A/N: I apologize sincerely to everyone from the bottom of my heart for how long this has taken to get up. It's down to a combination of factors that I won't bore you with the details of. But I really am so sorry; it's completely unacceptable on my part. For what its worth, I am now finished college for my Christmas break and I promise you won't have to wait so long for the final two chapters. I would also like to thank all the wonderful people who have messaged me and left reviews on this story. Thank you all so much; I really appreciate your lovely feedback. :)
Finally, to everyone reading this, I hope you all have a very merry Christmas, and I wish joy and peace to you and yours. :)
oOo
By the time Bruce and Commissioner Gordon arrived at The Kingpin Inn, police officers had secured the perimeter and SWAT were moving into position. Commissioner Gordon had decided to use SWAT since the men who'd kidnapped Dick were armed and possibly dangerous, but their involvement only made Bruce more nervous. Ninety percent of SWAT raids ended without a single shot being fired, but that still left a ten percent margin for someone to get hurt. And even ten percent were odds Bruce didn't like.
The commissioner parked at the gas station several yards from the motel where SWAT had set up its command post. There were no reporters to be seen, but that didn't mean they wouldn't show once word spread that the area around the Kingpin Inn had been closed off and a SWAT team were present. Just thinking about that possibility made Bruce's anxiety ratchet several notches higher. Reporters would endanger Dick further if they tipped off the kidnappers before SWAT were ready to move.
Which Bruce hoped would be soon. Time was of the essence and they'd already wasted enough. Preparation for this rescue had been painstakingly slow; the media presence outside the station had forced SWAT to mobilize from another location, with Gordon briefing them via speakerphone. Gordon had also needed to deploy officers to secure the area surrounding the motel without tipping off the waiting newshounds to what was going on. And while such precautions had been necessary, the waiting had almost driven Bruce insane. He'd wanted nothing more than to race to Dick's rescue as soon as Denver had revealed his location, but Bruce Wayne disappearing while his son's rescue operation was going down only to be followed by Batman rescuing the boy would raise too many questions. And if word got out that Bruce was Batman, it wouldn't just be Bruce's life on the line…it would be everyone who mattered to him. So he had no choice but to stay with Gordon and play the helpless, worried parent. Which wasn't all that difficult since that's exactly what he was.
Bruce was getting pretty fucking tired of being powerless to help his own child.
After SWAT had rolled out, Gordon enlisted two officers as decoys so that he and Bruce could leave without being followed. While the media were preoccupied with the decoys, Bruce and Gordon had snuck out the back door of the station and into an unmarked patrol car, the painstaking, frustratingly necessary process driving Bruce insane. Even getting to the motel – despite Gordon breaking every speed limit on the way – had felt like an eternity to Bruce.
The result was that every nerve in his body was stretched to snapping as they climbed out of the car. It didn't help that Dick was less than a hundred yards away and Bruce could do nothing. He was already regretting not going in as Batman, because what if something went wrong?
Following Gordon towards the sleek, black bus that functioned as the SWAT command post, Bruce glanced at the Kingpin Inn. It was a typical motel; a two-story, L-shaped structure with all of its rooms facing the parking lot. SWAT had obviously chosen the gas station because its sideways proximity meant it was located in the motel's only blindspot. He just hoped that blindspot would be enough to keep the kidnappers from discovering they were out here.
Bruce followed Gordon onto the bus, where they were approached by one of its occupants, a tall man whose bearing told Bruce he was ex-military. "Commissioner Gordon," the man greeted the officer.
Gordon shook his hand and gestured towards Bruce. "Commander, this is Mr. Wayne. Mr. Wayne, this is Commander Harris."
"Commander, do you know how Dick is?" asked Bruce at once, concern making him disregard social niceties.
Commander Harris shook his head. "Not yet. I'm waiting on my recon team to return with information on the room and its occupants."
Gordon frowned. "Can you tell us where you are on the situation?"
"The surrounding rooms have been evacuated, the area is secure, paramedics are standing by and my team are in position. We also spoke to the motel manager." Harris looked grim. "Commissioner, he said he got a complaint about that room around nine last night. Apparently the adjoining room heard someone yelling for help. They said it sounded like a kid."
Bruce felt sick to his stomach at the idea of Dick yelling for help.
"A child was calling for help and he didn't call the police?" said Gordon incredulously. "Did he at least check it out?"
Harris nodded. "He said everything was fine when he entered. The man who rented the room told him the yells had been from the TV and apologized for disturbing the other residents. The manager said the only other person in the room was the man's friend and he was getting sick in the bathroom."
"But did he actually see the other man? Or the bathroom?" Gordon demanded.
"No. But he did identify Charles Donoghue as the man he spoke with."
"So they were probably hiding Dick in the bathroom," Gordon concluded.
"Yes, sir, that'd be my guess," Harris agreed. "And there's something else. My team leaders–" he indicated to the man and woman working feverishly at the computers behind him, "–may have identified another one of the kidnappers."
Gordon looked surprised. "How?"
"The information you gave us at the briefing. You said Charles Donoghue had brought the two unknown kidnappers on board. So we ran a background check on Donoghue and any known associates with the names Jack or Danny. Turns out he went to high school with a Jack Hanley who he's in regular contact with. And Hanley has a long rap sheet: assault, arson, theft, B & E, money laundering…"
"Denver did say that the two men he didn't know were brought on board because they knew how to launder money," Gordon mused. "Hanley could well be one of them."
Harris pursed his lips. "If he is then negotiation isn't likely to work. Jack Hanley has a history of resisting arrest and aggression against authority figures. Ten years ago, he nearly killed an old woman by shoving her down a flight of stairs while trying to escape pursuing officers. If he knows we're here he might hurt the kid."
Bruce couldn't stop himself from groaning in despair at Harris' summation.
"Don't worry, Mr. Wayne," Gordon tried to reassure him. "We'll get Dick out of there unharmed. Commander Harris, I need you to email a picture of Jack Hanley to the station. I'm going to ask Detective Bullock to show the picture to Mike Denver. If Denver identifies Hanley as one of the kidnappers then we can rule out negotiation and focus on other tactics."
"Okay," Harris agreed. "Where–"
"Commander!" a SWAT officer interrupted, boarding the bus. "Thermal imaging picked up something you should see."
"What is it, Marlow?" asked Harris.
The SWAT officer held out what Bruce recognized to be a thermographic camera. The screen showed the thermal images of four figures: three large, one small. The large figures were all emitting a red heat signature, but the small shape was pale pink.
As Harris grabbed his radio and started barking orders, terror slammed into Bruce, nearly taking his breath away. A pink heat signature for that particular camera model meant body heat was fading.
Dick was dying.
Bruce gave a low moan and moved for the door, only to have his path blocked by Commissioner Gordon. "No, Mr. Wayne. Let SWAT do their job."
"Dick…" said Bruce in anguish, unable to voice anything else as he tried to get past Gordon. Why the hell hadn't he gone in as Batman!
The officer didn't budge. "These men are trained experts, Mr. Wayne. Trust them."
But Bruce couldn't. Not when it was his son's life on the line.
He glanced over to where Commander Harris had finished giving the assembled SWAT team the order to advance. The SWAT officer, Marlow, had disappeared while Gordon was restraining Bruce, probably to resume his position with the infrared.
The sound of the SWAT team moving in echoed over the radio and Bruce covered his mouth. He literally couldn't bear this. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gordon watching him in pity, but for once the sentiment didn't irritate him. It paled in comparison to the fear that was strangling him.
Please be okay, Dick. Please, please, be okay!
Bruce wasn't a praying man, but he found himself repeating that mantra over and over, while he waited for the SWAT team to infiltrate the motel room.
Finally, the crash of a door breaking in and the bang of a flash grenade blasted over the radio, followed by loud yells and swearing from the disoriented kidnappers, and cries of "get down on the ground" from a SWAT officer. After several minutes of agonized waiting, the words Bruce was waiting to hear crackled through the radio.
"All clear."
Bruce immediately shoved Gordon and Harris out of the way, and jumped out of the bus.
"Mr. Wayne, wait!" he heard Commissioner Gordon yell, but Bruce ignored him and started to run.
It felt like time was moving in slow motion as he tore up the road towards the motel, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. His mind was devoid of everything except the sensations of anxiety and fear.
Entering the motel parking lot, Bruce spotted several SWAT officers escorting three men in handcuffs out of a room. They were obviously the kidnappers, but Bruce no longer cared about them because Dick was in that room. Increasing his speed, Bruce pushed himself to his limit as he raced across the parking lot. Two of the SWAT officers moved to stop him as he barrelled towards them, but then seemed to think better of it and moved aside to let him pass.
Bruce flew past them and crashed into the motel room, almost bowling over the SWAT officer just inside the door. "DICK!" he cried breathlessly.
The room was small and crowded, but Bruce's eyes immediately picked out the three SWAT officers who were clustered around the bed furthest from the door. Dick's sneakers were all he could see of his son.
"No," he moaned, hurrying across the room and pushing two of the SWAT officers out of the way so he could get to his boy.
Dick was unconscious and chalk white. The SWAT officer on the other side of the bed was untying the ropes around his wrists, and rage sliced through Bruce when he saw how the kidnappers had pulled Dick's broken arm out of position so they could bind his wrists together. And…was that a belt around his mouth?! Bruce's eyes narrowed. There was something depraved-looking about the makeshift gag.
Stomach churning, Bruce dropped to his knees and unbuckled the belt, then carefully unwound it from around Dick's head. It was unnerving how cold and clammy he felt. He finished removing the belt, only to discover there was also something in Dick's mouth.
Those fucking savages! he thought, enraged, as he pulled a saliva-sodden sock out of his child's mouth. Across from him, the SWAT officer shook his head in disgust.
Dropping the sock, Bruce returned his attention to Dick and ran a hand through the boy's hair, only just spotting the blindfold that was twisted up around his forehead; the SWAT officers must have been trying to remove it.
The skin around Dick's nose and mouth was peppered with raw sores, and Bruce wondered if they had been caused by the belt. "Dick?" he whispered. "Can you hear me?"
Dick made no response.
"C'mon, kiddo, open your eyes," Bruce pleaded.
Dick still didn't move. His breathing was very shallow and Bruce noticed a dreadful blue tinge to his lips and fingers. Realizing that Dick was cyanotic, Bruce fumbled for a pulse and his own heart almost stopped when he discovered how weak it was.
"Mr. Wayne," the SWAT officer across from him addressed him suddenly. "The paramedics are here."
Bruce glanced over his shoulder just as two paramedics entered the room, and quickly stood up to let them help Dick. As the paramedics put their equipment down and began to assess Dick, Bruce spied vomit all down the side of the bed and splashed across the carpet. He'd knelt in the stuff without realizing it, but couldn't bring himself to care.
And then it occurred to him that the vomit was probably Dick's.
Bruce clenched his fists. Dick had gotten sick and those bastards had still seen fit to shove a sock in his mouth! Dick could have choked on his own vomit!
He watched in anger and helpless fear as the male paramedic put an oxygen mask over Dick's face to aid his breathing, then winced when the man performed a sternal rub to try and rouse Dick. Meanwhile, the female paramedic had begun to set up an IV. She addressed the room while she worked.
"Does anybody know what he's been given?" No one answered and she frowned. "Can someone find out?"
"I will," volunteered one of the remaining SWAT officers, and left the room.
Bruce remained silent for several heart-wrenching minutes until he could no longer stand it. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded desperately.
The woman glanced at him and her expression softened. "He's been drugged. And whatever they gave him, they gave him too much."
Bruce grappled with what she was saying. "Are you saying that Dick is…ODing?"
"I'm afraid so."
Bruce felt the world drop out from under him. How could this be happening? He was supposed to be meeting Dick for their supervised visit, not watching him OD! This just wasn't fair!
Bruce knew how naïve such reasoning was – he had learned how capricious and cruel life could be when he was eight. But this was hard to stomach; why did the two of them seem so destined to suffer? They'd both already lost everything before finding each other, why couldn't the damn universe just leave them alone?
Bruce's internal tirade was broken by Commissioner Gordon entering the room, his expression tightening when he laid eyes on Dick. "One of the SWAT officers said you needed to know what Dick's been drugged with," he addressed the paramedics, while shooting an uneasy, sideways glance at Bruce. "It's heroin."
Bruce was literally struck dumb. Those bastards gave his child heroin?!
The female paramedic began to root in her bag. "How much did they give him?"
Gordon snorted. "Idiots aren't sure of the exact dosage. They gave him the first shot around ten last night, another one at about four thirty this morning, and the last one almost an hour ago."
"They shot him up three times in the last fourteen hours?!" exclaimed the male paramedic. "What were they thinking?"
"They weren't thinking," replied Gordon in disgust. "They drugged him with chloroform first, but they switched to heroin after the chloroform made him sick."
The chloroform explained the sores around Dick's mouth. Bruce seethed in violent fury. Those bastards were going to pay for what they'd done to his son.
"So they didn't give him any more chloroform after the heroin?" clarified the female paramedic, filling a syringe with clear liquid.
"No," said Gordon, while Bruce narrowed his eyes at the syringe. The needle was huge.
"Why are you giving Dick more drugs?" he demanded.
"This is narcan," she replied, not looking up as she started to administer the drug slowly. "It reverses the effects of an opioid overdose."
Narcan. The word triggered something in Bruce's brain. He knew what narcan was. He also knew that withdrawal was a possible side-effect.
He swallowed. "How long before it takes effect?"
"Difficult to say. It depends on other factors, like how much heroin he's been given and the amount of narcan he's treated with. I'll start with a smaller dose to be on the safe side and steadily increase it to the full dose until he responds."
Bruce was confused. "But if Dick was given a lot of heroin, shouldn't he be given a larger dose of narcan?"
"No. Acute withdrawal can be a side-effect of narcan, especially with larger doses of it," the woman explained patiently. "And that risk increases if a lot of heroin has been ingested. I'm trying to save Dick from coming around in full withdrawal by giving him the narcan slowly. Mr. Wayne, I know your first instinct is to bring Dick straight out of this, but believe me, it's far worse for a patient to just get slammed with a full dose of narcan." She finished her slow administration of the drug and withdrew the needle.
Bruce didn't know what to do. From what he'd seen in heroin users, withdrawal was a hellish experience, one that he did not want Dick to suffer. But if this woman was wrong it could cost Dick his life.
She seemed to sense his hesitation. "Mr. Wayne, I've been doing this for more than ten years and I've treated a lot of heroin overdoses. This way is always easiest on the patient, trust me."
Bruce would have found it a lot easier to trust her if he hadn't heard those exact words from Margaret Elliot when she'd promised to keep Dick safe. But before he could make any objection, the woman spoke again.
"Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry, but we really need to get Dick to the hospital. Do you want to ride with him?"
"Yes," said Bruce at once. If CPS wanted him to leave Dick's side after this then they would need to have him arrested.
Heart pounding, he watched as the paramedics carefully lifted Dick onto the gurney. Once Dick was strapped down, they wheeled him out, Bruce following quickly behind them. Out of the confines of the small room, he was able to walk beside Dick and take his hand.
Moving towards the waiting ambulance, Bruce felt anger grip him when he spied the police barricade that had been set up on the edge of the parking lot; there were at least five or six reporters gathered behind it. They went wild when they spotted him, yelling questions he couldn't hear at this distance, all while taking pictures. Bruce knew the image of him walking alongside the gurney and holding Dick's hand would be plastered across every TV screen in Gotham by tonight. It sickened him that his son's right to privacy was being violated at every turn just because Bruce was a public figure.
They reached the ambulance, enabling Bruce to hear what the reporters were yelling at him. He pointedly ignored them, keeping his eyes fixated on Dick as the paramedics loaded him into the back of the ambulance, while silently fuming over the frenzy of camera flashes to his right. After this was all over, he was going after the press of Gotham for their relentless hounding of Dick. He didn't care how much money he spent, the law needed to change in order to protect children like Dick. No matter how famous the parent, the paparazzi shouldn't be allowed to harass a child like this.
"You can get in now, Mr. Wayne," the male paramedic told him, climbing out of the ambulance once he'd secured the gurney.
Bruce immediately did so, taking a seat beside Dick's head. He was still frighteningly pale, but the awful blue tinge of his lips and fingers had diminished a little. The crumpled blindfold was gone from around his forehead and Bruce guessed the paramedics had removed it.
The female paramedic joined them in the back of the ambulance, while the male paramedic closed the doors. Bruce heaved a sigh of relief to be out of the reporters' line of sight and hoped fervently that there were none waiting at the hospital.
He watched the female paramedic check Dick's oxygen before assessing his vitals and recording them in a chart. Bruce caught a glimpse of the stats she had written down and gulped. It was terrifying how weak Dick was.
The engine started up and Bruce could hear the male paramedic radioing the hospital as the ambulance pulled out. Gotham General was only minutes away, but that did nothing to alleviate his fear. Anything could happen in a few minutes. Jaw clenched tight and his whole body one giant knot of screaming tension, Bruce reached out and ran a hand through Dick's hair.
"Don't worry, Mr. Wayne," said the female paramedic. "We'll take good care of your boy. Trust me."
Bruce scowled. People really needed to stop saying that to him.
oOo
When they finally arrived at Gotham General exactly five minutes and nineteen seconds later, Bruce was frantic. Despite a second shot of narcan enroute to the hospital, Dick still hadn't so much as twitched.
Worry and fear nearly strangling him, Bruce followed the paramedics and Dick through the double doors of the ER, ignoring the startled looks of the patients gathered in the waiting area. He really couldn't give a crap about the oh-my-god-it's-Bruce-Wayne moment they were having.
A doctor and two nurses hurried towards them. "Trauma two is free," said one of the nurses pointing down the hall, and the paramedics immediately pushed the gurney in that direction.
"BP is eighty over fifty-five," the female paramedic began as the doctor fell into step beside the gurney, while Bruce brought up the rear. "Pulse rate thirty-seven and respiratory rate is nine. Temperature is ninety-four and there's been no response to stimuli, including sternal rubbing. He's on an IV of dextrose and he received four milligrams of narcan in two increments. The last injection was almost four minutes ago."
"Why didn't he receive the full dose when his vitals are so low?" demanded the doctor, as they turned into an examination room.
"We don't know exactly how much heroin he was given," explained the female paramedic. "But it sounds like quite a bit. I didn't want him coming around in full withdrawal."
The doctor tsked. "Overdose is a bigger issue than withdrawal. Get me a six milligram bolus of narcan, now!" he barked at one of the nurses, who immediately complied.
Bruce felt his heart plummet and he glanced angrily at the female paramedic. She'd assured him she knew what she was doing!
But the woman didn't even look remotely chastised. Instead she was scowling at the doctor, who was now peering into Dick's eyes. "Pupils are constricted and non-reactive. How long has he been like this?"
"We're not sure. At least fifteen minutes, possibly more," answered the female paramedic, exchanging a resigned glance with the other paramedic.
"Dr. Koburn," said the nurse who'd been instructed to prepare the narcan. She was holding out a large-needled syringe and seemed hesitant.
Dr. Koburn didn't notice. Instead he grabbed the syringe and pulled down the neck of Dick's sweatshirt, jabbing the needle into Dick's shoulder. He pushed the plunger down, administering it far more quickly than the female paramedic had done.
His urgency sent shudders of cold fear through Bruce, who could only watch helplessly as the medical team started to work on Dick. The two paramedics had retreated back to the door and Bruce glanced at them, frowning. They both looked distinctly unhappy about something.
Then he heard a choked cry and turned back just in time to witness Dick jerking his head out from beneath Dr. Koburn's hand: the doctor had been peering into his eyes once more.
Bruce immediately stepped forward, but the doctor waved him back while addressing Dick in a loud voice. "Richard, can you hear me?"
Bruce could see Dick's blue eyes blink in confusion, then dart from side to side.
"Richard," Dr. Koburn's voice was bordering on shouting, "do you understand me?"
Dick made a distressed sound and then gagged, before vomiting into his oxygen mask.
"Dammit!" exclaimed the doctor, simultaneously pulling the mask off of Dick and stepping back as vomit spattered the floor.
Bruce saw Dick retch again, then try to sit up. But the straps on the gurney hadn't yet been unbuckled so all he succeeded in doing was getting sick down the front of his sweatshirt. With a small whine, Dick lay back down and rolled his head to the side. Chest heaving, he spewed over the side of the gurney.
Bruce moved towards him, but was once more waved back by Dr. Koburn.
"Please, Mr. Wayne, step back!" the doctor snapped.
Helpless and frustrated, Bruce did as he was told. He could see Dick's eyes searching the room for him after the doctor said his name. When his gaze landed on Bruce, the billionaire saw him mouth 'Bruce' before vomiting over the side of the gurney once more. One of the nurses began unbuckling Dick from the gurney, trying to avoid the boy's projectile vomiting as she did so.
"What on earth is going on here?" demanded a female voice, and Bruce's head swivelled quickly towards the door to find Dr. Lewis – the very doctor who had kick-started this whole child abuse nightmare – standing there. The paramedics had disappeared.
She looked shocked and Bruce supposed he couldn't blame her. It must have looked like quite a sight; Dick covered in vomit and still half-pinned to the gurney, gasping and puking over the edge, while one of the nurses tried to get him unbuckled, and a squeamish-looking Dr. Koburn who kept jumping back every time Dick threw up.
"Heroin overdose," Dr. Koburn answered brusquely. "And the narcan has induced withdrawal."
"Dick's not an addict, he shouldn't be in withdrawal," said Dr. Lewis, striding towards the gurney. Dr. Koburn looked taken aback that she knew Dick.
"How much narcan was he given?" Dr. Lewis demanded, elevating the head of the gurney, while Dick gasped for breath during a brief reprieve.
"Paramedics gave him four milligrams in two increments and we gave him a bolus of six," replied Dr. Koburn.
Dr. Lewis jerked around to stare at him. "You gave him six milligrams in one bolus?"
Dr. Koburn nodded. "His vitals were extremely low."
Suddenly, Dick gagged and spewed over the edge of the gurney again.
"Get a bedpan," Dr. Lewis instructed one of the nurses, before turning back to Dr. Koburn. "Was he on oxygen when he came in?"
Dr. Koburn nodded. "We had to take the mask off when he started getting sick."
"And which probably wouldn't have happened if you'd given the narcan in smaller doses," Dr. Lewis pointed out, picking up the clipboard at Dick's feet and scanning the paramedics' notes. "Respiratory depression is the biggest problem in an opioid overdose, but the oxygen would have compensated for that. Two milligrams every five minutes until he responded would have been sufficient and it might have prevented this."
She waved a hand at Dick, who was now sweating and trembling on the gurney, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth clenched tight, evidently in pain.
"He wasn't responding to any stimuli and his stats were all dangerously low," Dr. Koburn argued defensively, just as the nurse returned with the bedpan. "I treated him accordingly."
Before Dr. Lewis could respond, Dick made a noise somewhere between a moan and a sob, then retched again over the side of the gurney.
Bruce couldn't bear it any longer. He wasn't going to just stand here while Dick was in such distress, especially since the staff couldn't properly treat him while he was projectile vomiting all over the ER room!
"May I have that, please?" he asked the nurse, indicating the bedpan that she was about to approach Dick with. Looking startled, she nodded and handed it to him. "Thank you," he said, then strode over to the gurney.
"Excuse me, Dr. Lewis," he said, ignoring her surprised expression as he squeezed past her to stand beside Dick. He slid his right arm around the boy's shoulders and carefully pulled him up from where he was leaning over the side of the gurney, heaving and choking and retching. Manoeuvring the bedpan to catch what Dick regurgitated, Bruce brought the boy to a sitting position. Some of the vomit splattered the arm of his expensive suit, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was easing Dick's distress.
Keeping his right arm around Dick's shoulders while his left held the bedpan, Bruce pulled Dick in to lie against his chest. He was shaking and groaning between each dreadful heave, and there was blood on the back of his hand where the IV had somehow been ripped out.
"It's okay, kiddo," Bruce tried to soothe him. "I've got you."
Dick wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. "B-Bruce…how…?"
"The police rescued you. You're in the hospital; those men gave you drugs which made you overdose." Bruce kept things simple. There was no point in explaining about the withdrawal while Dick was in such a state.
"Dick?" Dr. Lewis stepped up beside Bruce. "Do you remember me?"
Through Dick's trembling, Bruce felt him freeze and clutch at his guardian's jacket with his good hand. "Please don't make Bruce leave!"
The doctor looked taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Mr. Wayne is welcome to stay, Dick. But we need to treat you, so I'm just going to ask Mr. Wayne if he would mind helping us to lift you off of that bed and onto this one. Is that okay, Dick?"
She indicated a gurney just behind Bruce and the billionaire realized that Dick was still lying on the paramedics' gurney. Vomit spattered the sheets, despite Dick's efforts to throw up over the side, and the pool of vomit on the floor would make it hard for the doctors to treat Dick without slipping.
Dick relaxed a little and nodded.
Dr. Lewis smiled at him. "Good boy. Mr. Wayne, do you need help?"
"No. I've got him." Balancing the bedpan on Dick's lap, Bruce slid his left arm beneath the boy's knees and carefully lifted him up. Vomit from Dick's sweatshirt smeared his jacket and Bruce grimaced. Alfred was going to kill him.
He placed Dick on the other gurney just as Dick gave a small mewl and a foul-smelling yellowish bile splattered into the pan.
Bruce's gut twisted when he realized that there was nothing left in Dick's stomach to regurgitate and he was actually throwing up stomach acid. "Can't you give him something?" he asked Dr. Lewis.
Looking unhappy, she shook her head. "Most methods of treating withdrawal are designed for addicts who are weaning off of heroin. Clonidine is used to alleviate withdrawal symptoms, but it's a blood pressure medication and I'd rather not risk giving it to Dick considering he's still recovering from increased ICP."
"What about painkillers?" Bruce demanded.
"Not an option until we know how much heroin he was given. The narcan reverses the effects of an opioid overdose, but it doesn't expel the drug from a patient's system – the heroin still needs to metabolize out of Dick's system. And the paramedics' notes state that he was drugged with chloroform as well, not to mention that he was probably released from the hospital on strong pain medication for his head and arm. As a paediatric patient, his system won't tolerate a large intake of drugs, so I have to be cautious until we get a tox screen done."
Bruce's heart sank. How long was Dick going to have to endure this hell for?
Dick finished throwing up and leaned against Bruce, cold sweat now soaking his sweatshirt. The respite from throwing up gave the nurses a chance to reattach the IV and hook Dick up to several monitors, while Dr. Lewis began taking blood. Bruce was pleased to see that Dr. Koburn had disappeared because the man was obviously an ineffectual idiot. How he'd even become a doctor was a mystery.
"Temperature is ninety-five," the shorter of the nurses told Dr. Lewis. "Pulse rate is sixty-three."
"BP is up to ninety over seventy-eight," added the second nurse.
"Dick, how's your arm?" asked Dr. Lewis, not looking up as she withdrew blood.
"It hurts," Dick croaked.
Dr. Lewis frowned. "On a scale of one to ten with ten being the worst, how bad does it hurt?"
"Nine," Dick whispered tiredly.
"They pulled his arm out of position so they could tie him up," Bruce told the doctor through gritted teeth.
Dr. Lewis looked appalled. "We'll organize for an X-ray to look at it, okay, Dick? And an MRI scan as well. I want to make sure there's been no exacerbation of that head injury."
Bruce nodded, but Dick didn't respond. His whole frame was drooping despite the cold sweats and trembling. Bruce could practically feel his exhaustion.
Dr. Lewis finished withdrawing blood and handed three vials to one of the nurses. "Take this straight to toxicology and tell them to put a rush on it. Full tox screen, chem-seven, LFT, and blood gases."
The nurse nodded and headed for the door, which opened just as she reached it, revealing Margaret Elliot and Dana Foster on the other side.
Bruce's blood turned to ice. Oh, Christ, not now!
"Ms. Elliot," Dr. Lewis frowned as the social worker entered, "how did you get back here?"
"One of the nurses directed us. Richard is still a ward of the state and I'm supposed to be here."
"Please don't make Bruce leave!" Dick cried at once.
"Richard," the social worker told him gently, "Mr. Wayne really shouldn't be–"
"Please let him stay! Please!" Dick begged. The monitors connected to him started to beep a little faster and Bruce moved to reassure him.
"Don't worry, Dick. I'm not going anywhere."
"Mr. Wayne," Margaret said irritably, "that is not your decision to make."
Bruce glared at her. "I'm not leaving him."
"Mr. Wayne," the social worker began, scowling, but was interrupted by Dick gagging and once more vomiting into the bedpan.
"Please don't– ugh…make– ack…Bruce leave– guk…please…" he managed to gasp out between each retch and heave.
The monitors were beeping frantically now and Bruce glanced at them in alarm. Dick's heart-rate and blood pressure were sky-rocketing. "Dick, calm down. I'm not going anywhere. Just relax, okay?"
Dick gave a small whimper in response and gagged again, now expelling a putrid-smelling brown bile. Bruce felt his own iron-clad stomach churn a little. Jesus Christ.
"It's alright, kiddo, I'm not leaving, I promise," he whispered to Dick, as the boy gagged and choked over the bedpan. He was shaking violently. "Just relax for me, please?"
Dick shook his head, clawing at the almost full bedpan in agitation. His sweatshirt was now saturated with cold sweat and vomit. They needed to get it off him.
"I'll get another bedpan," offered the nurse quietly and disappeared.
"Mr. Wayne," began Margaret again, and Bruce's head jerked up to stare at her in disbelief. "I'm afraid that–"
"Ms. Elliot," Dr. Lewis spoke up suddenly, interrupting her, "I know you have a job to do, but so do I. And right now, mine takes precedence. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave while I treat Dick."
The social worker looked taken aback. "But…Mr. Wayne…"
"He stays," said Dr. Lewis firmly, and Bruce glanced at her in surprise.
Margaret opened her mouth to object, but Dana Foster laid a hand on her arm and spoke quietly. "Please don't argue, Margaret. It's only delaying Dick from getting the treatment he needs. Can't you see how ill he is?"
The social worker's mouth snapped shut and her gaze went to where Dick was hunched over the bedpan, retching. Something flickered in her eyes and her face took on a troubled look.
Bruce didn't have time to wonder what she was thinking because Dick suddenly collapsed against him, a shaking, gasping mess. His good arm was wrapped around his abdomen and Bruce could feel him trying to curl in on himself. The boy's lips were pulled across his clenched teeth and his eyes were streaming – whether from real tears or the withdrawal, Bruce couldn't tell.
"I just…want it…to stop…" Dick half-sobbed and Bruce felt his heart break.
"I know, kiddo, I know," he murmured, crooking the arm he had around Dick's shoulders so he could stroke his hair. He felt totally fucking useless.
"We'll get out of your way so you can work, Dr. Lewis," Margaret Elliot announced, just as the nurse returned and replaced the almost full bedpan perched on Dick's lap with an empty one. "Please let us know how Richard is when you're done."
Dr. Lewis gave an impatient half-wave, and the social worker followed Dana Foster out of the room.
Bruce stared after them, stunned. What just happened? Why had Margaret Elliot given in so easily? In all of his dealings with the woman, he'd never seen her so complacent. Was she really just leaving to let Dr. Lewis work? Or was it something else?
Dr. Lewis' brisk voice interrupted his musings. "Dick, we need to get you out of those clothes and into a hospital gown so we can get you up to X-ray."
Dick just stared at her miserably and the doctor's expression softened a little. "I know you're tired and hurting, but it's really important that we get an MRI done. Once you're finished with X-ray you'll be able to get some rest, okay?"
"Okay," Dick whispered tiredly.
She smiled briefly and patted his arm. "Good boy."
As Dr. Lewis and the nurse got to work on cutting off Dick's soiled clothes, Bruce felt him tense in discomfort and embarrassment. Tightening his grip on Dick's shoulders, Bruce murmured soothingly, "It's okay, kiddo. This will all be over soon."
He should have known better than to think it would be that easy.
oOo
It was hours before Dick got any rest.
Sitting by his bed, Bruce watched in exhausted relief as the boy finally slept peacefully. The last few hours had been nothing short of hell for Dick. After Dr. Lewis and the ER nurse had removed his vomit-covered clothes and put a hospital gown on him, Dick had been wheeled up to radiology for an MRI. The nurse had just settled Dick in the machine and the technician was preparing to scan him when he'd been stricken by another round of nausea, throwing up all over himself before they could get him out. After getting him cleaned up, it had taken two further attempts before they could successfully perform the MRI because Dick was still vomiting sporadically.
After the MRI, Dick had been sleepy and hard to rouse, making Bruce think the worst of the withdrawal was finally wearing off. That relief was short-lived when a doctor who examined the almost non-responsive boy informed Bruce that the narcan was wearing off and Dick was slipping into overdose mode again. That reveal had necessitated another round of narcan, which had pushed Dick back into the acute withdrawal phase. As Bruce held Dick and watched him vomit up the putrid-smelling brown bile, he mentally swore bloody vengeance on the bastards who had done this to his son.
It wasn't long before Dick seemed to run out of even stomach acid to throw up; retching and gagging into a bowl without any result, and groaning as his stomach spasmed painfully from the effort. It was at that point the doctor finally consented to giving Dick anti-nauseants to save him the agony of the dry heaves. Bruce understood why the hospital were being so cautious about giving Dick more drugs, but that knowledge did nothing to alleviate the horror of watching his son suffer through withdrawal.
It had taken another hour before the violent shaking had subsided enough for an X-ray to be taken of his arm, and only then had Dick been admitted. But even in the comfort of a proper bed, he found little rest. The withdrawal left him agitated, in pain, and unable to get warm. Bruce had watched him switch between tossing fitfully and shivering in a ball beneath the covers for what felt like forever, helpless to alleviate his suffering. It wasn't until his tox screen came back that Dick was finally given some medication to ease the withdrawal and the pain in his broken arm.
Bruce leaned forward in his chair and stroked the fingers of Dick's broken arm. The results of his X-ray had revealed that the pin in his broken arm had been twisted out of position; Dick would need more surgery to repin the bone. It filled Bruce with rage to think of what had been inflicted on his child.
Dick turned suddenly in his sleep, causing his dishevelled blankets to slip down a little. Bruce quickly got to his feet and pulled the blankets back up over Dick, then tucked him in more securely. When he was done, he rested a hand on the top of Dick's head and gently stroked his hair. His heart ached to think of what Dick had been through – what they'd both been through – over the last few weeks. And the nightmare wasn't over yet. Dick was still a ward of the state, and if Margaret Elliot's behaviour in the trauma room was anything to go by, she was still against returning Dick to Bruce's custody.
A light knock sounded and Bruce looked up to see Dana Foster and Margaret Elliot standing in the doorway to Dick's room. He tensed at once.
Speak of the devil.
"Please, don't ask me to leave," he said wearily, too drained to fight.
"I'm not going to," the social worker responded quietly. "But may I speak to you for a moment?"
Bruce frowned at her, then glanced back down at Dick. The boy's face was more peaceful than it had been, but a small crease lingered between his eyebrows. Bruce didn't want to disturb him if he could help it. "Alright," he conceded. "But let's step outside. I don't want to wake Dick."
Following the two women into the hallway, Bruce was careful to remain where he could keep an eye on Dick.
"Has the withdrawal worn off yet?" asked Dana anxiously.
"Not yet," said Bruce tiredly. "It'll take another few hours before it tapers off completely, but he's over the worst of it. And they were able to give him something for the pain once his tox screen came back, so at least he's comfortable."
Dana bit her lip. "Dr. Lewis told us that it was too dangerous to give him anything until they knew the level of drugs in his system."
Bruce gave an angry snort. "She wasn't wrong about that. Between the chloroform and the heroin, the levels in his system were so toxic that I don't know how it didn't kill him."
"What about Richard's head injury?" the social worker spoke up, her face retaining the troubled expression it had worn in the trauma room. "Was there any exacerbation of that?"
Bruce shook his head. "I don't know. His MRI hasn't come back yet…but his X-ray did. The pin in his arm was pulled out of position; he's going to need more surgery. God knows how long it's going to take him to recover from all this."
He couldn't keep the accusatory tone out of his voice, but instead of making the social worker defensive, she flinched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," she said quietly.
Bruce blinked and stared at her. The last thing he had been expecting was an apology.
"I'm returning Richard to your custody," she continued, making Bruce's mouth fall open in shock. "CPS are closing their investigation."
"Why?" Bruce managed, not quite able to believe this. "What's changed?"
She sighed. "Your actions in the trauma room showed genuine concern for Richard. But more importantly, the evidence supports what Richard told me. I should have returned him to your care over a week ago. If I had, maybe this wouldn't have happened."
Something resembling devastation slipped into her expression. "My job is to protect children, not put them in situations where they can be put at risk. Richard had to suffer through something horrific because I removed him from your care…because I couldn't see through my own bias. I didn't listen to what the evidence – and Richard – was telling me, and it nearly got him killed. I won't be making that mistake again."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
"I'm retiring. If my inability to see clearly can hurt children, then I'm doing more harm than good in this position."
Bruce had no idea what to say. To any of it. Part of him wondered if this was even happening. It couldn't be that easy.
But as his eyes wandered back to Dick in the hospital bed, he reminded himself that it hadn't been easy. It had been utter hell. He returned his attention to the social worker. "So it's all over? Just like that?"
She nodded. "Please tell Richard that I'm sorry for everything and I hope he feels better soon."
Bruce frowned. He was missing something here, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what.
Margaret turned to the woman beside her. "Dana, I need to get back to the office after all this. Can we finish our meeting tomorrow?"
Dana nodded. "Of course. But I hope you'll reconsider retiring, Margaret. One mistake doesn't make you bad at your job."
"That depends on the magnitude of the mistake," she countered. "I'll see you tomorrow, Dana. Goodbye, Mr. Wayne."
The social worker left and Dana stared after her, a troubled expression on her face. "I really hope she doesn't retire because of this. She's one of the best caseworkers in the city."
"She is?" said Bruce sceptically. That had most definitely not been his experience of her.
Dana turned back to him. "I know what happened with Dick makes it difficult for you to believe that, but she's a good woman who only wants what's best for the children in her care. Believe me, Mr. Wayne, it wasn't an easy thing to hear that her personal bias was partly responsible for what happened to Dick, and it takes a big person to admit that they're wrong and apologize as graciously as she just did."
And the missing piece clicked into place. Bruce narrowed his eyes at Dana. "You talked to her, didn't you? You're the reason she listened to sense."
"She would have come to the right decision eventually. I just pushed her there a little faster, that's all."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, impressed that Dana had been able to get through to the hard-headed social service worker. "Did you ever think of going into negotiation?"
Dana laughed. "I foster troubled teenagers, Mr. Wayne, ninety percent of what I do involves negotiation!"
Bruce gave a wry grin. "You make a good point." Then his expression grew serious. "I want to thank you, Mrs. Foster, and not just for what you did with Ms. Elliot. Dick talked to me a little before he fell asleep…he told me how kind you were to him."
Her expression softened. "It was my pleasure, Mr. Wayne. He's a very sweet boy."
"I know. But still, if you ever need anything–" Bruce fished a business card out of his soiled trousers, having discarded his destroyed jacket hours ago, "–please don't hesitate to give me a call."
Dana took the card and studied it thoughtfully, before looking up at Bruce. "Actually, Mr. Wayne, I would like to ask you a favour. But not for me."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, a little wary. "Oh?"
"It's for Nate."
"Nate. You mean the boy who was responsible for Dick's kidnapping?"
"He didn't intend for any of that to happen," Dana replied softly. "And he feels awful. He was awake all night worrying about Dick, and when that news report showed Dick being brought out on a gurney from the motel…" her voice trailed off and she bit her lip. "He didn't take it very well."
"News report," Bruce repeated, frowning. "Is that how you and Ms. Elliot knew Dick was here?"
Dana nodded. "Margaret was at my house when the news broke. We came straight here."
Bruce's scowl deepened. So that's how they'd gotten here so fast. Damn media. They must have aired the story before the ambulance had even left the motel.
"The point is," Dana continued quietly, "that news report really upset Nate. He feels horribly guilty about what happened and I don't want that guilt to set back all the progress he's made since he came to live with us. I think if he could just apologize to Dick–"
"You want me to let him see Dick?" Bruce interjected furiously. "After what he did?!"
"I know it's a lot to ask, Mr. Wayne, but please believe me, Nate never intended for anything to happen to Dick. He just lost his temper and made a mistake."
"A mistake that nearly cost Dick his life!"
"But still a mistake," Dana reminded him gently. "Nate is a fifteen-year-old boy who's had a very difficult childhood. He didn't get the same chance that other children did and that's made learning certain lessons harder for Nate. But he's trying, Mr. Wayne, he really is. Please give him the chance to make right his mistake…let him see that one slip up doesn't mean he shouldn't keep trying."
Bruce pursed his lips. He was aware of the boy's past. Leaving nothing to chance after Nate's confession the night before, he had checked into the history of every person in the Foster household. As a result he knew just how viciously Nate had been abused by his stepfather, how many group homes and detention centres he had been in, and the long list of delinquencies he had committed. But Bruce was also aware that Nate hadn't committed a single crime since coming to stay with the Fosters four months ago.
"Alright," he conceded reluctantly. "He can see Dick. But not until Dick is feeling better."
Dana smiled gratefully. "Of course. Thank you, Mr. Wayne."
"Please, call me Bruce."
Her smile widened. "Only if you call me Dana."
"Dana," Bruce repeated, holding his hand out for her to shake, which she did.
"I'll contact you to arrange the best time for visiting Dick," she told Bruce, letting go of his hand. "But for now, I'm going to leave and let you spend some time with him. I'm sure you missed him as much as he missed you while you were apart."
"You have no idea," said Bruce fervently. "Thank you, Dana."
"Goodbye, Bruce," she rejoined warmly, before leaving.
Bruce returned to the room and sat into the chair by Dick's bed to resume his vigil. He felt the god-awful weight of the last few weeks lift from his shoulders and exhaled in relief. He had his son back. Dick was coming home. Bruce would never again let someone take his boy from him.
The relieved smile dropped from his face when he realized that he was now faced with the decision he had postponed two weeks ago; whether or not he should retire Robin.
With a soft groan, Bruce buried his head in his hands. Dick would never forgive him if he retired Robin! Dick loved being Robin, it was part of who he was…the boy would be miserable if he took that away from him.
But they couldn't afford another injury either. Bruce knew he and Dick would be watched closely from here on out. If Dick suffered even so much as a black eye, it might be grounds to reopen the CPS investigation. And Bruce couldn't let that happen. Aside from the fact that he couldn't bear the idea of losing his son again, Dick would be vulnerable to anyone who considered him a target; the media, people looking to profit from stories about him and Bruce, kidnappers…
Bruce swallowed as he lifted his head up to look at Dick. This was the second time in less than a year he had almost lost his son because of kidnappers, and it had happened despite half the city believing he was guilty of abusing Dick! The terrifying reality was that Dick would always be a target because the wrong people knew just how much he mattered to Bruce. And if the last few weeks had taught Bruce anything, it was that even the best efforts of CPS were totally useless at keeping the boy safe, and Dick might not be so lucky the next time. If he wanted to make sure this hell never happened again, Bruce had no choice but to make the hard decision…
Robin was finished.