DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters. Nightwing and all of his friends belongs to DC comics. I'd be a happy woman if Dick belonged to me...but no such luck. I have not made any profit out of writing this, so please don't sue me. It would not be worth your while.
Author Comment: This was the third Dick Grayson story I ever wrote.
Thank you to my wonderful beta, Jean whose comments force me to examine my writing. There are a number of spelling, grammar and punctuation differences between Australia and the USA... please forgive me for writing with an accent. (g)
Special Thanks: Thank you to all those people who have left such wonderful feedback. Some of you haven't left your e-mail addresses so I haven't been able to thank you. I just want you to know that your kind words mean so much. I'm in your debt.
Years of intense training and mind conditioning to ensure he never 'reacted' but made conscious decisions before responding were obliterated in that single moment as Bruce Wayne leaped from the ground onto the stage - an action that was beyond the capabilities of anyone outside of a trained athlete.
Bruce dropped beside his fallen partner, his attention drawn to the front of Dick's white shirt which was covered with blood, a single bullet wound evident. For a handful of heartbeats Bruce knelt frozen, his mind moving at a million miles an hour. Flashbacks cruelly rose up and threatened to consume him. His parents...The gun... Joe Chill...His mother's scream ..The shots...Blood.
Peter clamped his hand over the wound, trying to stem the blood flow. Bruce allowed his eyes to move up Dick's chest and settle on the younger man's face. It was creased with deep lines of pain, Dick's eyes wide with shock, his body squirming on the ground in response to the intense discomfort. Dick's tanned complexion was insipid, all colour stolen by the burning agony reverberating through his system. The same thing had happened to Bruce's parents before their eyes had gone glassy and life had left them, Wayne remembered.
Bruce and Dick's eyes met. The former looked lost as memories stole his ability to respond. He simply couldn't handle this. It was all happening again in front of his eyes! His family was being stolen from him. Bruce's very soul felt like it was being tugged from him.
Despite the pain and shock, Dick recognised what was happening.
Get him! Words were far from necessary. Telepathy it wasn't, but years of working together had given them a complete understanding of each other on this level. Right now, the millionaire needed something to cling to. Dick knew that Bruce Wayne couldn't cope - Batman would.
Get him! Dick's intense stare ordered. The latter recognised the signal from his partner and the small, traumatised boy that dwelled inside him instantly transformed into Gotham's avenging angel.
I'm okay. Dick silently assured, reaching up and patting Bruce's arm. Get him.
Bruce nodded and rose to his feet, rage providing him with the strength to draw himself from the abyss he was slowly tumbling into. Alfred appeared behind him.
"Stay with him," Wayne ordered, before dashing off without looking back.
Alfred stepped forward puzzled. He couldn't see Dick, who was completely masked by the huge bodyguard. When the butler's eyes fell on the injured man, his elderly face clouded with alarm. "Master Dick!" He raced around and knelt down on the opposite side to Peter who was calling for an ambulance. Alfred picked up Dick's hand and squeezed it firmly as he tried to assess the extent of the damage.
"Hang on, my boy. Help is on the way." Alfred's usually calm voice wavered dreadfully. How had this happened? As Alfred tried to comfort Dick, everything began to sink in. There was blood everywhere, but it appeared to be coming from under Dick. The young man's body began to tremble as shock set in. Alfred glanced back over his shoulder in search of Bruce. It was clear that Dick's condition was serious. Where the hell had he gone?
Dick drew in a breath and his being exploded with searing heat. His condition was deteriorating quickly. There was a gurgling sound in his lungs as blood began to seep into them. Pain and loss of precious life-giving fluid pooled in a deadly combination fogging his mind and causing his consciousness to waver. He felt so incredibly tired. It was impossible to concentrate and yet that look of terror on Bruce's face was imprinted on Dick's soul. Bruce would blame himself for this and Dick couldn't allow that to happen. He had to let Bruce know this wasn't his fault... then Dick could sleep. He felt so tired. He desperately wanted to rest, but not before he delivered his message. Dick tried to speak, but nothing but a weak grunt was emitted.
"Easy, Dick. It's okay," Alfred assured him, reaching up and running his hand through the young man's dark hair. The slightest trace of pressure was returned via the hand he held. "Good, boy. Hang on." Alfred maintained his vice-like grip of Dick's fist. "It's okay, my boy. You're going to be okay."
"Help me roll him onto his side," Peter ordered.
Alfred stared at the other man startled, but did as instructed, conveying their intentions to the injured man. "We're just rolling you over." Dick groaned, loudly. "Be careful!" Alfred shouted at Peter. "You're hurting him."
"Oh shit! Shit! Shit!" Peter exploded in frustration as his suspicions were confirmed.
Alfred stared aghast at the three gaping holes in Dick's back.
"He's taken three," Peter barked into his radio set. "There's only one exit wound. There are still two slugs in him. His breathing is laboured. Lungs are filling with blood. WHERE THE HELL IS THAT AMBULANCE?!"
Dick was aware that he was being moved around, but he couldn't comprehend any of the conversation. The pounding in his ears drowned out everything else. The jerking as they moved him caused the agony to intensify to the point he was passing out, but at the same time the pain crystalized his thoughts momentarily, enabling him to cling to consciousness.
"Alfred," Dick panted. Speaking was more strenuous than he could ever remember, but Bruce's survival depended on what he had to say.
"Don't try to talk," Peter ordered.
The roaring in Dick's ears made it difficult to focus, but the image of Bruce's face fuelled his determination. "Al..fred." It was a real battle to form the words. The only one he'd managed to get out was badly slurred and almost unrecognisable even to his own ears, but his iron will and stubborn nature united. He had to make Alfred understand! Then he could rest. God, he felt tried.
Dick reached up and took hold of the front of the elderly man's jacket and drew him down. "Tell him... it's not his... fault. It was... my choice. My... decision. You've got... to tell him." Dick began to cough, blood appearing in the corner of his mouth.
Alfred swallowed, wrestling for control. He gripped Dick's hand with one hand and his shoulder with the other.
"I'll tell him, now you just rest and that's an order, young man." The butler's voice broke as tears began to well in his grey eyes.
An incredible feeling of relief settled over Dick. Alfred had understood. He would pass on the message... but would Bruce believe him? Dick's body shuddered as he battled for his life. He had begun gasping, desperately trying to draw oxygen into his suffocating system.
Alfred held onto his grandson tightly - for a grandson he was. The elderly man could see he was losing him. He could tell. He was watching Dick fight like he'd never fought before.
Without warning, Dick attempted to speak again, his face lined with an equal amount of pain and determination. His fear for what would happen to Bruce forced him to try again. "Al...fred..." The fingers of oblivion were gripping the injured man, but he refused to succumb. He fought against the darkness beckoning him - fought with a fierceness and determination few others could understand or equal. The nerve in his cheek twitched. "Alfred... you've got to ... make him... understand. My decision. .. Not his... Not his... fault."
"I will try, but he will need to hear it from you, son. You must stay with us," Alfred encouraged. Somehow, the wily old man had realized that Dick's need to save Bruce from himself, may be the key to him finding the strength to save himself.
Dick heard the words and understood them. His eyelids flickered twice before closing. Without his consent, Dick was drawn down in the painless world of unconsciousness, still fighting... for Bruce's sake.
"Master Dick?" Alfred licked his lips and squeezed the hand that gradually went limp in his. "It's going to be alright," the elderly man whispered. Dear God, it's got to be alright!
"He's stopped breathing," Peter snapped.
The declaration hit like a physical blow. Alfred Pennyworth stared at the other man as he rolled Dick onto his back, took hold of his chin and tipped it back. Dick had stopped breathing?! It simply didn't compute.
"Where the hell is the ambulance? I'm losing him, here!" Peter screamed down to Mal, before starting expired air resuscitation.
The revelation sent Alfred's world spinning out of control. They were losing him. One of his boys was dying? ONE OF HIS BOYS WAS DYING!
"Out of my way," Alfred roared. Strength he didn't know he had ignited. He wasn't going to let Dick die. Alfred shoved Peter back and began to blow life giving air into Dick's still lungs. "You are not..." Pause for a breath. "... going to leave this world..." Breath. "under these circumstances... You must fight... Come on, Son... If not for your own sake... for ours... You must fight!"
© June 2004 Aussie Nightwriter. : This relates only to the creative property in this story. The distinctive way the story unfolds, the specific dialogue and unique situations are mine. I acknowledge that some of the characters and settings belong to DC comics. (g) No infrigement of copyright was intended and no profit has been made from this story... so, please don't sue me. It wouldn't be worth your while.