I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.
Rated PG-13 : violence, language, sexuality, some mature concepts.
Reviews are greatly appreciated.
Evening. The last light of day gleamed in through the white blinds in the window in the white wall in this terribly white hospital room. He had fallen asleep again, luckily without the dark images that had begun to disturb his sleep in the last days, as he was slowly taken off painkillers. But this evening was worth waking up for; it was the evening of the day he was getting out of here.
Dick collected his strength, pushed the covers back, sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. Carefully he stood up, feeling a now-familiar twinge in his chest, and made his way across the room to the small but private bathroom. One of the perks of being a VIP. Very Important Patient. Important enough to rate getting this room to himself. Of course it helped that Batman had arranged somehow to pay for his expenses. Just one more thing he owed to Bruce.
Yes, he should be grateful. He was grateful. Bruce - Batman - had done everything he could to help. He had visited every day. He had made sure Dick had the best care, and the best treatment. He had even insisted that Dick stay in his house until he was fully recovered. And yet - as he splashed cold water over his face and peered at himself in the mirror, Dick was glad Batman wasn't there now.
Not that he hadn't tried to be comforting, in his way. But somehow his somber and often silent presence had the opposite effect, with its reminder of the tragedy they shared. There was no way Dick could joke or tease him out of this dark mood, nor did he want to try.
No, he needed someone to lighten his own mood. Something to blot out the nightmare memory of fear and pain that intruded into his dreams, something to stop him from seeing Kathy every time he closed his eyes; the look of surprise on her face when the bullet hit...
Tears again. Dick wiped them away and cooled his eyes again with a splash of water. Hated feeling so weak. So helpless. It made things worse. Had to pull himself together. Batman had. At least on the surface.
And yet, there was something a little weird about his rigid self-control. He had questioned Dick briefly about what had happened. When it became obvious what little he remembered wouldn't help find the Joker, Batman had dropped it. And hadn't mentioned it again, or said anything about Kathy beyond what he'd say about any murder victim.
He had gone to the funeral as Bruce and then refused to talk about it. No, he came in every day, made conversation as if nothing was wrong, stared out the damn window for a while, and then left. The only thing he had shown any real emotion about was his search for the Joker, just a few momentary displays of his anger and frustration at not having made any progress in the week since the shooting.
Not fair, Dick told himself. Everyone handled grief in their own way. Bruce just kept it inside. He must feel terrible, and it must make things even worse when he had no one to talk to about it. A new wave of shame added to the guilt Dick always seemed to carry now. He hadn't protected Kathy. Now it was up to him to reach Bruce somehow, make it easier for him. He'd been selfish, thinking only about his own feelings, while Bruce was the one who needed comfort.
And there was someone else he should be thinking about, too. After finishing in the bathroom, Dick returned to the bed and sat. Batman had finally decided he was capable of making a phone call without revealing how badly injured he was, and had brought him his cellphone. Slowly, he punched in the number. Part of him almost hoped she wouldn't answer, so he wouldn't have to lie to her, but a stronger part wanted to hear her voice, wanted to see her and know she was thinking of him...
"Hello?"
"Barbara?"
"Dick! Dick, are you okay?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm fine."
"I've been so worried! Where are you? What's going on?"
"Didn't Bruce give you my message?"
"Yeah, but all he said was you had to leave town to take care of a family problem. He didn't say where, and your cellphone didn't answer..."
"Yeah, I - forgot and let the battery run out. Sorry."
"What happened?"
"It's a family thing, like Bruce told you."
"Family? Who?"
Barbara knew his parents were dead, and he had no brothers or sisters. Dick closed his eyes and recited the lie he and Batman had decided on. "My uncle. He's been living in Europe, and we'd lost touch. Now he's here because of a medical problem. I'm trying to help out."
"Where are you?"
It had to be far enough away that she wouldn't decide to come after him. "California."
"L.A.? San Francisco? I know people there."
He groped for the most obscure California city he had ever heard of. "No. Silver Hills."
"Oh." Her voice sounded disappointed. "Well - when will you be back?"
At least this time he could tell the truth, at least partially. "Probably another two or three weeks." By then he should be almost back to normal, and he could make up a story, invent an accident to explain the fading scars on his face and shoulder.
"What about your job? Your apartment?"
And this answer could be honest, too. "Bruce is taking care of it. Don't worry."
"Well... good." There was a hesitation in her voice. "You know about Kathy, don't you?"
His heart sank at the name. "Yeah. I know."
"I can't believe she's gone. We had dinner with her the same night."
"Yeah."
"And she was Batwoman. I can't believe it. She hid something like that from her friends." There was another slight pause, as Dick struggled with the lump that had risen in his throat. "Do you think Bruce knew?"
Taken by surprise, he stammered, "I - I guess maybe."
"Have you talked to him?"
"Yeah, a couple of times."
"When he spoke to me, he sounded like nothing happened. It was kind of weird."
"He just doesn't like to show it," Dick said. "He cared for her. A lot."
"I suppose." Her voice faltered. "Dad's been really upset. He talks about the Joker all the time. It's been a pretty bad time for everyone."
"Yeah, must have been."
"I wish you were here."
"Me too, Babs. I miss you."
"Will you call me? And keep your phone working this time?"
"Yeah, I will. I guess I'd better go now."
"I hope your uncle feels better soon."
Another little trickle of guilt through his heart. "He'll be okay. I'll talk to you soon."
He put the phone down and lay back, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Secrets, lies, and guilt. Was this what his life had turned into?
"How are you doing in there?"
Batman's voice from the other side of the bathroom door was just shaded with impatience. He wanted to get going, get out of there. So did Dick. But still he stood staring at the reflection of himself in the small mirror.
This was the first time he had worn the Nightwing costume since the shooting. Only a week, but it felt a lot longer. He looked down, and touched his chest where the bullets had hit, hard enough to cause internal bleeding. One had gotten through the Kevlar to crack a rib and damage a lung. Then his shoulder, where a third bullet had struck, piercing skin and muscle. In the mirror, bruises and a healing cut showed on his face. He'd have scars. Both outside and in.
But he'd live. And fight again. Dick lifted his mask and slid it into place. And Nightwing opened the door.
"I'm ready."
"Good," Batman said. "The police have cleared the corridors between here and the side entrance. The Batmobile's waiting. Maybe we'll be lucky and everyone outside will be too busy celebrating New Year's - or too drunk - to notice us."
"New Year's Eve. Right, that's tonight."
"Yes. Let's go."
They saw him off; a small group of doctors and nurses, the few who had been permitted inside his hospital room during the past week. Nightwing stopped, turning away from Batman's impatient frown, and took the time to shake hands, exchange smiles, say thanks and receive good wishes.
Then they were outside, in the cold breeze, under a sky bright with stars. A scattering of snowflakes drifted down, chilling his face. The world seemed so big suddenly, so chill and hard and full of sharp edges, after a week spent without setting foot outside his room. Nightwing shivered, almost tempted to retreat back into the light, warmth, and safety of the hospital.
"You okay?"
A hand was grasping his arm, guiding him to the Batmobile. "Sure, I'm fine," he murmured automatically as Batman opened the door, waited for him to slide inside, and closed him in.
"It'll be nice to see Alfred again," he said, mostly to make conversation, as the engine rumbled to life.
"I'm sure he'll be glad to see you too."
He knew he should say more; something to soften the harsh lines of Batman's profile, something to show he was grateful, anything. But he simply didn't have the strength.
The Batcave seemed different somehow, as if he had been gone for years instead of only a week. So did the house above it, Dick decided, after he had changed into jeans and a shirt and climbed the long narrow stairway that ended behind the grandfather clock in Bruce's study, that hand at his elbow to support him again when he faltered. Bruce was certainly different, although the only outward sign was the unfamiliar shadows under his eyes. Even Alfred was different, but in a good way, offering a warmly welcoming smile instead of his usual formal manner.
"So good to see you, Mr. Grayson. I hope your stay here will be a pleasant one."
"Thanks. I'm sure it will."
"Would you care for something to eat?"
Dick shrugged. "I'm not all that hungry. And I don't want to be any trouble."
"It's no trouble at all. Perhaps just a snack? Good food will help with your recovery. A sandwich, some hot chocolate...?"
Good old Alfred. Too bad food couldn't cure everything. Dick smiled, unable to say no to that eager expression. "Hot chocolate sounds good. Thanks."
"I'll take Dick to his room," Bruce said. "Why don't you bring it up for him?"
"Very good, sir. I'll be up shortly."
This time Dick was glad of Bruce's help as they began to slowly climb another long set of stairs. Only a week ago he could have run up them. He stopped, trying to catch his breath, hating his own weakness.
"Want me to carry you?"
"No!" Dick exclaimed. "I mean, I'm fine." The very idea gave him the strength to get up to the second floor.
"This'll be your room." Bruce led him to a door, and held it open for him.
Dick stepped inside and looked around. It probably wasn't a big room by Bruce's standards, but it seemed immense to him, after his own bedroom which was barely large enough for a bed, a dresser, and a closet. This one was equipped with all those, and also night tables, a set of bookcases filled with books, a television, a stereo, and a couple of armchairs.
"It's great," he said. "Thanks."
"Alfred and I picked up your clothes at your apartment. We bought whatever else we thought you might need. If we missed anything, just let Alfred know."
"Thanks."
"The bathroom's right across the hall."
"Okay."
Bruce crossed the room to a bookcase, took out a book, fidgeted with it for a few seconds, and then put it back. For the first time, it occurred to Dick that the other man was almost as uncomfortable as he was.
"This was my room when I was a kid," Bruce said quietly, his back still turned.
"It was?" Dick prompted when he fell silent again.
"Yeah. After my parents died, I lived with my uncle for a while. Later, I moved back here. Didn't want to use my parents' room, so I turned it into another study. There's a computer in there. You can use it if you want."
"Thanks." Dick waited, and then asked, "What was it like, living with your uncle?"
"It was... He was a very busy man. I didn't see much of him."
"Sounds kind of lonely."
"Maybe. I had a home. Can't complain."
Dick watched him, wondering if he was thinking about what had happened to Dick himself, about the years he had spent in orphanages and foster homes, or only remembering his own past. He found himself trying to picture that little boy, his parents killed in front of him, suddenly thrown from a loving family into the care of an uncle who probably had no idea what to do with the child who had been dumped on him. Not hard to imagine at all. What was it Bruce had once said? I look at you, and I can almost see myself... For the first time, Dick knew exactly what he meant.
"I guess we were both lonely," he said tentatively.
Bruce turned, his expression softened, but whatever answer he might have had was left unsaid as Alfred appeared in the doorway, a tray balanced on his hand. He stopped a step or two inside the room and looked from Bruce to Dick. "Getting settled in all right?" he asked after a moment.
"Yeah, everything's great."
"Well, it's late," Bruce said. "I'd better let you get some rest." He started for the door.
"Bruce..."
"Yes?" He turned back in the doorway, his face shadowed by the light from the hall.
"I really appreciate all this. What you're doing for me."
Some unidentifiable emotion crossed Bruce's face. "It's nothing," he said. "The least I could do."
"Well, thanks."
"Good night."
"Here we go," Alfred said with slightly forced cheerfulness, setting the tray on a night table. "Just a bit of food, and that hot chocolate. Drink this and you'll sleep like a baby."
"Looks great. Thanks." Feeling absolutely no appetite, Dick picked up the cup and took a sip.
"It really is good to have you here, sir. With you out of the hospital, perhaps Master Bruce can begin to recover."
Dick looked up. "He seems to be doing okay."
"Appearances can be deceiving. Especially where he is concerned." Alfred sighed, a tiredness that was more than the late hour coming over his face. "He's taken Miss Kathy's death and your injury very hard indeed."
"Yeah. I guess it's been hard for everyone." Dick looked down at his hands, trying to relax the tension that had tightened his stomach.
"Sorry, sir. Perhaps I shouldn't have brought it up."
"No, it's okay. Gotta face it. That's the only way to get over it."
"A very healthy attitude. I hope Master Bruce..." Alfred trailed off. Then with another over-bright smile, he took a step to the door. "I'll leave you to get some sleep. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything. My room is on the level above, second door on the right, and you can reach me on the house phone."
"Thanks," Dick said, for what felt like the millionth time. After the door closed he picked up the cup of hot chocolate again and drained it. The sandwich was more than he could handle at the moment, though.
The thought of sleep held no appeal, either. Restlessly, Dick got up and explored the room, finding his t-shirts and underwear neatly folded in the dresser drawers, his shirts and pants presenting a lonely picture in the closet, where they took up only a fraction of the space. Undoubtedly there would be a full set of supplies in the bathroom, too.
A big, beautiful room, everything he needed, a butler to wait on him, two people trying to make him comfortable. There were good reasons for him to be here. He couldn't be seen yet, not when someone might put Dick Grayson's injuries together with Nightwing's and come up with the truth. He still needed care, and rest. And yet he would have infinitely preferred his own cramped, shabby apartment, where he could take care of himself, where he could relax and recover away from concerned eyes, away from anyone who reminded him of what had happened.
Dick sat heavily on the bed, and then lay down, staring at the ceiling.
TBC...