed, so…serious and so unlike himself that Tim's chest stuttered. "I'll be fine—" He closed his eyes, seething in pain.
Robin didn't hesitate. He wanted to hurt the man that shot his best friend. Taking a step forward, his hands tightened on his bo staff, jaw contracting. Deathstroke never gave him a chance to make a second move. A metal tablet adorned his hands, and he threw it at Robin's feet.
Thirty seconds glared at the teen in a glowing LED light. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven—
"What's it gonna be? Chase after me?" Deathstroke mocked. "Or the boy?"
Shit.
"It was nice seeing you. We should do this again sometime." He threw another object at them—a smokebomb. On instinct, Robin lunged toward Impulse, arms wrapping violently over the other teen's torso. He covered their mouths, refusing to inhale any other excess fumes, then broke into a run.
"G-Goafterhim!" Bart shouted, but his voice teetered off into a pained cry. Blood was soaking Robin's uniform. From the corner of his eye, he could see sober green eyes glaring at him in disbelief. "What are you doing?!"
"Saving your ass!" Tim snapped hastily. "Shut up!"
Tick. Tick. Tick. BOOM.
xxx
The rest of the day…
"Ohmigod—Bart!"
"He needs medical attention, NOW."
"We need a doctor! Gunshot wound—"
"—the bullet's still in his knee—"
"Do it fast. It's already healing improperly!"
…went by like a blur.
Ow. Owowowowowowow. It was like every part of his body had grown numb, then the pain forced its way to the center—to the wound, which laughed at him in a bloodied red, his vision blurring in and out as it looked him over smugly. He could make out nurses screaming at freaky La'gaan and Superboy pushing back news reporters and Beast Boy taking special interest in going to the morgue and—
Where was Robin? They'd been thrown into the current of the explosion, where Wonder Girl snatched up both of them and flew straight to the hospital.
He wasn't sure how many people had gotten around him, just that there were several colorful outfits and doctors that were alarmed. A particular blob stuck out to him as he was laid onto one of the hospital beds. Blurry blue eyes. Black hair.
"Tim?" he croaked.
No. The grip on his hand was way too strong to be Robin. Bart once had a field day asking Superboy if the big guy could lift him up with one finger—which was proper entertainment for about an hour, despite how annoyed the Man of Steel, Jr. looked. Right now, head pressed against the pillow and cold sweat drenching Bart's hair—Superboy wasn't annoyed. He looked scared..
Conner spoke to him, but the words jumbled together like that weird voice on the super-retro cartoon about the boy named…after a nut. Walnut and Snuppy or something like that. The last few words, Bart managed to catch. "…artificial kneecap."
"Do me a favor." Bart gasped, the prickling and gauging sensation ripping his knee apart from inside out. "Don't…don't tell Flash I screwed up."
xxx
CALIFORNIA PACIFIC MEDICAL CENTER
SEVEN HOURS LATER
xxx
The mixture of gauze and a metal brace was an interesting touch, Bart decided. It made his right leg look hulked out compared to his left one, which was almost comically bare in comparison. Almost. Staring at it, even seven hours after his surgery, it didn't tickle him with a laugh. The black binding was nearly two inches thick in circumference with added gauze that he was surprised didn't cut off the circulation in his leg. It extended from the upper half of his inner thigh down to his ankle, and until Bart wiggled his toes, he was convinced it was a different leg altogether.
He couldn't feel his knee.
Maybe it was the fact that it was wrapped up like a jumbo-sized taco. Jaime would roll his eyes later when he made the comparison, but it was true. He contributed half the sensation from not being able to see his leg and the other half from the thick wrapping.
Had he been in a better mood, Bart might have admitted it wasn't a bad way to lose his kneecap. He once read that Harry Potter's stunt double was now a paraplegic due to a special effect that went wrong. Bart doubted many people lost their knee by Deathstroke shooting them. That would suck, and really, what on earth did Slade Wilson have against kneecaps? Bart certainly didn't have a problem with them—sure, they got a little hairy, but the whole speedster-shaving-their-legs-to-be-faster thing was a total myth.
Maybe.
Wally bopped him once for asking.
But this was his knee. His leg. Without it, Bart wouldn't be able to run; which meant no Impulse, no being a superhero, no running alongside the Flash. It was a pretty obvious fact that the Fastest Teen Alive did not like to be restrained, but vibrating out of this cast would exacerbate his point rather than help it. (He learned that word in the dictionary the doctors left by the nightstand; it took him two minutes to sift through all of it.)
When things finally calmed down, the nurse informed him the surgery went well despite the lack of time they had to work with. The gauze, she explained, was because he was twitchy. The team made it especially clear that because of his healing abilities, it was possible for the bullet to heal inside his leg—improperly. During his hysteria, he apparently managed to vibrate a whole scalpel through his bone and through the table until it clanged on the floor.
Bart would be kept in San Francisco at this particular hospital between five to ten days, depending on how he was doing. There was six to eight weeks of recovery time for the normal human. Bart was too miserable to calculate how long it would take for him to be up and walking again.
On the bright side, Superboy was a steady presence at his side. He woke up with Conner at his door, speaking to a nurse that had gone googly-eyed for the Boy-That-Never-Grew. When he was done, Conner returned to him with a fat, overstuffed panda dressed like Kid Flash. If you squeezed it, its catchphrase was—"You gonna eat that?"
They didn't talk. Conner looked tense, staring at the stiff form of Bart's knee with a frown on his face. In return, Bart's throat was dry and he was hungry, but he didn't feel like eating. They went a full hour where Bart tapped out simple phrases in Morse code. Around the time he was re-enacting the first ten pages of 50 Shades of Gray with his finger, Conner turned pink and requested that he stopped.
"What's taking the team so long to arrive?" Bart finally asked, voice raspy. That is, if his team wanted a faulty speedster with no leg. He was tired with a headache, but trying his hardest not to sleep. Bart was annoyed.
The frown carved on Conner's face softened and he looked back to the teen. He scooted a chair close by and sat down, looking oddly large in a room with things too small and meticulous. "Everyone's been informed. The team went back to help clean up the debris left over from the battle. Nightwing and Flash, too."
Bart sat alert on the bed. "So Wally knows—?"
"That you're in the hospital? Yeah." Nodding curtly, Conner crossed his arms and reminded Bart faintly of one of those TV fathers who interrogated the boy wanting to go out with their daughter. In the two years Bart landed himself in the past, Conner and he weren't especially close. There were emotional wounds that negated any attempt to make real friends with Superboy, so…yeah. This was weird. And interesting.
At the confirmation of Wally, Bart ducked his head in shame and fisted hands into his blanket. He'd been in a sour mood since waking up and made no effort to hide it. That was probably why Superboy was on edge trying to figure out something to say.
The truth was, Bart had been reckless. He knew that was how he landed himself in this position. After being in this decade for too long, he'd let…miniscule feelings and urges get the better of him, even if he knew it was stupid. There was no way to hide his frustration after how hard he worked to make the future better. While he wanted nothing more than to bond with the family he never grew up with and play with his dad and aunt and curl up in the crib with them, there was that bitter voice in his head that appeared forty-years too early and reminded him to keep his head clear.
What good was he to the Flash if he screwed up so badly and couldn't run anymore?
He was interrupted from his thoughts as Conner curled a hand on his shoulder. Bart flinched in surprise.
Slowly a smile fumbled across Conner's lips, sincere and encouraging and still very much uncomfortable with the situation. Bart faintly wondered if it was a result of not enough hugs in his time spent as a genomorph or if Bart was intimidating.
(He doubted the last one. The few times Bart managed a glare worthy—to his eyes—of Batman, Cassie and Gar fell on the floor, holding their sides and laughing.)
"No matter what happens, Wally, Barry, and Jay aren't going to be mad at you." Smile broadening slightly, Conner did another once-over of Bart's leg and grimaced. "Wally wanted to come here first. But he's bent on taking out Deathstroke for what he did to you. They ran into some startling dirt around the time you woke up."
"Sounds crash," Bart murmured. His throat clenched tightly and he nodded jerkily. "Thanks."
Only minutes later, the door flew open and his team spilled through. Bart suddenly found himself at the bottom of an ocean of granola bars, Hershey's Kisses, fruit-loops, Cheetoes, Lay's Chips of all variety, and many other things that made him wonder if his teammates totally bought out the entire convenience store down the street. He picked up the nearest bag of Chips Ahoy cookies while Cassie threw her arms around his shoulders and showered him in kisses.
"Are you okay?" Her eyebrows wilted in pained concern as Beast Boy morphed into a tiny green monkey and climbed his arm to his shoulder. Gar made squeaky sounds and snatched a cookie. "How do you feel?"
Struggling for a smile, Bart nodded and greeted them kindly. "Sedated."
His voice fell after that, and he nibbled on a cookie. Looking up again, he was met with Cassie's look of surprise and Gar tugging on one of his ears. Silence filled the room, only to be fought against the steady beating of the heart-rate monitor.
In the hiccup of conversation, La'gaan nudged an elbow into Conner's ribcage and very loudly asked, "Did the meds take away his short attention span?"
Bart made eye contact with Conner. He arched an eyebrow, expecting for Superboy to offer an explanation, but the man seemed to be at a loss. So instead, he turned his head back to Cassie, whose smile wavered. Beast Boy even dropped the cookie he was eating.
Well then. "So," Bart started skeptically, "where's Robin?"
All the shock melted away from everyone's face. Still, no one looked eager to talk. He wasn't sure if there was something on his face, or maybe something had gone bad with the mission—(well, something did go bad: his injury)—but this beating around the bush was definitely not Bart's cup of tea.
"We didn't expect Deathstroke to return to San Francisco." Cassie placed her hands on her hips, eyebrows furrowed. Her look of relief quickly melted into a grimace, and she smoothed the hair on Bart's forehead. "Nightwing's worried that the tower may be bugged. He and the other bats are working on it."
Bart's hand cupped his knee through the cast. "So he's not going to come?"
"No. Well, yes. He's not hurt—" Cassie added the last bit quickly, watching the frown on their speedster's face tighten. "He's just…ah…help me out here, BB?" She tangled a hand through her hair. It'd gotten longer over the years, just as she got taller. There was a humbleness and maturity in her eyes that hadn't been there when they first met.
Beast Boy, too. When he morphed back into his furry semi-human self, he was much taller than when Bart met him. Which was only natural—considering the guy was only a year younger than Bart himself. Tentative mirth tingled in Gar's eyes. "Well. He'll come. Most likely. Um. Can I have another cookie?"
Cassie rolled her eyes and shoved the bag of Chips Ahoy in the other teen's stomach. "He's okay. And he'll come. We'll make sure of it."
The speedster nodded, but couldn't help his frown. In fact, the way that it was being phrased, Gar and Cassie made it sound like Tim didn't want to show up. Which was upsetting. Reaching for a bag of Cheese Puffs, Bart opened it and nibbled. Not specifically scarfing down, either. He was too upset and frustrated.
The gang stayed for a little while longer. Conner observed, La'gaan said stupid comments, Cassie bit her lip and tried to be an optimist, and Gar looked torn between asking and stealing another bag of Bart's comfort goodies. The mood was different—some change in the room that was too quiet and too tiresome for the brunet to question.
Robin never came by. Eventually, his team had to leave in order for a full debriefing (they promised to fill him in, since it was the only other thing Bart commented on) and left Bart to his thoughts and…plentiful snacks. There wasn't much to do. Eating hurt. His mind whirred an inhuman pace—brought on by the frustration of his leg and being caught off guard by Deathstroke, so eventually he was left with a headache, a slow frame-by-frame of the crappy hospital TV, and racing heart beat—which was natural to him, but alarmed the nurses.
After a while, they increased the dosage of his medication to help him sleep, even though he insisted that his body metabolized the drugs too quickly for it to kick in. (That was when the sickeningly-sweet nurse rolled her eyes and began pronouncing words like he was five.)
Bart spent the few hours pretending he could feel the drug circulate through his system and affect his state of mind. His heart monitor hummed; hypnotic and mesmerizing as it reminded him he was still awake. Nurses and orderlies bustled outside—some perky, some somber. The TV flickered with a retro re-run of Boy Meets World.
He hated it here. But at least the catheter was cool.
Bart let the sounds take over, then fell asleep.
xxx
He had this dream a thousand times—over and over since coming to the past. It was a memory, all still intact in his head, and one he would never forget.
Laying down wasn't new. That was the scary part of the dream; the part where he couldn't stand how he felt.
No—not in the snow, body half eaten by the cold and nibbled at by frostbite. He curled into himself until his knees touched his chin and clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. His bones ached. His muscles were numb. Yet none of it—none of it—felt his hands as he clawed into his calves. The warmth of tears seeping through the creases of his eyelids burned on his cheek with the inhibitor collar digging into his neck until he could no longer breathe.
It was his fault. He knew that. There were only a few times in the night where security was not as dangerous; where scavenging for food wouldn't automatically come back and bite him in the ass.
But there were others—less brave, more fearful of the world around them and practically depleted of all their muscles—that looked to him with dark, pleading eyes and faces that swooped in grim smiles. He fought off the common mentality that made him sick; the one that said, "Better to let them die of starvation, than allow them to suffer in life."
He was the son of Don Allen; one of the Tornado Twins. The grandson of Barry Allen. The Flash. Heroes did not let people die.
He was a hero. He was a hero. He was a HERO. He just…h-he just didn't…know how yet.
So he'd given them whatever food he found and overlooked scavenging rights. H-he'd find new food. Soon.
The collar slowed his feet. Not his metabolism, nor his thoughts. He thought too fast—what's going on why is this happeninghejustkickedthatCHI LDwhythehelldo we livehere—until his mentality broke, and all his energy was depleted.
But here he was now; unable to move and barely breathe. Around him, the people simply walked. After all, what was there to do? You got hit if you stopped working. If you stepped out of line. If you fell. If you cared for anything but the objective.
There was barely enough energy left in him. It hurt to inhale, hurt to squeeze the snow beneath him. Starvation burned his insides, consuming his stomach until it left scars of hunger in its place. He laughed because maybe, just maybe he would still be walking if he hadn't given away his last bits of food to those kids.
No. He…he did good.
"Is he still breathing?" asked a voice. (For the record—the good part of his dream. The best part.)
The touch of another person met Bart's flesh—a warm hand that reached past the collar and settled carefully at the base of his neck. Heat travelled through Bart—a pulse that welcomed his own and suddenly evoked a squirm. He reached against it, like a helpless animal batting for its mother, and suddenly felt himself pulled into the person's arms. His body was miniscule compared to the person that held him. Looking up, two eyes opened to find his savior.
The superhero that had him. Tight and welcoming, with a black leathery cowl and a straight-lipped frown that stood out to the rest of the world's fear. Bart's stomach demanded food, and he took in the sight of the other person carefully.
"Is that…?" A second person started. "He's…"
"Barry Allen's grandkid." Slowly—eerily, a caustic smirk curled against the man's lips. "I knew it."
"Wh-who…" Bart croaked—then sobbed softly, because it hurt to talk. But this was always the part of the dream that let him sleep better. "Who are you?" Lemme go, his mind started, lemmegolemmegolemmego—
"Red Robin," the man said. "This is Nightwing. We're saving you."
Author's Note:
A new story with my absolute favorite pairing. I hope you enjoyed! (: