"Take me instead."
"That's so cliché."
"I don't care."
"You obviously do."
"Do you need clarification? I don't care about your opinion."
"You're here."
"For him, obviously. You are nothing more than a two-bit, wannabe criminal who doesn't deserve my attention."
"And yet here we are: me holding him at knifepoint and you dropping your weapons so he doesn't die. Do it!"
The clattering sounds of weapons landing on cement filled the air.
"Let him go."
"Why should I? He attacked you! Shouldn't you be worried about that happening again?"
"You poisoned his mind, he had no choice but to obey."
"Eh, Scarecrow's mind-control drugs tend to do that to people. I can't believe you actually knocked him out so quickly, though. I thought he was stronger than that."
"I'm tired of this conversation. Let him go, and I'll come with you willingly."
"Without fighting?"
"You have my word."
"I don't believe you."
"And I don't care."
"How do I know you won't try to run away?"
"You are some kind of idiot. He's unconscious, and you think I'm going to run away when you let him go? Leave him here so you can poison him again?"
"I still don't believe you. You'll just pick up your weapons again."
The weapons suddenly scattered away from each other, courtesy of a hard kick from one of the three men in the room.
"Satisfied?"
"How do I know you don't have any other hidden weapons?"
"Look at me, idiot! Do you really think I could fit any other weapons anywhere on my body?!"
The question was accompanied by a huff of exasperation and met with almost thirty seconds of silence.
"On your knees, hands behind your head. He and I are going to come over there and tie you up…"
"You're going to drag an unconscious body all the way over here just to tie me up?"
That question was full of skepticism, with a hint of amusement dancing around the edge.
"You're right to be scared."
"ON YOUR KNEES!"
"Sure, calm down. I won't fight back or try to run away. I gave you my word."
"I don't trust the word of a hero."
The last word was full of disgust.
"You can have your own opinion. Now the question is, how are you going to restrain me after you've exhausted yourself by dragging him over here? I'm really interested to see your strategy. Here I am, on my knees, so go ahead."
Silence reigned as thoughts began racing through two minds.
Leave him here. What if he wakes up? You'll be gone for less than two minutes. But what if he wakes up?!
I gave my word. But I don't have to fight in order to save him. I can get around this guy. But I gave my word.
I'll use his own cuffs on him! Even if he wakes up, he won't be able to do anything to help.
"Where are they? The cuffs, which pocket?"
"I don't know, I haven't seen him open any pockets recently. Why don't you search through?"
"And give you a chance to run over while I'm looking away?! No, I'm not an idiot."
"Debatable."
"Shut up!"
"How about this: I lay on my back, you lay him down and come over here, you tie me up. I gave you my word that I won't fight back."
"Don't make a promise that you can't keep. If I let him go, you jumping up to take me out will be an automatic reaction."
"I can't jump up if I'm lying on my back."
"I doubt that. Maybe I should just stab him a few times."
"And what, exactly, will that accomplish? Don't you think I would want to fight you more if he's on the floor bleeding out?"
Silence reigned again as the criminal thought that over. He had to admit it was a valid point.
"Turn around."
"You really think I'm going to put my back to you? What's going to stop you from hurting him?"
"I give you my word."
The mocking tone in the words was unmistakable.
"You don't trust me, I don't trust you. Therefore, I'm not turning around."
"Then he dies."
"You won't do that, I can see the fear in your eyes. You're a two-bit criminal, remember? I know for a fact that you've never killed anyone, because you would have done it by now if you really wanted to. I've heard the first one is the hardest, and that you lose a piece of yourself when it happens."
The knife flew across the room so fast that the hero had no time to react. It buried itself deep in his right shoulder, causing his arm to drop from its position behind his head. His left hand flew to the wound and pressed hard, attempting to stop the blood that was streaming out around the blade of the knife.
"I'm good with knives. I bet you didn't anticipate that."
It was a comment, not a question.
"You're right," the hero ground out, an edge of pain outlining the word. "I admit that I wasn't expecting that. Now you know I won't fight back, so let him go and take me instead."
"Screw you, I'm not going over there."
"You did just throw your biggest advantage into my shoulder. Kind of a stupid move."
Clenching his jaw, he grabbed the handle of the knife and swiftly pulled it out of his shoulder. The bloody blade hit the ground, and the left hand returned to its spot on top of the wound.
"This conversation," he paused to gasp as a particularly sharp stab of pain pierced through his shoulder, "is going in circles. Either come here, or I'll go to you. Either you restrain and take me, or I'll take you down. You have no advantage now."
"I still have him. And I still have an advantage."
"He's going to wake up soon, and he'll take you down instead. You don't have an advantage."
"Weapons are no longer advantages? Okay, well I'll just shoot him then."
A gun appeared and the man aimed it at the unconscious hero on the ground.
"Take. Me. Instead."
"No, I'm rather enjoying this. You look worried. Is it because bullets can move faster than even a member of the 'mighty' Bat-clan?"
Another round of complete silence, and then a shot rang out. The bullet landed in the right side of the kneeling man's stomach, right under his last rib. He grunted in pain and his torso bent in towards itself.
"Now I'll come over."
The whispered words flew over the injured hero's head. Something hard connected with the side of his head, and his world went black.
Three hours later:
Batman awoke with a throbbing headache and the instant knowledge that he was restrained on a metal chair. A very cold and uncomfortable metal chair. Lifting his head, he waited for his blurry vision to clear slightly before checking his surroundings.
He was in a large, oddly-shaped room – he guesstimated it was about half the length of a football field. There were no windows, and no exits other than the door on the wall farthest away from him. The shockingly-pink walls were completely devoid of decoration. In fact, the only thing in the room besides himself and the metal chair was a large television, set up about ten yards away.
The screen was full of static, and the noise was increasing the pounding in his head. Batman's vision was almost completely clear, so he began meticulously searching the corners where the walls met the ceilings. If there was a TV, there was probably also a camera. But no objects jumped out at him, and there were no vents that could be used to conceal anything.
Suddenly, the screen flickered and then came to life. An unfamiliar face filled the picture, and an unfamiliar voice began speaking.
"I hope you're awake, Batman."
The voice had a nasal quality to it; the Caped Crusader was relatively certain that he had never heard it before.
"You were in my clutches, I had you dead to rights, you were about to demonstrate your mortality. But then he showed up. You probably don't remember this, but you attacked him. I think it was half-hearted, though, because he knocked you out surprisingly quickly. I was actually astonished that he fought back. Anyway, we had a very…interesting conversation, which ended when I agreed to take him instead of you. 'Agree' might not be the right word, since I had to stab and shoot him first, but he is the one who first mentioned the deal."
Batman's eyes narrowed in anger. There was only one 'he' who would come to his rescue and convince a criminal to take him instead of Batman. Why couldn't Nightwing have even a tiny ounce of self-preservation? Why couldn't he ever understand that his life was worth as much, if not more, than Batman's own?
How had this unknown criminal been able to stab and shoot – Batman growled at those words – the athletic and strong younger hero? Nightwing's rescues were usually quick, unless there were other men he had to take care of before meeting this guy. That was probably what had happened, because Nightwing would never just give himself up.
And then the words hit his brain – "…in my clutches…dead to rights…mortality" – and the situation became clear. Batman had been about to die, so Nightwing had sacrificed himself by offering to take Batman's place. Of course he had.
"You're probably wondering how I got the drop on him."
Yes, the hero was wondering that.
"It was simple, really. And, just so you know, I work alone."
No help, but the man had been able to capture Batman. That was embarrassing.
"All I had to do was hold a knife to your neck. The threat of your death works wonders. The poor kid instantly wanted to take your place. He pretty much begged for it."
Nightwing was not a 'poor kid', and Nightwing never begged. Batman ignored the taunting words. The part about his possible demise clouding the young hero's judgement, however…that was not difficult to believe. That was how Nightwing was calibrated: save everyone, especially Batman, no matter the cost.
"His first words were 'take me instead'. Isn't that just so sickly sweet?"
Of course Nightwing would have said that. It was cliché, but it was very much Nightwing. Batman could hear his son's voice casually throwing out those words as if it was the most natural thing in the world to say.
"He tried to convince me that if I let you go he wouldn't fight back, but I didn't believe him. Heroes don't tell the truth to people they are trying to take down."
"Nightwing does," Batman snapped, although he knew the man couldn't hear him.
"Oooooo, I know! I have a video, do you want to see it?"
"Not particularly," the hero snarled.
It would allow him to see how injured his partner was, but he really didn't want to watch him receive those injures. At least one stab wound and at least one bullet hole, Batman knew that for sure.
"I guess I can't really show you the video, though, since I'm using the same tape."
"Who uses a video camera that requires tapes?" Batman scoffed.
"I'm not the richest person in the world, that title probably belongs to the idiotic playboy Bruce Wayne. And his equally annoying ward that grew into this handsome man that everybody loves and all the girls fawn over. That's what actually convinced me to agree to this poor kid's deal – he has a slight resemblance to that condescending circus freak."
Dick Grayson was the least condescending person Batman knew, and he was definitely not a circus freak. It was ridiculous, really, how many people loved the circus but considered the excellent performers to be 'freaks'. How was an elegant aerialist and talented acrobat a freak?!
It irked Bruce Wayne to no end, knowing that so many people thought of Dick in that way, even though they didn't mention it in Bruce's presence anymore. He had often defended Dick against them, but it hadn't stopped anyone from talking about it behind his back. And the worst thing was that Dick also knew it. Ever since he was nine years old, he had heard insult after insult about his background.
"There's nothing wrong with being a talented performer, no matter where you come from," Batman growled at the TV.
It was something he had often said to Dick, usually after some kind of party where the boy had heard somebody say something stupid about his circus background.
"That was a tangent, sorry."
Batman raised his eyebrows at the sincere-sounding apology.
"I can't show you the tape, but I can show you how he is now!" the man crowed.
His face disappeared, the picture became blurry, and when it finally came back into focus, Batman growled again. Nightwing was against a wall – spread-eagle style – with his wrists and ankles covered by steel rings that were drilled into the wall. The camera zoomed in, and Batman's eyes widened.
The entire right side of the younger hero was covered in blood. There was no way to evaluate the severity of the injuries, because the older hero had no idea where the blood originated. Nightwing's eyes were open, and he was staring straight at the camera. Batman tried to check for signs of a concussion, but the TV was too far away for him to be able to search his son's eyes.
The man unexpectedly appeared beside Nightwing, an arrogant grin on his face. He leaned in close and whispered something in Nightwing's ear, then stepped back and slapped him. The hit was hard enough to twist Nightwing's head slightly, and the hero responded by spitting at his captor's face. That earned him a punch in the torso, causing him to release a quick shout of pain.
Batman immediately began struggling against his restraints, to no avail. Zip ties were attaching his wrists, forearms, ankles, and calves to the chair. The only way he would be able to get out would involve the use of his Bat-knife, which he couldn't reach because of the zip ties.
The man disappeared, and five seconds later the camera zoomed out.
"Not too bad, right?" the man asked when he reappeared in the picture. "You're probably worried about all the blood, but there is no need for concern. The bullet didn't hit any organs or major arteries, I made sure of that. I'm pretty good with weapons. And the stab wound isn't deep enough to do any damage. On its own, anyway. Put the two together, though, and let them bleed for," the man lifted his arm and checked the watch on his wrist, "almost three hours. Now that's another story, isn't it. So, actually, I guess there is need for concern, if his life even matters to you."
There was no way Batman was just going to sit in the chair and watch Nightwing die. No way he was going to watch the life-giving liquid slide out of his son's body until there was not a drop of red left. Batman had no idea where he was, no idea where Nightwing was, and no way to escape. Yet. But when had that ever stopped either of them?
Fifteen minutes earlier:
"I'm going to turn on the camera, and Batman's going to be on the other side of the screen," the man explained to a groggy Nightwing. "Hopefully, he's awake. You won't be able to see or hear him, but he can do both."
"What have you done with him?" Nightwing asked quietly.
"I left him and took you, just like you wanted. He's fine. I didn't want him following us, so I tied him up, but he'll eventually be able to get out. You are the one you should be worried about," the man finished with a grin.
Ignoring the last sentence, Nightwing slowly turned his head. He discovered that he was in a pretty good predicament: standing straight against a wall in the shape of an X, his wrists and ankles attached to it with strong rings of metal. Nightwing pushed against them, but nothing happened, which he had already assumed so it wasn't a surprise.
The man in front of him, who had his back to him while fiddling with a large video camera on a tripod, was completely unfamiliar. Nightwing didn't recognize the face, voice, build, hair, or anything else.
"What do you want?" the hero asked, his voice stronger.
"Well," the man paused his work with the camera and turned around to face his captive, "I wanted Batman. I wanted to control him for a very specific reason. Scarecrow's drug was effective, wasn't it? Don't ask me how I got it."
He hesitated, clearly waiting for Nightwing to ask how he had convinced Scarecrow to give him a mind-control drug. Nightwing just stared at him, refusing to encourage the monologue. As if that would stop the story, but it was the only way the hero could show that he had at least a little control over the situation.
Shrugging, the man continued, "I was going to have him go after someone. But then you showed up, and I had to make a choice. Do you want to know why I chose you?"
"I'm not particularly interested in the workings of the criminal mind," Nightwing responded. "That's more Batman's thing."
"I'll tell you anyway. Six years ago, I was at a party. There was an arrogant kid there who walked around like he owned the place. He made some trouble for me, but I never got to pay him back. Now I can't get close to him, which is why I wanted Batman. However, I gave him the entire vial of mind-control drug, so I don't have any left. It would have been cool to have Nightwing take the kid down since you're similar in age, but I guess I can make do with you instead."
"Make do?"
"Exact my revenge, whatever you want to call it," the man said with a shrug.
"Who was the kid?"
"Dick circus freak Grayson."
Nightwing internally growled at the words. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before, but it always annoyed him. He should be over it by now, especially since it had started when Bruce had first taken him in. 'Circus freak' and 'charity case' and 'gold digger' and 'little hobo', among others. The young hero pushed the thought away.
"Why do you want revenge?"
"I just told you: he made trouble for me, and I never had the chance to pay him back."
"What happened?" Nightwing asked, annoyed with the fact that he had to clarify his previous question in order to get the answer he wanted.
"I made a tiny mistake and he went and told his dang guardian about it. I got in trouble, my family was practically thrown out of the party, and Wayne was never on good terms with my parents after that."
The only possible scenario burst into Nightwing's mind. Six years and two months ago. Jimmy Preston had stolen some alcohol from his dad's stash and brought it to a gala at Wayne Manor. He had cornered Dick and forced some of the burning liquid down his throat. Dick had never felt so nauseous and hot and tired, and had gone to Bruce for help. He hadn't meant to tell on Jimmy, but Bruce had easily drawn the story out of him.
The Prestons had immediately been escorted off the premises by Commissioner Gordon himself, and Dick had never seen them at another party. So this was Jimmy, all grown up and still salty about getting in trouble at a party over six years ago.
"What was your mistake?"
Nightwing was suddenly dizzy, and he could feel the sweat beading up all over his body. He glanced to his right side, already knowing what he would see since the entire area was on fire. The bullet hole was invisible and the jagged injury from the knife was barely noticeable, but that was just because of all the blood. Nightwing had never seen so much bright-red blood on one side of his body. He felt coated in it, and the sight was making him nauseous.
"I stole something from my dad, and the freak found out about it."
Because you forced me to drink it.
Nightwing kept that thought to himself. He did, after all, have an identity to protect. Besides, breathing was becoming slightly difficult, which made talking not really worth the effort it would take to get words out.
Turning back to the camera, Jimmy finally turned it on and began talking. Nightwing tuned him out in favor of trying to find a way to escape. The metal encasing his limbs was probably too strong for his Bat-laser to be effective quickly, not that he could get to it anyway.
Jimmy was suddenly beside him, and Nightwing noticed the red light on the camera. If Batman was awake, he was watching. Unless he had already escaped, which was a good possibility.
The man leaned in and whispered, "I know who you are."
Stepping back, he slapped Nightwing on the left cheek, causing his head to twist to the right. For half a second, Nightwing panicked – his identity was compromised. He instantly calmed down, because there was no way that idiotic Jimmy Preston knew that he was Dick Grayson. So, he spit at the man in defiance.
Jimmy wrinkled his nose in disgust, balled up his right hand, and slammed it into the bullet hole. Nightwing had no way to defend himself, and no way to soften the blow, so the hit caused him to cry out in pain. He didn't know if the bullet had gone through or if it was still sitting in his body. If it was the latter, his body was going to go downhill fast if the bullet had shifted and hit an organ.
Nightwing waited for a new type of agony, and was relieved when the pain didn't increase. It didn't lessen, thanks to that hit, but at least he knew he wasn't dying. Yet, anyway. Bleeding out was a good possibility if Jimmy didn't patch him up soon. Vaguely, the hero wondered how long he had been standing here bleeding. More than the twenty minutes he estimated he had been awake, that was for sure. Especially since his body had begun trembling.
Sweating, dizziness, trembling, nauseous, a headache that had just begun to throb – all signs of either a concussion or bleeding out. Or both, Nightwing decided. Jimmy was back at the camera, so the hero ignored him again. He couldn't get his brain to focus on escaping, though, which was another bad sign.
Jimmy turned off the camera and spun around to face Nightwing. The hero was pale and trembling, and Jimmy could tell that another liquid was joining the blood still slowly sliding out of the two wounds. A liquid that was turning some of the bright-red to a slightly less bright-red. Which meant the liquid was clear, which meant Nightwing was sweating profusely.
"Well, I'm pretty sure you're bleeding out," the man stated, staring at the slowly-growing puddle of crimson on the floor. "I didn't want this kind of revenge on Grayson, I was never going to kill him, I was just going to have Batman rough him up a little. Or a lot. But now I don't know what to do. I wonder if you know who I am."
Nightwing didn't respond, and Jimmy heard his breathing become wheezing. Maybe he should stop the blood; he had never killed anyone and he didn't really want to start now. The hero had said the first one was the worst, but did Nightwing really know anything about killing people? Batman and his group didn't kill, so Jimmy assumed that he didn't.
"If you do know who I am, I have to let you die, you know that, I'm sure. So, do you know who I am?"
Nightwing, whose head had dropped, lifted it and glared into the other man's eyes.
"Yes," he gasped, unable to tell a lie even to save his own life.
"I don't believe you, I think you're just trying to die like a hero or something. There is no way you…"
"You said…you know…who I am."
"Oh, yeah, that was just to rile you up a little bit. It worked, didn't it? I really don't know, and I don't care to. What difference does it make to me? But that doesn't help with my decision. Do you want to die?"
Nightwing considered the question, but only for a few seconds. There was no way he could do that to Bruce, or Alfred, or anyone else in his life. Besides, who would be there to rescue Batman when he was in trouble?
Because I did such a good job this time.
His thought was sarcastic, and it was irritating, so he pushed it to the back of his mind. He could think about what a horrible job he had done, and how bad he had messed everything up, later. Right now he needed to focus on escaping. But hadn't the guy in front of him asked him something?
"Your eyes look a little dim," Jimmy observed. "You probably can't think very clearly at this point. I'll ask the question again: do you want to die?"
"N…o," Nightwing rasped.
"It took you a long time to answer," the other man commented. "Are you sure?"
"Batman…"
"Is safe," Jimmy finished for him. "Tied up, but safe. You failed him, you know that, right? Is that really something you can live with?"
"Didn't…fail…safe…"
"I guess that's a good point. You're getting kind of limp and droopy."
"Then…stop it."
The words were whispered, and they were the last things Nightwing said before losing consciousness.
Batman grinned in relief when the zip tie wrapped around his left forearm snapped apart. Trigger the body's flight-or-fight response, allow the hormones to flood your system, then use the extra burst of adrenaline to flex a muscle just a little harder than usual. That extra flex had just freed his left forearm and, after a few seconds of yanking, his left wrist was also free.
Flipping open a pocket on his utility belt, the hero grabbed his Bat-knife and released himself from the rest of the zip ties. He stood up and shook out his muscles, then strode to the television. There was nothing to see; the man must have turned off the camera on his end. Nothing to see meant no clues as to Nightwing's location. Batman didn't even know where he was yet, so he jogged to the door on the far side of the room.
To his surprise, it opened easily. He stepped into the bright sunlight and looked around. Buildings surrounded him, buildings that were clean and looked safe and were – therefore – unfamiliar. Batman walked to the end of the row and turned the corner, then froze in shock.
"Well, I'm not a doctor so I don't know how to stitch you up," Jimmy explained to the unconscious Nightwing. "I don't want to leave you here to die, but I can't really go get a doctor and bring him here. So, I'm just going to let you go and hope for the best. You'll probably wake up soon, and you probably know how to stitch yourself up, so you'll probably be fine."
Jimmy pulled out some tools and released Nightwing from his bonds. The young hero slid limply to the floor, right into the ruby-red puddle that was just big enough for his entire body. Jimmy wrinkled his nose in disgust and nudged the bloody form with his foot. Nightwing's body rolled left, leaving him lying on his back with his right arm pinned underneath his torso.
"That was helpful of me, because you won't have to worry about breathing now. All you have to do is wake up."
Jimmy whispered the last two words. He had not planned to do anything like this. Should he do something to try to wake Nightwing up, or should he just leave while both heroes were still incapacitated? It wouldn't take long for Batman to get out of his bonds, maybe he already was. Jimmy chose self-preservation, racing out the door and down the road, heading for his car and a place far away from Gotham City.
Hitting the ground jolted Nightwing back into consciousness. Wearily, he opened his eyes and found himself staring at a ceiling. Words floated over his head, then the sound of running feet attacked his ears, but that quickly faded. There was a sharp pain in his right arm, and the young hero decided it was time to move.
Nightwing attempted to sit up, but his left hand slid out from under him when he placed it on the ground. He rolled onto his left side, which freed his right arm but also allowed the smell of fresh blood to assault his nose. The hero almost threw up, but recognized that he would then be lying in more than just a pool of blood, which would make everything worse.
He flipped himself onto his stomach, and the stabbing pain in his torso reminded him that he had recently been shot. Grimacing, he placed his hands on the ground and carefully pushed himself to his knees. Another sharp pain flew down his arm, allowing him to remember that he had also recently been stabbed. Ignoring the pain – there was nothing he could do about it right now – Nightwing slowly made his way to standing.
The hero lifted his head and stared at a bright rectangle that seemed like it was a mile away. He didn't try to estimate, because he was standing in a puddle of blood that was most certainly his own, which meant any calculations he tried to do would be a waste of energy. Instead, he began to walk. Slow, halting steps that made the room sway and his urge to throw up grow stronger.
Nightwing had a vague memory of Batman being unconscious, but he wasn't sure if it was a recent memory. His first priority was to get out of whatever room he was in, and then he would be free to find a way home. Or to the Batcave, if anyone would let him in. Alfred was much better at patching and stitching than Nightwing was, especially since the hero was shaking so badly that it felt like his bones were rattling around.
He made it to the bright rectangle, and leaned against what he knew was the frame of a door. The light was coming from the blazing sun, and Nightwing squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to shield himself from further pain. But then he heard his name, in a voice that unexpectedly sounded like Batman's, and he struggled to open his eyes again.
Batman stared at the scene: Nightwing, clad in red instead of blue and black, was leaning against a doorjamb. It was obvious that just standing there was difficult for the young hero, so Batman shook himself out of his stupor.
"Nightwing!" he yelled as he began running across the short strip of asphalt that separated them. "Open your eyes, Nightwing, stay awake!"
The last two words were a command, and Batman saw his son struggling to open his eyes as he arrived in front of him. Nightwing's hair was sending red droplets to the ground, and there was no visible part of his body that did not have blood on it.
"Open your eyes," Batman commanded again, and was relieved when he could see slits of light-blue peeking through heavy lids.
"Stay right here. I'm going to get the Batmobile, and I'm going to come back for you. I need you to stand right here and stay awake."
"'K," Nightwing agreed softly, finally forcing his eyes all the way open.
Batman raced away, already knowing that the Batmobile was around the next corner. The buildings had been unfamiliar at first, but that was because they had just been cleaned thanks to Warden Crichton's work release program. He was back in less than five minutes, just in time to jump out and catch the slumping Nightwing, whose struggle against his lids had been in vain.
"Open your eyes, chum," Batman commanded for the third time.
"H'vy," Nightwing whispered.
"I know, but you can't go to sleep until Alfred gives the okay. And Alfred is not here, so you have to stay awake."
Batman attempted to force Nightwing to walk on his own, or at least take some of his own weight, but it was a fruitless effort. The boy could barely put one foot in front of the other without stumbling, and his trembling limbs were more of a hinderance than a help.
Luckily, he had been able to park close. Batman shoved Nightwing onto the passenger seat then quickly strode around the idling Batmobile and climbed in. He shifted into 'drive' and headed for the Batcave.
"Batman to Batcave, I have Nightwing and he needs patching. Batman out."
Instead of waiting for Alfred's answer, Batman stated, "You have to stay awake, because people will be very upset if something happens to you."
"P'ple?" Nightwing murmured.
"Alfred," Batman clarified.
He wanted to include himself in the 'people', but Nightwing probably wouldn't believe it. The fight was still fresh in Batman's mind, and he doubted that Nightwing had been able to let it go.
"Alfred?" Nightwing questioned softly.
Batman, through his peripheral vision, saw Nightwing turn his head. The boy's eyes were open just wide enough for the man to see the pain sliding through them when he glanced over. He quietly sighed as he returned his eyes to the road, knowing that the pain was probably as much emotional as it was physical.
"I…just stay awake."
"Sorry I, um, knocked you out," Nightwing said, the pain also evident in his voice. "Drug, Jimmy, other stuff…"
Batman glanced over for a second time when Nightwing's voice faded. The younger hero's eyes were closed again, and he was wheezing.
"Almost home, chum, stay awake," he said loudly.
"Hoooooooooome," Nightwing breathed.
There was a short cough, a small gasp, and then there was silence.
The Batcave – 20 minutes later:
"Master Batman, what happened?!" Alfred exclaimed.
Baman grunted in exertion as he lifted Nightwing out of the Batmobile. The older hero was strong, but Nightwing was completely limp, making him much heavier than Batman was used to. Being covered in blood didn't help – the younger hero was as slippery as a fish just taken off a hook.
The Caped Crusader almost dropped Nightwing several times as he laboriously made his way across the Batcave. It was with a sigh of relief that he finally laid the boy on a medical cot.
He's not a boy anymore.
How many times had that thought chided him in the last few years? Batman shoved it aside, just like he did every time.
"Criminal said he's been bleeding for over three hours," the hero gasped, attempting to regain the strength he had used to carry Nightwing. "Stabbed and shot, but I don't know where or how bad."
Alfred was already wiping the copious amount of blood off the young body. It took him six wet towels and almost five minutes to fully clean up the mess. The wounds were immediately visible, both still sluggishly bleeding.
"This is not the result of a normal stabbing," the butler observed quietly as he studied the right shoulder. "I'm fairly certain that the weapon, probably a knife, was thrown at him, Master Batman. That, or the criminal was extremely strong. Did you see him, sir?"
"No," Batman stated brusquely. "It's deep?" he questioned, even though he already knew he was correct.
"Very deep, sir. We are lucky that it didn't hit the artery. Hold this, please."
Alfred placed a large piece of Bat-gauze on the wound. Batman held it firmly in place with one hand and removed his cowl with the other.
"He sacrificed himself again," Bruce stated, his voice full of frustration. "The criminal didn't give me many details, but he did say that I attacked Nightwing and he knocked me out."
"He knocked you out, sir?!" Alfred exclaimed. "That is quite unusual."
Bruce nodded in agreement and commented, "He usually doesn't retaliate at all. I hate that I have attacked him so many times that there is a 'usual' way he reacts."
The butler hummed in both sympathy and agreement.
"You cannot control yourself when you are under the influence of a drug concocted by a villain, Master Bruce."
"Anyway," Bruce continued, ignoring the wise statement, "the guy said he had a knife to my throat while I was unconscious. It apparently made Nightwing very compliant."
"That does not surprise me, Master Bruce. We have another piece of luck, sir. The bullet went straight through."
"No sense of self-preservation," Bruce mumbled. "It's been ten years since he became a crime-fighter, Alfred! Why can't he understand that his life matters just as much as that of anyone else?!"
"Do you really want to know, sir?" the butler inquired quietly.
Bruce stared at the older man, who was currently stitching the bullet hole in Nightwing's torso.
"You…know?" the millionaire asked, disbelief in his voice. "He…told you?"
"I have told him several times to talk to you, sir, but he is afraid that you will be upset. Or, worse, disappointed, Master Bruce."
Alfred paused for a quick moment, then amended his statement.
"Afraid is not the right word. Nervous, worried, concerned…"
"Why?!" the younger man exclaimed. "What reason could he possibly have that would disappoint me?!"
"He has never directly asked me not to tell you, although I'm certain it is implied. I cannot, I will not, break his confidence, Master Bruce. Not even for you, sir."
"Then why did you bring it up?!" Bruce yelled.
"In the hopes that you would realize that you need to talk to him, sir. Please remove your hand so I can close up his shoulder. A bag of blood is necessary, Master Bruce. I would appreciate it if you would make yourself useful and go get one."
The butler's tone held a hint of disapproval. Bruce did as he was told, thoughts racing through his mind as he walked away. He tried to think of a reason for Dick's complete lack of self-preservation, but nothing immediately came to him. It wasn't because of their recent argument; Dick had been like this since he had first become Robin. Never thinking of himself, rarely listening to his body when it yelled at him to slow down, frequently hiding – or attempting to hide – injuries, and almost always jumping into a dangerous situation before Batman….
The millionaire suddenly felt like the World's Biggest Idiot instead of its Greatest Detective. Dick had lost his entire family at age nine, and it was obvious that he would be terrified of losing his second family. So, he was doing everything in his power to keep Batman safe. But why did the boy think he would be disappointing Bruce if he told him that?
Bruce was so deep in thought that he didn't even feel it when Alfred took the bag of blood out of his hand. He didn't even realize that he had gone all the way across the cave, retrieved the bag from the cooler, and come all the way back until the butler spoke.
"Your expression shows me that you think you have figured it out, sir," Alfred observed.
"He's scared of losing me – us," Bruce replied confidently.
Alfred stared at his charge for a long moment, disbelief dancing around the edges of his eyes. Shaking his head, the butler refocused on the task at hand. He removed Nightwing's mask, revealing the very pale face of Dick Grayson, and began hooking him up for a blood transfusion.
"Am I…wrong?" Bruce asked, confused by the look in Alfred's eyes.
"Perhaps you should talk to Master Dick about this, sir," the older man replied firmly. "However, it will be a few hours before he wakes up."
Alfred walked away, leaving Bruce staring down at his motionless ward.
Son.
Technically, Dick was his ward. But Bruce had considered him a son for almost their entire time together. Had he ever told that to Dick? If he hadn't, that would be Bruce disappointing Dick, not the other way around.
"What is it, chum?" the man whispered. "What could you have possibly said or done that would both disappoint me and cause you to disregard your own life? Or…was it something I did, something I said?"
Bruce pulled up a chair and sat down. He wouldn't be getting any answers for a while, and he knew he would spend the entire time that Dick was unconscious trying to figure it out.
One week later:
Dick had been in and out of consciousness all week. When he was awake, he was never completely lucid. Bruce couldn't ask Dick why he always threw himself into danger, because the boy was never coherent enough to answer any questions. Especially not one that was complex and would probably require a long conversation.
Neither man knew why Dick wasn't healing as quickly as he normally did. Batman had analyzed his blood, but had found no unusual chemicals or poisons. A mere stab wound and bullet hole shouldn't be enough to make the strong young hero sleep more than he was awake. Alfred was feeding him through an IV, because Dick was never clearheaded enough to even attempt to eat.
Dr. Leslie Thompkins had stopped by on day two, and several times after that, but she had no explanations for his condition. Alfred had asked her if they should take Dick to a hospital, but she had stated that the doctors would tell Bruce to take him home so he could rest in a more familiar setting. That statement concerned Alfred immensely.
What Leslie didn't tell them – what she really wasn't looking forward to telling them – was that Dick was dying. His body was slowly shutting down, although it wasn't yet noticeable to even Batman or the very capable Alfred. She knew she would have to tell them soon to give them time to prepare themselves, but she was hanging onto a last thread of hope. Finally, ten days after the incident, she let go of that thread.
"We need to talk," Leslie said solemnly to the men after another quick examination. "Downstairs."
Bruce refused at first, wanting to stay by Dick's side, but the very astute butler knew what was coming. So, he convinced the millionaire to go down, where they joined the doctor in the living room.
An uncomfortable silence reigned for the first few moments. Leslie didn't know how to start the conversation, and Bruce didn't know why they were down here instead of upstairs watching over Dick.
"Dr. Thompkins," Alfred finally commented, "I think you should just say it."
Before Bruce could react to that statement, Leslie gathered enough courage to do as the butler had advised.
"Dick is dying," she said bluntly. "His body has already begun to shut down. There's nothing I or any other doctor can do to stop it. I'm sorry, Bruce."
Alfred allowed sorrow to settle on his old face, but Bruce stared at Leslie, shocked by the revelation. He carefully searched her eyes, but there was no hint of a lie or joke. In the back of his mind, he absently wondered why he thought she would lie or joke about something like this.
"No, he's not," the millionaire responded after the initial shock had passed. "Dick is strong, he won't die because of a simple stabbing and shooting. He's been through much worse and has survived."
"That is true, sir, he has been through worse," Alfred agreed softly. "But knife and bullet wounds are never 'simple', Master Bruce."
"No, you're both wrong," Bruce refuted. "He's just taking his time, allowing his body to regain its full strength before forcing himself to wake up."
"That's not…" Leslie began, but was immediately interrupted.
"Subconsciously," the millionaire clarified, anger creeping into his tone.
"Thank you, Dr. Thompkins," Alfred suddenly said. "Perhaps I should show you out now."
Leslie instantly understood, so she quickly stood up and was headed for the front door before the butler had even finished speaking.
"He's not dying," Bruce stated stubbornly.
"Sir," Alfred began gently, "why do you think the doctors at the hospital would have told us to take Master Dick home?"
"He can't die," Bruce whispered, sorrow replacing the anger. "I can't lose him, and there are things I need to tell him. Dick is strong enough to get through this. This is just a…a setback."
Silence reigned again, a deep stillness that allowed dark thoughts to begin slithering into the millionaire's head.
Alfred made a decision. If Dick was going to die, Bruce needed to know the reason for his lack of self-preservation before that happened.
"He thinks he is not good enough for you, sir," the butler finally stated. "Master Dick sees you as a standard, one that is impossible for him to reach. To him, Master Bruce, his life is worth less than yours. In his eyes, Gotham City can afford to lose Robin – Nightwing – but not Batman."
"That's ridiculous!" Bruce exclaimed, anger returning to his tone.
"Now you know why, Master Bruce. He knows what your reaction would be if he told you that – as you have just shown – and he would have interpreted your exclamation as disappointment. You, sir, are his unattainable goal."
"He told you all of that?!"
"Not those exact words, sir, but yes. Master Dick compares himself to you, and finds himself short. Why should he preserve himself when he thinks it is more important to preserve you, Master Bruce?"
"You're saying that he assumes he's not good enough so it doesn't matter to him if he dies?! He thinks he expendable?!"
"That is exactly what I'm saying, sir."
"Why…how…when…why?!"
The incomplete questions stumbled their way out of Bruce's mouth. It was incomprehensible to him that Dick thought he didn't measure up; that Dick thought Batman was some kind of impossible-to-reach golden standard.
"I am not trying to lay blame here, Master Bruce, but how many times have you told him you are proud of him, or given him encouragement about what he has accomplished as both Robin and Nightwing?"
Alfred had said he wasn't placing the blame on Bruce, but a giant ball of guilt slammed the millionaire in the chest. Robin – no, Nightwing – thought he wasn't good enough because Batman hadn't said it enough. And Bruce knew it was true, because he had tried to train Robin to fight the darkness. Which meant lectures and criticism about everything that went wrong on either a patrol or a mission. Teaching moments, but ones he now realized should have been taught in a completely different manner.
Dick Grayson was nothing like Bruce Wayne, and Robin was nothing like Batman. The younger hero was an optimist, always looking for the good in people. He was compassionate, and caring, and the complete opposite of Batman's more stoic image. And the people of Gotham City loved him for it.
"I've done everything wrong," Bruce stated softly. "And now I can never apologize for all of it."
"No, sir, you have not done everything wrong. There are many things you have done right. Master Dick understands who you are, and that is part of the reason he wanted to join you as a crime-fighter. For the first few months of his life here, he was so worried about you, sir. Afraid, at first, because he knew nothing about you. But once he understood your moods, he was constantly trying to find ways to make you happy. Do you remember nothing about his first year, Master Bruce?"
The millionaire was taken back ten years in the past. He could see it so clearly now: the hugs, the showing off, the good things that Dick always talked about, and the way he had listened intently to everything Bruce had said. Rarely had there been any mention of anything bad, until Dick had discovered the Batcave.
"He was trying to make me happy," Bruce stated, echoing Alfred's words.
Without hesitation, the millionaire stood up and strode out of the living room. The butler heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then the quiet 'creak' of what he knew to be Dick's bedroom door. Deciding that Bruce needed time alone with his son – because Alfred was observant and knew the boy was no longer 'just' a ward – the butler stood up and went to the kitchen. Cooking always helped him calm his emotions. And Bruce would need the calming presence of Alfred during the next few days…weeks…months. Maybe even years.
"Dick, I really need you to wake up," Bruce said softly as he sat on his usual chair by the boy's bed.
Dick remained silent, but his eyelids began to flutter.
"That's right, chum, open your eyes. You can do it. Prove them wrong, I told them this was just a setback, that your body is just resetting itself. You're strong, you can do this. Please."
Dick heard a familiar voice, but the tone was wrong. It wasn't strong and commanding, it was full of sorrow and supplication. The voice asked him to wake up, but Dick's eyelids were so heavy. However, he tried anyway, because he hated disappointing the man that belonged to the voice.
His hard work finally paid off. For the first time in he didn't know how long, Dick could see more than just blurry blobs of color. He felt as if everything was brand-new, like he hadn't been wherever he was for so long that things had changed. Nothing had – Bruce had kept Dick's room exactly as he had left it – but the boy's thoughts were somewhat fuzzy at the moment.
It was hard to breathe, and he felt so lethargic, and a hammer seemed to be pounding on his brain. But, the voice was still making sounds, so Dick slowly allowed his head to drop left. And there was Bruce, just like he always was when Dick woke up feeling like he had just been used as a punching dummy.
He tried to say the man's name, but Dick's mouth refused to open. The boy settled for a quiet grunt, which caused Bruce to jump to his feet.
"Do you need medicine? What hurts? How can I help?"
The questions overwhelmed him. Dick gave the man what he thought was a grin, trying to reassure him that he was okay. Unbeknownst to him, it came out as more of a grimace. Panic flashed across Bruce's face as he yelled for Alfred.
It's okay.
Yeah, his head hurt. And yeah, it felt like all the oxygen was being sucked out of the room. But Bruce shouldn't be panicking, it wasn't like Dick was dying.
Alfred appeared next to Bruce, and Dick tried to give him a grin, also.
"Can you understand me, Master Dick?" the butler asked.
He must have received a concussion. Why else would Alfred be asking a question like that? Dick's mouth still wouldn't open – it was almost heavier than his eyelids had been – so he carefully nodded his aching head.
"Should we tell him?"
The millionaire had whispered the question to his butler out of the side of his mouth. Dick wondered why Batman thought Nightwing would neither hear nor see the inquiry. He became even more confused when Alfred answered using the same method.
"Not yet, sir."
"Well, chum, you've been out for almost two weeks," Bruce explained, his voice a little louder.
Two weeks?!
The only time Dick could remember being out for longer than one day was when Two-Face had beaten him nearly to death with a baseball bat. And that had only been three days. What had happened to cause him to lose two weeks?!
Dick tried to open his mouth again, wanting to know the circumstances surrounding his lengthy bout of unconsciousness. But his mouth refused to follow the instructions from his brain. The third failed attempt at talking frustrated him, and Dick furrowed his brow in irritation.
Bruce recognized the look in the boy's eyes. It was a look he had seen too often in Dick's young life. The look that meant he had no idea what was going on, or what had caused him to wake up with two men hovering over him.
"I'll give you the short version," the man said, "and then we'll talk about the rest later. You need time to heal."
Dick nodded again, but Bruce knew he wasn't going to be satisfied with the short version. He forged ahead anyway.
"I was hit with a new mind-control drug, you sacrificed yourself to save me, you were injured but escaped, it took you a while to wake up."
Dick raised an eyebrow, skepticism filling his light-blue eyes. The short version, in his opinion, was way too short. He needed more details: how did Batman get caught, who was the villain, how had he been injured, how had he escaped, how many injuries had both of them sustained, and why had it taken two weeks for Dick to wake up.
"We'll talk about the rest later," Bruce repeated firmly.
"In…ies?" Dick mumbled, his mouth finally deciding to cooperate a little bit.
"You were stabbed and shot," Bruce responded. "Those wounds have healed; no need to worry about them. That's all you get. You need to take it easy for now."
To the man's surprise, Dick nodded.
"Seep?"
"Yes, you can go to sleep but I'll be waking you up every two hours for now. Sorry."
Dick shrugged minutely and closed his eyes.
"Sleep well…son," Bruce whispered.
"Sir?" Alfred asked after several moments of silence.
"I'll stay, Alfred. I really am going to wake him up every two hours. He almost…"
"I know, Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted quietly. "Would you like something to eat?"
"No, thank you, Alfred. Right now I just want to sit here and relish the fact that he woke up."
"I understand, sir. I will return to check on you later."
"Thank you, Alfred."
The butler left the room and Bruce settled into his chair. Thoughts raced through his head as he watched Dick's peaceful face. His conversation with Alfred pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. Bruce frowned; Batman was not the golden standard.
"I'm proud of you, chum," he whispered. "And that's another thing we'll talk about after you have a chance to heal. Batman should not be your measuring stick. I've let you down, and I'm sorry. At least you're back."
Folding his arms across his chest, Bruce leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Now was a good time to figure out how he was going to convince Dick that his life was not worth less than Bruce's own. But how could he start a conversation like that without revealing that Alfred had spoken for Dick because Dick was practically dead?
"This is going to take a while," he stated quietly with a sigh.
THE END