Author's Note: Felt like continuing this in a slightly different vein. This picks up approximately two months after the previous chapter. A dire situation provides a backdrop for more Bruce and Dick bonding. May be continued further.
Enjoy.
Comfort 5
I would have preferred a better situation than this. Currently trapped in a room with rapidly shrinking dimensions and an already limited oxygen supply, I can admit to being impressed with our adversaries' tactics. Not only did they lead us into this death trap ourselves by placing it in a novelty maze, but also accounted for how much oxygen it would take to keep us breathing for exactly three minutes once inside. Having dispensed with my usual methods of escape, we now only have two minutes of air remaining before suffocation. Beside me, the boy is feeling the effects.
"We're…doomed…big guy…" Dick informs me. He is panicking. I fully understand why. Still, two minutes is an eternity to escape.
"We are not doomed. We are merely…well challenged." I reply, mindful of the fact both the walls and ceiling are closing in. In less than thirty seconds, neither of us will be able to stand upright even with a full oxygen supply. I consider what avenues are left open. There is a weakness here, some flaw in the structure's design: I merely have to find it. But there is not sufficient time. I produce both C4 explosives from my belt and affix them to the floor and wall closest to me. Once primed, I bundle the boy into the space behind me, away from the explosives and use my body to shield him. As the ceiling brushes my head even in a crouching position, I detonate the C4 and pray I can take the shockwave. Blackness follows.
I regain full consciousness some minutes later. I am fortunate not to be concussed. I check beneath me. The boy is apparently unharmed. Above us, the ceiling has fragmented into chunks following the explosion. One currently pins us but is not crushing in weight. Since my body is the only thing preventing it from moving, I guess it to be less than three-hundred-and-fifty pounds when factoring in my physical conditioning and pain levels. I can move it. From kneeling, I shift into a deep squat position and simply straighten my legs. The fragment groans as it is lifted from the rubble, and my own knees pop with the effort, but it goes up and then backwards without significant resistance. I assess the boy again.
"Robin? Can you hear me?" I say gently shaking him by the shoulders. He lethargically regains consciousness. There are no obvious signs of injury. He nods.
"Yeah."
"Any pain or discomfort?"
"Just light-headed. Lack of oxygen, right?" He says drunkenly getting to his feet. I nod my head.
"Yes. It will pass in a few minutes."
"They really blindsided us with that trap, huh?" He says scanning the wreckage around us. I nod again.
"Their preparations were very efficient. Rest assured, we will find them before long. For now, let's go home."
The journey back to the cave is aided by the autopilot. I am more affected by bearing the brunt of the explosion than first thought. Aside from heavy bruising and probably rib fractures of varying severity, my left hand feels unusually impaired. I may have sustained nerve damage that will require an extent of rehabilitation if my assessment is proven correct. The boy too is not without his marks. Despite my body acting as a brace and shield from the explosions, the force of the shockwave likely hurled me into him and, subsequently, sent him into the concrete beneath us. He is complaining of a sore back and claims both his arms and backs of his legs feel really bruised. Alfred can make a more conclusive assessment upon our return. We arrive at the cave minutes later.
The prognosis is not good. The boy has sustained bruising to almost thirty-five percent of his body while I have fractured five ribs and sustained minor nerve damage to my hand to compliment the bruising that covers close to half of my body. Still, there are no concussions to contend with or actual broken bones. We are both supplied with copious amounts of medication and sent to bed until further notice. I do not contest the old man's ruling: I am tired and need rest after the past week. I retire to bed without fuss. The boy does the same. I imagine our physician is more than pleased with our amicable nature this evening. I dream deeply.
When I awake, it is still dark outside. I am no longer alone in bed. The boy is with me, but not at his usual distance in these situations. Instead of occupying the vacant side of the mattress, Dick has installed himself in the hollow of my body, facing my chest, and ensuring only two inches of clearance space between us. I laboriously shift back an additional six inches. Despite his strength and conditioning, I would not wish to crush or suffocate him in my sleep. I am not used to this sort of company during the night, especially not with my current medication levels. I lapse back into sleep with ease.
I open my eyes sometime later and find daylight now dominating the room. I look down and find the boy once more dangerously close to me. A lethargic glance over my shoulder shows me only half-a-foot from the edge of the bed. It would appear Dick has pursued me across the length of the mattress. Judging from my position, I have moved back no less than four times during the night. I shuffle closer to him with the aim of gently shifting him back to a more central point of the bed. I succeed in pushing him almost a foot before the movement is too much to avoid stirring him to life. A low groan is followed by a reveal of blue eyes from behind heavy eyelids. He looks up at me without noticeable embarrassment.
"I didn't have a nightmare." He informs me languidly before pressing his head against my diaphragm, "I just got up to pee and went to the wrong room." I consider the plausibility of this explanation carefully.
"The nearest bathroom to you is roughly ten metres down the east corridor. My room is almost fifty metres past that door…"
"Fine. I got up to pee and then deliberately went to the wrong room." He corrects himself with a sigh. His forehead is still against my diaphragm. "You don't have to be a detective all the time, you know. Let me keep my dignity once in a while at least." For a fourteen-year-old, I find the boy very sweet. He wrongly believes this kind of behaviour to be needy when it is nothing of the sort. We were less than two minutes from death last night: some comfort from a loved one is a perfectly normal reaction to such trauma. He seems to forget that easily.
"You need to stop attacking yourself for wanting attention from me, Dick. It really is unnecessary." I say reaching down to stroke his hair before hesitating. The bruising to his neck and back is severe as the discolouration of his skin peeks out through the collar of his pyjama shirt. I do not wish to cause him pain.
"My head's already braced against you: stroking my hair isn't going to do anything bad." Dick informs me, evidently having guessed my approach to the situation. I proceed to ruffle it lightly. "When does this become inappropriate?" He asks. His tone is slightly fraught. Teenagers apply far too much pressure to themselves. He is not clung to me like a leech every hour of the day. It is only in extreme circumstances he displays any vulnerability at all these days. His injuries a few months ago are a prime example. Still, ambiguity is something he hates so I give him an answer.
"A good boundary would be adulthood."
"So I'm good doing this until I'm eighteen?" He checks. Being eighteen does not make one an adult. It only accounts for the majority of physical growth. I sigh.
"Provisionally, let us say yes. How do you feel this morning?"
"Lousy. My back feels like it's on fire whenever I move. How about you?"
"I have felt better. I think a day of rest is in order for both of us." Dick moves his head off me and looks up. His eyes offer mistrust.
"Really? You're going to stay in bed all day?" I understand his scepticism on the matter. I rarely allow myself to convalesce for longer than a few hours before returning to the cave. Even the most severe of injuries are only granted twenty-four hours grace before I commence ignoring their presence. I believe this constitutes severe.
"Promise to keep me company and I will do exactly that." I tell my guest honestly. The boy smiles at me. I never tire of seeing it. His parents did a wonderful job of ensuring he grew up happy…and enforcing a strict tooth brushing regime. They are very white.
"I don't want to move so…I'm game. Movie and pyjama day right?"
"Absolutely. They come around quickly, don't they?"
"Like every two weeks at the moment. I get first pick…"
Alfred insists we remain lying down when he gives us the next round of medication and checks. I have icepacks pressed against my ribs whilst the boy is instructed to lie atop of his to alleviate swelling and restrict blood flow. He is kind enough to provide us with a collection of films. He even puts Dick's initial choice into the DVD player and switches on the flat screen. Our heads are propped up on pillows to watch the opening credits. When the old man leaves to prepare breakfast, both of us dispense with the icepacks and readjust our positions. However whilst I replace my packs once I am in an appropriately reclined position, Dick is less than enthusiastic.
"My ass has gone numb." He tells me as Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade progresses through its exciting first set piece.
"Did you bruise it last night?"
"Yeah."
"Then you should probably apply ice if you wish to walk to the bathroom later."
"Fine." He says in a sour voice before sitting on one and gaining an extra inch in height as a consequence. "Breakfast better be good." He adds folding his arms. I nod.
"Yes, because peanut butter and marshmallows on toast won't sway you this time, will it?"
"Shut up."
As expected, peanut butter and marshmallow ease the boy's bitterness. Alfred again puts us back into a prone position on the mattress and we again move back once he is gone with the dirty crockery. By this point, Doctor Jones is closing in on the chalice of eternal life and hotly pursued by the Nazi contingent. The boy is fully engrossed and mercifully quiet. It gives me time to consider how best to track down our would-be executioners. Their preparations were very comprehensive and the trap itself was executed flawlessly. To achieve such precision and timing points to dummy runs. Many dummy runs. Their leader is a perfectionist. They must be. Dummy runs mean trial and error. Trial and error mean casualties. Perhaps even fatalities. It might be prudent to investigate recent morgue records to find a correlation between the injuries sustained and presumed cause of death. In the meantime, we will need to find them again. I doubt it will be so easy this time: I imagine they believe us to be dead. There will be no trail of breadcrumbs to follow. I am interrupted by Dick smacking me in the chest.
"Are you listening?" The boy asks despite already knowing I have been elsewhere during his monologue.
"No. Sorry. What were you saying?"
"I was talking about the investigation. I basically said that the trap ran like a Swiss watch. That takes practice and with criminals like these, practice always leads to…"
"Death. I was thinking along similar lines. Were you suggesting we look at morgue records for persons who have injuries conducive with being crushed to death?"
"Or suffocation. Or both. I was trying to talk about something you'd actually be interested in." Dick says with palpable disappointment. I put a hand on his shoulder.
"You are very interesting, Dick. You know what I am like. Sometimes my thoughts overwhelm everything else around me. It is not a comment on your conversational skills but merely a fault of my own." I say hoping to allay his fears of being dull. "It is a very bright idea. We shall look into it as soon as we are able."
By the time midday has come, we have finished Indiana Jones and are now watching the Mask of Zorro, one of my father's favourites. My ribs are still understandably tender, but both the ice and pain relief are blunting the effects. The boy falls asleep less than twenty minutes into the black-and-white classic and snores softly beside me. I am not offended: such films are not to everyone's tastes, especially adolescents. His injuries too will be playing their part. I should have devised a better plan for our escape. Next time I will. I return to watching the film. Less than five minutes later, I feel the mattress shift beneath me. When I look over, I witness a strange phenomenon in action. The boy is unconsciously shuffling closer. He continues until he is pressed against the icepacks covering my side. Since burrowing your face into ice is an effective way of contracting hypothermia, I gently push him back. A minute later he returns to his burrowed position.
I consider waking him, but think better. He needs sleep. I remove the icepack and allow the boy to settle his cheek against my stomach. Since it is primarily my left side that sustained the fractures, I shift more icepacks away from my right. He adopts a foetal position and is as tight against me as possible. The pressure of his bodyweight is negligible: even only a month or so away from fifteen, Dick barely weighs one-hundred-and-forty pounds. It is more than manageable and not wholly unenjoyable either. The time spent with him during his previous injuries was a very pleasant experience. My being injured alongside him only helps to level the playing field. I comb through his hair once and return to the film. The old man arrives with lunch fifteen minutes later.
"Enjoying your day-off, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks whilst setting down the tray table.
"It is hardly a day-off, Alfred. The only saving grace of this entire situation is that it is the weekend. With any luck, we will be able to resume duties by Monday." I reply whilst gingerly taking ownership of the cutlery offered.
"That may be correct in terms of going to work and school, but certainly not where patrols are concerned. That will take at least two weeks." The old man says with a strictness that does not welcome argument. "Should I leave Master Dick some lunch?" He inquires whilst showing me a platter of chicken fajitas, one of the boy's favourite foods. I nod.
"Please do, old friend. He'll want some when he wakes up." I begin to cut through my rare steak. Alfred places the fajitas on the far bedside table before scrutinising the boy.
"He looks like he could sleep forever." The old man remarks warmly before combing through Dick's hair with same affection I remember him showing me. I smile.
"He probably could. Do you have a new round of medication for us?"
"Of course, Sir." He hands me two individual pots of pills in varying amounts. "Make sure he takes all of them before four o'clock. And that he eats something." Alfred turns his attentions from the boy to the screen. "Are you ready for another?" The film still has yet to reach its climactic scene between Power and Rathbone, but I feel I have seen it enough to warrant another picture.
"Please put on Inception. The boy likes that sort of nonsense."
"Certainly, Master Bruce. Will there be anything else?" I consider carefully.
"Yes Alfred, just one more thing. Kindly go into his room and get his homework. I know for a fact he has yet to complete either his geography or history assignments." The old man cracks a smile at this. He deplores tardiness of any sort, particularly where academia is concerned. His eyes say he is pleased.
"You're a man after my own heart, Sir. I'll fetch it shortly."
Dick wakes up half-an-hour later, bleary-eyed and disorientated. "What time is it?" He asks, clumsily pushing away from me and sitting up in painful-looking stages. He is suffering. I can fully sympathise.
"Barely one. You have only been asleep for ninety minutes. Alfred's made you fajitas." I say whilst gesturing to the far side of the bed. The boy is less than impressed.
"I have to go all the way over there to get them?" He says before blowing out his cheeks, "This is not going to be a pretty sight." When he begins to crawl towards the far side on all fours, I understand his point. Moving like an arthritic camel, Dick reaches the fajitas a minute later and decides against an immediate return journey. Instead, he sits like a chipmunk and eats his food in a similar manner. I cannot help but crack an amused smile at this behaviour. It reminds me of visits to the zoo with my parents, as bad as that may sound. The boy notices this. He smiles back, clearly aware of how ridiculous he looks. He may even be doing it on purpose to distract me from our predicament. Either way, it is delightful. Eventually he comes back and resumes watching the film.
"Did Alfie leave me anything else?" The boy inquires when he is fully settled. I hand him the new round of medication and a tumbler of water.
"This is from Alfred." I say as he takes them. Once he passes the tumbler back I push his geography and history folders into his chest, "This is from me. I suggest you make a start on it." I retrieve the tray table that is now folded beside the bed and open it over his lap. This causes severe pain and discomfort but is worth it.
"Are you going to help me again?" He asks opening his geography folder and producing both the work and a selection of pens and pencils to complete the task with.
"Where appropriate. You should have no difficulties with either assignment. You are strong in both subjects. Do you need me to turn the film off to concentrate?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Then you have until its conclusion, approximately two hours, to complete your work."
"Yes dad."
When Inception finally reaches its ambiguous closing scene, I look over at the boy's progress. He has dispensed with his geography folder altogether and is currently putting what appear to be the finishing touches to his history report on the American Frontier. Once the end credits are roughly halfway through, he places his pencils down and declares himself finished. I relieve him of his work and scrutinise it. It is easy for Dick to get excited about volcanoes and earthquakes but more of a challenge to interest him in ecology and environmental management. Still, his assignment on those subjects appears worthy of at least a B plus but perhaps not quite an A minus. I cannot expect total perfection from him. I am satisfied with his effort. I turn to history. His report is lively, but more importantly factual in what it states. This is an A grade. It is comprehensive and well written, two things Alfred has drummed into him over the past semester.
"Good. It is all good, Dick." I say handing it back. "Alfred will be impressed."
"Thanks. Hey, can I ask you something?" He does not sound nervous about posing his question. Therefore I am hoping it is not awkward. I incline my head.
"Of course. What is it?"
"Think I have a shot with Barbara?" I blink. Of course it is awkward. The boy is almost fifteen and highly curious. Awkward is a prerequisite. I am aware my condition means I cannot escape giving an answer. Alfred's lack of presence is also keenly felt.
"A shot?" I repeat.
"Look, I went out with a few girls, right? But none of them knew who I really was and I couldn't tell them. But Barbara knows…about everything. And I really like her. So, do you think we could ever…maybe be together some day?" I have never heard him talk like this where women are concerned. I was aware he had an infatuation with Jim Gordon's daughter, perhaps even pined after her, but not to this extent. This has undertones of true romance. It is a sensation I have rarely felt and only fleetingly at that. I never had such feelings so young though.
"I…see no reason why not. Does she like you in the same way?"
"I think so. I'm just worried though."
"About…rejection?" I say, unsure of what he means. The boy shrugs.
"That and the fact that if we did end up together she might not understand."
"Understand what?" I say. He stares at me hard.
"Us. Our relationship isn't exactly normal." I do not like his implication of it being otherwise. I frown.
"How is it abnormal? I admit we spend many nights together engaging in unusually violent activities against the worst of humanity, but that aside, we are a very close approximation of father and son in every other respect. Do you not agree?"
"Most fathers aren't this close to their sons. You'd know: you told me once before when I had a nightmare that your dad kept you at arm's length. My dad was a little more physical, but I don't think he'd put up with me getting in bed with him at my age. We're like…crazy close." For some reason, admitting those last two words worries him. I have no idea why it would.
"If you think I am being inappropriate with you…"
"You're not a pervert. I've never thought that. Besides which, I came to you. In the middle of the night, when I wanted to not be alone and scared, I came to your room and got in bed with you. There is nobody else on this planet I would dare do that with. The fear of getting caught being so needy would literally kill me. I'm thinking that maybe I'll always feel that way, that you're the only person I can turn to when I'm on the edge of my sanity. How would I ever make someone else understand that?"
His eyes are asking for an answer I have never considered preparing. I know the boy loves me. I love him too. However, for him to say without prompting that I am the only person he thinks he will ever trust unconditionally is absurd. He has been alive and conscious of his own existence for perhaps just over a decade. His long-term memory is also barely a decade old. He will remember events from when he was four or five, but likely nothing before three. He has a lifetime left to form such deep attachments as the one he describes between us. I tell him as much.
"Relationships are not stationary things, Dick. They are forever changing to suit the individuals they bind together. There is nothing that states you cannot form that kind of intimate relationship with someone else. All it takes is time. As for someone understanding our dynamic, we simply have a close bond. There is nothing unsavoury or alienating about it. And, as you grow older, I am certain your need for my companionship when you are frightened will wane. My role may even be replaced altogether by your partner, whoever that might be. It is part of the human condition." This seems to appease him. He nods in vague understanding of what I mean.
"It's just been a crazy year. First Barbara is Batgirl, then I have that whole thing with Luke and then the drinking and the rest of the year was just as weird…" I stop him from highlighting any other less than stellar examples of my parenting by putting an arm around his shoulder in spite of how painful the action is. My side feels like it is on fire.
"I know things are not always easy for you. Our lives and the manner in which we live them often do not make matters any clearer. Just know that I have never had any fears about you finding someone to spend your life with and to love you. You will be just fine." He looks unconvinced.
"You promise?"
"I know." I say before turning to the now black screen. "Feel mobile enough to put another one on?" He nods.
"Yeah, okay. Anything in particular?"
"Surprise me."