It was cold, bright, white and numb. Those were the words Dick would use to describe the Gotham City Hospital.

People were rushing around, no one stopping to take a breath. The air was stale and heavy with the smell of shoe rubber. There was a flood of neutral, bland colored scrubs and a white doctor's coat here and there. And it was a sea of monsters.

Dick stood beside the Wayne family butler, Alfred, in front of the check in desk. The older man was signing papers as fast as his calloused fingers could go. He was distinctly aware of the child clutching the leg of his pants, obviously unaware and confused of the current situation.

"Don't worry Master Richard," Alfred said without looking up from the fifth form. "Everything will be alright."

"What's wrong?" The six year old asked after a few moments.

The butler continued moving the pen, taking a few seconds to think over what he was about to say. The boy had only been within their care for two months now and the child's openness with the two men had only escalated to the point of eating meals with them and omitting the "Mister Wayne" to now "Bruce".

"Master Bruce was in a car accident."

Richard looked up at the old butler, but when the man did not elaborate further Dick looked down once again to turn back to his own thoughts. It was a little past ten at night and the city of Gotham was in a state of sub-panic. Scarecrow had attacked the downtown subway system, setting off a series of his newly improved fear gas that was slowly dispersed throughout the underground of the city with everyone non the wiser.

Richard had seen the news and knew that Batman had immediately gone after the scary villain. It hadn't taken long for Batman to dissemble the machines, but Scarecrow had fired his pistol off at the vigilante and effectively hit the target. By the time the villain had been caught and in custody, the Dark Knight was already gone.

Bruce had been home late at the office for a business meeting and apparently been caught in the panic of the many citizens. His car had gone out of control and hit a street lamp. Alfred later would tell the boy that Bruce had received a bullet in his side from a frantic man under the influence of the fear gas and had shot at the billionaire.


Bright. Everything around him was bright, heightened. Yet all around his things were blurred, the edges of objects stretching out farther and fading into the background. The noises around him were clear and rang in his ears, but then it was all jumbled together, making it unclear and unable to understand.

Bruce looked around the bustling city, people pushing past him without another thought; acting like he was just another random citizen. Bruce held his right ear, covering it to try and block out some of the unnerving and persistent ringing that rolled around his mind like a bunch of marbles.

He couldn't think. He couldn't understand. What was he doing here? How did he get here? Where was...here?

The sky was a blinding white, making it impossible to go unseen. He hated the bright, day time. There was no darkness to sink into, no where to go and be alone.

Over the seconds more and more people flooded against him, making it so he couldn't try to move and leave. He was suffocating in a sea of bodies and human greediness, wanting, feelings. He clenched his eyes closed and covered both ears this time. It all needed to stop!

And then it did. Silence.

Bruce opened his eyes, finding the ringing gone, blurred edges erased to normalcy, the sky a darkened gray and the people all replaced with empty space.

Not a soul in sight.

Bruce slowly walked down the street, stopping at a four way intersection. The sound of a lamp coming to life sounded beside him. He looked up to see an old street lamp beside him, signaling that the sky had dimmed itself into a nightly darkness.

When did-

Click.

"Give me your wallet."

Bruce froze. His blood ran cold at the familiar sound. He dared not breath or move, hoping it was just his imagination. When the voice yelled more impatiently, he turned slowly to face his assailant. The man wore the same worn over coat, the peaks of old gloves were wound around bony fingers that held the pistol steadily. Baggy shirt, baggy jeans, baggy shoes. An untrimmed beard complimented the untrimmed hair.

"You..." Bruce's voice crawled from his throat, muttering that single word.

"Give me your money." The man said again, yelling slightly on the last word.

When Bruce still made no move to hand over the wanted object the man got impatient. The gun went off. Bruce didn't blink. He had waited for this moment all his life. Wondered why. Shoot me, take me with them. I can't be here alone.

Nothing.

Bruce looked down. No bullet hole. But the gun...

"Bruce?"

Bruce turned sharply to look down. A mop of black hair shielded a face still plump with infant youth. Blue eyes bored into his own. Blood poured from the bulled wound embedded into the boy's chest. Blood was everywhere. It seeped on to the child's jeans, making its way onto the concrete and flooding the streets.

Bruce knelt down, placing his hands over the wound and applying sharp pressure. Blood only seeped through his fingers to crawl up his arms and paint itself a masterpiece of death on his shirt. It didn't stop.

"It won't stop. I can't-" Bruce took intakes of breath.

"Why?" The boy asked. "Why?"

"Wha-"

"Why?"

Blood masked the child's face and Bruce felt himself stop breathing. Desperate gasps sounded and attempts to clutch his throat, but his hands wouldn't move from the boy's chest.

In a last attempt to say something, anything, to this child who he had doomed from the beginning, he spoke.

"Richard..."


Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...

Richard's eyes followed the heart monitor, his mind processing that this line was the only thing showing his guardian was alright, despite his closed eyes.

He stood in the door way, not daring to cross into the room. From where he was he could see Bruce's chest rise and fall, that was good enough for him.

Suddenly Dick realized how ridiculous he was acting. Bruce was in the hospital! He could have died! What was he doing standing in the door and not by his side, hoping for him to get better?

Richard looked down at the thought of hospitals. Where lives were supposed to be saved. Where was a hospital when his parents fell to their deaths? No ambulance rushed them off to these white coated rooms, medicine pumping through their veins and a doctor waiting to make them better. They were pronounced dead. On sight. He never had a chance to hope for his parents to get better. They were doomed the moment his father reached for his trapeze.

Richard looked over at the man who had taken him in a few months ago. This wasn't fair to Bruce. He had saved him from the Juvenile Center. He saved him from depression. From being sucked into himself, from being alone. He owes Bruce everything.

Deep breath. Hold up your chin, back straight. Who knows when Alfred could walk in. Dick hesitantly put his foot out, taking the first step into the cold room. Then he pulled the other foot next to first. Nothing happened. He put out his foot, then pulled up the other again. Then again. Still no response from Bruce.

Finally Richard was at Bruce's side, nervously leaning over his sleeping form.

Now what?

He was next to him, wanting him to get better, wanting to go home. Shouldn't he be waking up by now? Richard looked at the heart monitor again. His heart was still beating, he was still alive. Blue eyes gazed at the man, searching for any sign of movement. None.

Maybe he was supposed to hold his hand. He always saw on the TV shows Bruce let him watch that whenever someone's in the hospital, you hold their hand while they slept.

Richard slowly reached for Bruce's hand, but let it hover uncertainly over the man's larger one; not touching. He couldn't do it. Not yet. The last time . . . The last time he held anyone's hand was his mother's, and that was the night-

"I'm sorry, Bruce." Richard mumbled pathetically.

Dick sank to the floor with his back against the bed's plastic legs. He pulled his legs to his chest as he took short, fast paced breaths. What was he supposed to do? What if Bruce died? What if he didn't get better because he couldn't hold his hand like on TV? Who would take care of him? Alfred? Would the CS send him back to the Juvenile Center?

Soon Richard's panic attack worsened, sending the boy into a state of terror. This wasn't good.

You need to raise your hands above your head, son.

Richard quickly crossed his arms behind his head, closing his eyes as his breathing slowly regulated to a soft panting. Once he had a hold on himself, Richard slowly lowered his hands into his lap to stare at the many intricate lines decorating his tan skin.

This had happened once before, when he had woken from a nightmare once again about his parent's tragic fall and the incidents from the JV Center. He had immediately ran for Alfred, his constant nightmare confidant, but the old butler had been no where to find. In a moment of desperation he went for Bruce's room, but he wasn't in his room either. Dick had searched the entire house (or as many rooms as he could reach in the giant mansion) but still both men were missing. Dick ended up collapsing in the living room, hurried breaths echoing the halls and tears pouring from his eyes. He was alone. Where was everyone?

"You need to raise your hands above your head, son."

Suddenly Richard's hands were being held above his head, allowing his lungs to take in copious amounts of oxygen. After a moment Richard looked up to see Bruce leaning over him, grasping his wrists. A concerned but uncertain looked decorated the dark shadows of his eyes. Once Richard was breathing regularly again Bruce released his arms.

"What are you doing up so late, Richard?"

Dick opened his mouth to answer, but all that came up was a bubbling sob that had been trying to escape for the past five minutes. Tears flowed from his eyes and Richard wiped furiously at them to stop, but to no avail.

"I- I'm sorry."

"No, no, Dick." Richard heard Bruce mutter something under his breath before saying: "Dick it's okay."

Richard soon found himself being pulled into Bruce's strong arms, slowly rocking back and forth as the man rubbed soft circles into his back.

"It's okay, buddy. You have nothing to be sorry about. Sh, you're okay."

Bruce held him for an hour and a half. He never asked questions or got angry. He jest held him. In his arms, just like him mother and father used to do. That's even more then holding a hand.

Richard looked up from his place on the ground, staring at what he could see of the man from his lower position on the floor. He slowly extended his arm to feel around the soft sheets. When he felt the warm skin he gently clasped what he could of the large hand, not realizing he was only holding the man's finger. Richard never moved from his place on the floor.

Bruce woke with a start. The nightmare rang clearly in his mind, he still felt the blood seeping through his fingers. After a few moments of contemplation, Bruce remembered why he hated Scarecrow. Fear Gas was always a bitch to treat. And to deal with after you woke up.

He tried to rub his face to maybe warm up the muscles, but soon found his right hand was glued to his side.

He hadn't lost his hand, right? It wasn't Scarecrow's MO to cut off appendages if he was correct. Bruce turned to see a small hand wrapped tightly around his pointer finger. He slowly leaned over his bed side to see Richard asleep against his out stretched arm and sitting cross legged on the tiled floor.

He stared at the sleeping boy for a moment, then slowly retracted back to his original position. He stared at the ceiling, concentrating on the warmth radiating from the boy's small grasp. It was like a light tickle you felt when you touched a feather.

Bruce stared at the ceiling, gently coiling the finger around the hand but making no other move. Bruce layed there for forty-five minutes before Alfred came in, and then another hour after the butler left five seconds later upon seeing the state of his two charges.


Oh my goodness, I am so sorry that took so long to submit guys! I don't know how it happened, but i have had this story sitting on my computer for about three weeks, just slowly getting larger as I added a few things here and there in between homework and whenever I got an idea of what I wanted to happen next. Sorry it has been so long since I updated, I had planned on publishing this over the Thanksgiving Break (Happy Thanksgiving! Sorry if it's a week late!) but obviously, THAT DIDN'T QUITE WORK! Oh well, here it is! I know I said I was going to be putting up my fist villain chapter, but I am probably going to post that over Christmas break, because I haven't had much practice with action scenes and I want to really think through what I want to happen so...that will be next! Promise. So, anyway, I had had this chapter on my mind for a while and thought it would be so cute :) I really liked writing Bruce's nightmare and Richard dealing with awkward Bruce and his own awkward feelings. I hope ya'll enjoy! More soon.

PS, TAFFE is the abbreviation for "There's A First For Everything" cause it is kinda a long title, so yes this is the next "firsts" chapter if you were wondering

PPS if you haven't already, I still have my poll on my profile for votes on the villain story and I won't be closing it until the first day of Christmas break so check it out! Vote! Right now Joker is first, Catwoman is second and Thalia Ah Ghul is third. Help out and vote! Thanks ya'll!

Less than three!