So this is my one-shot that I promised swirlhearty23 for the "Guess The Title Game". Scrambling to get it done before we leave for church, so apologies for typos.
Anyway, I hope you swirl! (And everyone else who reads this!)
Through Your Own Tears
Gotham
May 23, 14:50 EDT
Dick's hands were sweaty and stiff. The words of the telephone call only moments previous still wrung in his ears. He knew, from the first word that Alfred said, that the Brit carried bad news, and this was the worst.
"Sup?"
"Master Richard? Oh, young master, I'm so sorry."
"Bout what Alfred?"
"I'm so sorry sir, but Master Bruce has been shot in the chest."
Training was over, clothes changed, and eyes wiped repeatedly as he sat in the back of Bruce's Hummer to meet Bruce at the airport and then to the hospital. He knew going to Paraguay was a bad idea, especially during the revolts. Americans, and citizens of countries all over the world for that, were scrambling like eggs to get the heck out of there. Even it's own people were leaving tripping the borders. But no, Bruce had to go to make sure that Wayne Tech's extension in the hostile country was running. He even planned on using his wealthy, American status to save some lives. But now his hung in the balance.
"How much longer Alfred?" the words barely escaped his still tightening throat.
"Twenty-six minutes, young Master." the ever calm Butler replied.
Dick rolled his eyes anxiously out the window. His distant gaze passed over the scenery with ease, and his cloudy blue, wet eyes could barely focus. Biting his lower lips, his eyes dropped in search of something that they could focus on. The back of the seats, the other windows, his own lap, nothing was satisfying.
His hands were clammy, and he wished to wipe them on his tight, black jeans, but moving, even in the slightest, was a difficult chore. That kind of rush, mixed with the sad, dreaded emotions of loss rendered one motionless, made your muscles tense to the point where even flexing a finger was torturous. You could move, but by the power of sorrow that entangled your body, you didn't want to.
The boy felt his throat close again, and all he could muster was an honest gulp. Even now, though more of the effect would take its effect later on, he felt like he was experiencing a dream as his thoughts smoothy and effortlessly drifted, only to be violently aggravated by his glancing at the motionless clock several times a minute.
Staring at an unusual speck on the usually perfect window of the Hummer, his thoughts, though more like visions, began to doubt himself. Bruce was gonna be okay, he had to be. He has stuff to take of here. Who was going to keep Alfred busy with new messes, who was going to run Wayne Labs, and who was going to keep the city safe.
"Alfred," Dick squeaked, but soon swallowed and forced himself to say it again, this time capturing the Butler's distant attention.
"Eighteen minutes sir. Shan't be long now till we arrive."
"Floor it," came Dick's modest request. He felt the car speed up, though slightly, it pushed his head back into his seat, his body into numbness coma, and his soul into more agony. As as the Hummer changed lanes, his thoughts drifted to Wayne Manor.
His conscious became a movie, and his soul the projector. He watched his life go about him, memories like silent movies, unable to portray any sort of emotion, only action. And that too was dimming.
His mystical eyes watched Alfred answer a phone, and his ears heard more news of Bruce.
"Master Richard, the plane landed early, Master Bruce is already on his way to the hospital."
"Go there then. We'll catch him before surgery."
"Afraid that won't be possible. Due to his deteriorating condition, he was placed under medical induced coma."
"I have to see him!" the boy choked.
"And you can Master Richard, we were granted immediate access as soon as the operation is complete."
Dick again studied the speck on his window. That speck and him had created a supernatural bond. He could think clearly when looking at it. "He'll be okay," the child muttered.
"I certainly hope so," Alfred responded as he, again, changed lanes.
"You don't agree," Dick accused.
"Well, if I may Master Richard, he certainly isn't hanging to life for me. It's his family that he needs, it's them that Master Bruce is clinging to life for. And, if I may be so bold, you, Master Richard, but step forward and become that family."
Alfred's words sent Dick tumbling down a the path of a new perspective. He always thought that Bruce's "emotionally but not officially son" jokes were just that, jokes. The child never imagined that his mentor was really begging him to adopt the Wayne name officially. Yeah, Bruce felt like Dick's father, but the child took those feelings as understood and mutual.
Soon, but not soon enough, they arrived at the hospital. The sight of the large, white building gave Dick enough strength to force his body into motion as he threw himself out of the car and raced through the front doors.
"Bruce Wayne," Dick said to the receptionist.
"Excuse me?" the sweet red-head replied.
"Which room was Bruce Wayne taken to, and has he come out of surgery?" Dick repeated quietly, knowing that the Bruce wouldn't want the public to know the news at the lips of his fostered son, assuming that they didn't already.
"Oh, one moment please...," she fingers pounded on her keyboard before looking back up. "He was checked into the ER immediately after his arrival, and..." more typing, "he is still in surgery."
"Thanks," Dick cautiously pounded the desk as he watched Alfred grab his small shoulder. Alfred escorted Dick toward the waiting room that was nearest to the ER.
Dick's mind, now fully conscious with the reality of his surroundings, prepared himself for the sight that was awaiting him. His mind was filled with dramatic images of hospital beds, surgeries, and flashing lights. The twisting and turning rapid motions of the camera made him dizzy, but he was snapped out if it by Alfred's hesitant hand on his shoulder.
"Master Richard," the man subtly warned Dick of upcoming company.
Looking up, Dick's blue eyes watched the doctor walk toward them. "Richard Wayne?"
"Yes," the child readily responded to the name that he would normally have mocked and corrected.
The doctor lead the two through the intricate, white hallways of the hospital. Dick, who was in a fog, told himself that he would have been easily lost in the labyrinth. Tenderly knocking on the door, Dick's head began to spin with anxious excitement. The lump in his throat would have convinced him to turn away, but Alfred's words prompted other actions.
Sure enough, Bruce was laying on a hospital bed with a thin tube running across his face. His usually combed hair was messed up, and his eyes were closed in deep, drugged slumber.
Dick felt all the emotions of Alfred's words mix with the tradegy of his parents as he beckoned the butler and doctor to leave him.
Slowly walking to Bruce's side, the child laid a tiny, trembling hand on the bed rail, afraid that if he even touched Bruce, that the man's restful balance would be interrupted.
Staring at the floor with his washy, blue eyes, Dick raised them to face the reality that slept before him. Time stopped, his soul ached, and his heart cried for pity, begging Dick to release his feelings that tore at his heart's strings.
Collapsing down, his knees gave way, and his forehead rested on his placed hands. His chest suffered from his short, sporadic breathes, as he heart cried for more, only to receive more tears from the boy's very soul.
Sobbing, a young Richard Grayson thanked God for his life, his happiness, and his father. On his knees, his elbows pinning him over that side of a hospital bed, Dick prayed harder than he ever had before. His soul wept with tears for his parents, and his heart pleaded for the life of his of .
