Thorns

"It's okay. I'm right here," Damian said, and Dick felt so grateful that Damian sounded calm and collected. Dick closed his eyes, though his perception of shifting darkness and moving grey and black shapes didn't change. Dick felt calm too, mostly, compartmentalizing any rising panic into a box, shoving the box to one side, promising 'later' as he locked it.

Even though he was lying down, not moving at all, Dick felt a spinning sensation, as if the alley itself was whirling slowly underneath him. Pain spiked up from the nape of his neck across his skull and down his spine, throbbing with each beat of his heart. He gripped Damian's hand tighter, told himself to concentrate on breathing, in two three four, hold two three, out two three four, and slowly he was able to step away from the pain enough to speak again.

"What happened to . . . Clayface?" he asked, and his voice sounded breathy even to his own ears.

"Dealt with," Damian replied, and Dick could hear the frown in his brother's voice.

"I asked that already, didn't I?"

Damian hesitated, then admitted, "Yes, but some confusion is to be expected," and Dick knew that every symptom he was displaying was being noted and categorized.

"Casualties?"

"Just you, careless as usual. Where does it hurt?"

"The back of my head."

"Where exactly?"

"Lower . . . base of my skull."

"No other injuries? Ribs?"

Dick had to admit that every place that had impacted the wall ached, but he felt fairly confident he didn't have any broken bones. "Bruised ribs . . . maybe."

"Any other symptoms?"

"Besides not . . . being able to see?" Dick said and felt Damian shift uncomfortably. "Dizzy . . . nauseated."

Dick wanted to keep talking; he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. He wanted - needed - distraction from the pounding in his head and the dark chaos in his eyes. "Talk to me, Robin."

"Pain level?"

"Don't want to talk . . . about that. Entertain me."

"Tt. My question has clinical validity."

"You're not a doctor . . . and you're not going to do anything . . . until Bats gets here . . . unless my status changes . . . which you can monitor . . . through conversation."

Damian heaved a begrudging sigh. "I will humor you, since you are the one, once again, lying on the ground injured." He paused for a moment, and Dick guessed that he was trying to think of something to say. "I believe we may need to change Batcow's hay supplier. The last delivery was decidedly subpar."

Dick knew that laughing would hurt, but he grinned. "Hard to find . . . quality hay . . . these days."

"Indeed. No wonder family farms are failing in this country. Poor attention to detail."

They continued to chat for the next couple of minutes, though Dick had an increasingly hard time tracking the conversation, until Dick heard the familiar growl of the Batmobile. He winced as the roar approached to within just a few feet of where he was laying.

"Sensitivity to sound?" Damian asked when the car came to a halt.

"Yes. It's like a . . . bad hangover . . . not that you should . . . have experience with that."

Damian didn't respond, so Dick waited as long as he could stand before he finally demanded, "Tell me what's happening."

"Batman is approaching Clayface. He's already contacted the GCPD, but ordered them to stay back until he gives the all-clear. Now he's pouring the liquid nitrogen over Clayface." Damian paused for a minute. "He's coming this way."

Years of working and training with Batman allowed Dick to pick up the subtle sound of Batman's boots and the hiss of the cape as it dragged behind the vigilante.

"Nightwing. Status report." The voice, while quiet, was close. Batman must have knelt down.

"Head injury," Robin replied, even though Dick felt positive that Batman had been not been addressing Damian. "I believe he's lost consciousness twice. He's coherent but has displayed some signs of short term memory loss. He seems more confused now than when I first started talking to him. And . . ." Robin hesitated, a hint of emotion creeping into his voice that had so far been professional, almost cold. "And, he's . . . blind."

Dick would never know if Bruce reacted visibly, but all Batman said was, "Blurred vision, loss of visual acuity, limited field of vision?" in his usual low growl.

"No, not just . . . blurriness . . . more than that . . . Robin is right . . . I can't see anything," and admitting it out loud - again - caused the panic to bang inside its box, threatening to break out. Dick tried another breathing exercise, imagining that he was tracing a square in his mind and inhaling or exhaling every time he turned a corner. It worked, but he missed most of the quiet conversation between Batman and Robin. It was getting harder to stay alert.

He felt someone touch his shoulder, and he told himself to pay attention. "Nightwing, we're going to roll you onto your back, put on a spinal collar, then get you into the Batmobile. Red Robin is here too. Don't try to resist or help. Let us move you."

"Understood," Dick replied. He knew this was going to hurt. He felt strong hands, too small to be Batman, too big to be Damian, must be . . . . who else was here? . . . Batman had just said a name . . . must be Tim . . . grip him on either side of his head and support him as Batman and Robin rolled him to his back. He felt someone position a spinal collar around his neck and gasped as the top portion brushed the painful spot at the base of his skull. The surface he was now lying on didn't feel like asphalt anymore, and he suspected that Batman must have got him onto a backboard. This was confirmed when he felt bindings tighten around his body.

"Okay?" Red Robin asked. "We are going to lift you up in a minute."

"This is . . . overkill?" Dick responded. Somehow, the backboard and neck brace made him feel more embarrassed than lying motionless on the street had. All of the precautions and first aid paraphernalia had him feeling self-conscious and pitiful, even though using them was all Batman's idea.

"You were thrown against a wall. Even though you reported that you could move, there is still a chance you have damage to your spinal cord," Batman responded in a tone that clearly forbade any further discussion.

Robin had let go of Dick's hand to help roll him over, but now he felt Robin grab his hand again. As much as he hated being the one to receive comfort from the thirteen year old instead of giving it, he felt grateful for the touch. It helped to orientate and ground him.

Batman counted to three, and then Dick felt himself being lifted into the air and maneuvered into the batmobile. When necessary, the front passenger seat of the latest model could be folded completely flat, allowing enough room for a back board on top of it and the back seat. They were careful, but Dick bit his lip as the jostling ignited the pain in his skull, and the movement increased his vertigo.

"How are you?" Batman asked.

For a second, Dick couldn't remember the word he needed. "Tired," he finally managed.

"Red Robin, stay here and talk to the Commissioner. The police can come as soon as we leave. Robin, join Nightwing in the car and help keep the board steady."

Dick felt like maybe he was losing his grip on consciousness again, as the pain and dizziness overtook him, but he managed to ask, "Where?"

"I'm taking you to Leslie."