A/N: This chapter contains a detailed description of a panic attack.

Chapter 10: Countdown

Your stitches are all out
But your scars are healing wrong
The helium balloon inside your room has come undone
And it's pushing up at the ceiling
And the flickering lights it cannot get beyond
—Regina Spektor, "One More Time With Feeling" (excerpt)

DETECTIVE COMICS

With Batgirl flying solo in Gotham and Robin temporarily off duty, Batman once again found himself spending that night alone in the Batcave, working on the evidence for the Dibny case. It was frustrating and full of contradictions, especially without any of his usual company. At two o'clock, he decided to call it a night a little earlier than usual and reluctantly climbed the stairs to the Manor.

Bruce had just finished getting ready for sleep and was reaching beside his bed to turn off the lamp when the door to his walk-in closet abruptly opened and Dick hobbled out slowly, his back to Bruce.

Bruce dropped his hand and blinked at Dick, who was leaning on his crutches and did not seem to notice that anyone else was in the room.

"Dick?"

Dick jumped. There was a clatter as the crutches dropped to the floor and Dick whipped his head up, meeting Bruce's eyes. His face was pale and eyes red-rimmed, and a shaking hand flew up to cover his own mouth.

And then, like the crutches, he fell.

Bruce had never moved so fast in his life. He leapt off the bed in time to stop Dick from smacking his head against the footlocker, but not swiftly enough to prevent Dick's involuntary hiss of pain as his injured leg twisted underneath him.

"I've got you," Bruce murmured, taking steady breaths to ease his own rapid pulse as he cradled his son against his chest.

Dick burst into tears.

"Dick? What's wrong?" Alarmed, Bruce pulled Dick upright and began checking him over for signs of pain or injury. Dick was warm—not overly so, but Bruce still needed to see his leg—

Dick twisted away from him, burying his face in his arms the way he had done as a small child. His tears became hoarse, desperate sobs that only grew more frenetic, until he was choking as he gasped for breath.

"Are you in pain? Do you want me to call Alfred?"

Dick shook his head frantically. His tear-stained face was red, blotchy, scrunched-up and miserable.

"Dick, please. Talk to me."

Unfortunately, these words prompted a fresh round of sobs, and Dick's hands wildly pulled at his own collar as he strained for breath like a man half drowned.

"You need to calm down," Bruce ordered. "You're going to make yourself sick." He took Dick's shaking hands in his own and squeezed them gently. "Come on. Follow my lead. Breathe slowly. In… out. In… out."

They sat like that for a long time, until Dick's shoulders eventually stopped heaving and he relaxed back against Bruce, his head on his father's shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmured, eyes shut.

Don't be.

Why were you in my closet?

Dick, I need you to tell me what happened.

Bruce kissed the top of Dick's head. Dick froze, then slumped. His breathing, now returned to a regular pace, began to settle. Surprised, Bruce realised that Dick was falling asleep, and thoughts spun haphazardly in his mind while Dick's pulse beat steadily under his fingertips.

Wake up. You need to go to bed.

What upset you? Why were you crying?

Did you have something you wanted to tell me?

Why are you so exhausted? Have you been sleeping well?

Are you in pain?

Slowly, Bruce managed to pull himself to his feet and then lift Dick to the bed. Fast asleep and dead weight, Dick looked younger and more relaxed in his father's arms. Bruce laid Dick down, then tucked him in and kissed his forehead. Whatever reason that had brought Dick into Bruce's room could be revealed in the morning. For now, Dick looked like he sorely needed the rest.

But when Bruce awoke a few hours later, the sheets next to him were rumpled and Dick was gone.

Dick did not appear at breakfast, but Bruce eventually found him in the Batcave, doing muscle-ups on the rings despite his bandaged femur. As Bruce watched, Dick lifted his body from a dead hang so that his elbows were bent and his head was level with the rings. Next, he pushed his arms up so he perched with his elbows above the rings and continued until his arms were straight and his body completely perpendicular to the floor. Then, the process repeated, backwards and forwards and backwards again.

"Forgot your camera?" Despite the levity of the words, Dick's voice was flat as it echoed in the cave.

Bruce stepped forward, eyeing the discarded crutches leaning against the railing near Dick as he said, "You shouldn't be doing that."

Dick did not pause in his movements. "Like you're one to talk."

"Should I tell Alfred where you are?"

Dick hesitated at the beginning of a rise, then lowered himself down. "No," he muttered, reaching for the crutches. "I was just finishing, anyway."

"Good. I need to talk to you, and I would appreciate your full attention."

Did Bruce mishear the hitch in Dick's breathing? "Okay," Dick answered, following Bruce to the computer and perching on the edge of a chair, his crutches relaxed beside him. "What's up?"

Bruce took a long, silent breath and then let it out slowly. Then he took another. There was a burning behind his eyes and an oppressive weight in his pocket; the blackness of the computer's monitors blurred before him.

He needed to say it. Before Dick grew impatient and the moment was lost. Before he lost his nerve. Before Alfred or Tim interrupted and caused Dick to rapidly switch gears.

"Dick, there's something I need to say."

"You already said that part."

Bruce clenched his jaw. "It's something I need to discuss with you. Something that has to do with recent… events."

I think there's something seriously wrong with you, and I have no idea how to say it.

I need to know what happened the night Blockbuster was killed, and your whereabouts afterwards.

I want to trust you, but it kills me that you don't seem to trust me anymore.

Dick had turned very pale and was watching Bruce intently, barely breathing.

"Frankly, I don't know what's changed. And I know I'm not a good father—I haven't always given you the support that you deserve. But I—damn it—"

Bruce broke eye contact and pulled the wooden box from his pocket. Its corners were rounded from age and years of handling, and despite Alfred's care, some of the engraved patterns had been smoothed almost to invisible. Bruce himself had taken the box out of the drawer multiple times, wanting to say the words but never finding the right time.

Bruce took one last, deep breath. "I know you're an adult now, Dick, and I—I know I don't say it often enough, but I couldn't be prouder to see the man you've become, and I need you to…" He stopped, hopes plummeting to his shoes. "Dick!"

Dick was no longer listening. His face was white and he was breathing hard and fast, looking about to faint. Bruce grasped Dick's shoulders and shook them, hard.

"Dick? Dick!"

But Dick, who seemed unaware of where he was or who he was with, gave Bruce a forceful, instinctual push that was so startling that Bruce let go of Dick and took an involuntary step back. Immediately, Dick's knees buckled and he slid off the front of the chair, and Bruce surged forwards to support his son. He eased them both to the floor, and the quick-thinking part of his brain took control of the situation.

"Dick! Listen to my breaths and match them. Remember your training! In-two-three-four-five—out-two-three-four-five—"

Dick gasped for breath, taking no heed of Bruce's orders. Shocked, Bruce registered that there were tears on Dick's cheeks, and Dick was mumbling something that sounded like, "No… stop… I don't want… I'm sorry…"

Rapid footsteps reverberated on the stairs. Tim's here, Bruce realised, and he opened his mouth to send the boy away, but—

"Bruce, Alfred was wondering where—" Tim stopped dead still on the bottom step, eyes wide as he took in the sight before him. Then he was sprinting forward, dropping to his knees in front of the distraught Dick and turning his terrified blue eyes upon Bruce.

"What happened? Is it his leg?"

Hearing Tim's voice, Dick registered his brother's presence and became even more agitated. He tried to stifle his frantic struggle for air by holding his breath, but only succeeded in breathing even more shallowly.

"Dick, come on, you need to breathe slowly!" Tim cried, hands closing around Dick's shoulders. Again, Dick threw them off, curling in on himself and away from Tim.

In a second, Bruce understood what Tim either would not or could not see—that Dick might be panicking about something, but what was upsetting him most was the fact that Tim was witnessing his older brother fall to pieces. Again.

"Tim," Bruce said quietly, urgently. "Get me a rebreather."

Tim jerked to his feet and was back a moment later, dropping the small cylindrical device into Bruce's waiting hand, which forced it into Dick's mouth. Tim then made to reclaim his place by Dick's side, but Bruce reached up with his free hand and gripped the boy's arm, forcing Tim to halt and look at him.

"You need to leave. Go back upstairs."

"But I can—"

There was no time to explain. "Now!" Bruce snapped, causing Dick to let out a muffled whimper.

Tim tipped backwards in shock. He immediately recovered and obeyed the order, but not before shooting Bruce a look of the utmost hurt and confusion. Inwardly wincing, but otherwise too preoccupied to acknowledge it, Bruce turned his attention back to Dick, who was pawing weakly at the rebreather in his mouth, tears streaming down his red cheeks.

Bruce pressed a button on the rebreather so that it would further regulate Dick's breathing, then began rubbing his son's back in small, soothing circles. "Slow, deep breaths. You're all right, Dick."

Gradually, Dick began to obey Bruce's words as the rebreather took effect. The heaving of his chest became less pronounced, though the tears still spilled onto his own shirt and Bruce's sleeve.

Bruce felt helpless. He knew the symptoms and stages of a panic attack like he knew how to throw a batarang—various encounters with fear toxins and other psychedelics had made them all familiar with its debilitating power. But it was different when it was your own son who was coming apart at the seams—and you the unwitting person who snagged the loose threads and tugged them undone.

At last, Dick's breathing slowed to a regular rate, though his hands were shaking and he shivered under Bruce's touch.

Cautiously, Bruce removed the rebreather. "Dick? Are you with me?"

Dick jerked a nod. His teeth were chattering slightly.

"Then listen to me. Look around and name five things you can see."

Dick's eyes darted left and right, up and down and behind. Slowly, his lips moved, and though the words fell silently into the stillness, Bruce could still infer what was said.

Computer. Car. Light. Stairs. You.

"Good." Bruce moved his hand on top of Dick's clasped ones, trying to quell the shaking. "Now, four things that you can touch."

Floor. Shirt. Shoes… You.

"Three things you hear."

"The computer." Dick's voice was hoarse and barely audible, but it was there. "Bats. You." His lips quirked in the palest hint of a smile.

Bruce tried to smile back encouragingly. It felt stiff and strange on his face. "Two things you can smell," he continued. You're doing so well, Dick.

Dick did not speak, but breathed deeply for a moment, then nodded the next.

"Last one. Identify one thing that you can taste."

It was so quiet that Bruce could hear Dick moving his tongue around in his mouth before licking his lips and nodding.

Well done. Bruce leant back so that he could look Dick full in the face. "How are you feeling, Dick?"

Dick raised his head for the first time, but he still didn't meet Bruce's eyes. "Where's Timmy?" he mumbled.

"Don't worry about him," said Bruce. "I want you to think about yourself."

"But… he's okay, right?" Dick asked, his voice small.

"He's fine. Now, answer my question."

Dick's shoulders sagged in relief. "I'm fine, too."

Bruce stiffened, frustrated. Damn it, Dick! "Don't lie to me!" The words came out harsher than he'd intended.

Dick flinched, bowing his head again. "I'm sorry, Bruce."

"Stop it. You have nothing to be sorry for." Bruce took Dick's chin in one hand and tilted the blotchy, tear-stained face toward the light. With his other hand, he took out his handkerchief and gently dried his son's face. In response, Dick blinked hard, finally making eye contact with Bruce. Two more tears leaked out onto the handkerchief.

"But I do," Dick whispered, eyes already watery again. "I'm sorry… Bruce, I—I f—"

Bruce's heart thudded. "Be quiet," he ordered, dabbing the handkerchief on Dick's cheeks and catching the fresh tears that fell there. "I will not listen to this now. Not when you are in such an emotionally compromised state as to render any report completely meaningless. Not when you insist on doing everything in your power to make me believe that you are worthless and inadequate. Not when you seem to have such a poor understanding of your own value."

At last, his words seemed to be getting through to Dick, who silently took the handkerchief and wiped his face as the tears slowed and ceased. He passed the damp cloth back to Bruce, and when Bruce reluctantly took it, he both saw and felt the trembling in Dick's fingers.

"You're shivering. You shouldn't be down here." Bruce stood, then helped Dick to his feet. "Lean your weight on me," he instructed, and the two of them made their way to the Batcave's lift.

Dick made no objection as he was led to his room—even more disconcertingly, he continued his silent obedience as Bruce pulled back the covers and said, "You need to rest, Dick."

Dick kicked off his shoes and climbed in without a word. He stared straight up at the ceiling as Bruce collected more blankets from the closet, spread them on top of the covers and tucked Dick in carefully before pressing a kiss to his son's forehead, the way he had done almost every night for the short time when Dick had still been a little boy and not yet a rebellious teenager or stubborn adult.

"How is it? Too warm?"

Dick shook his head.

"Too cold?"

Dick shook his head again. "I'm okay," he whispered, lifting tired eyes to meet Bruce's.

I don't think you are. "Get some rest, Dick," Bruce repeated, sitting down in the chair that had remained at Dick's bedside for the past few weeks. He reached out and brushed a stubborn lock of hair back off Dick's forehead.

Dick's eyes slid shut at the familiar touch. Bruce checked his son's pulse and was satisfied to note that it was almost back to normal, and that the trembling had entirely ceased.

Once Dick had fallen asleep, Bruce sought out Tim. As he approached Stephanie's room, he heard voices from within. The door was ajar and he could see Tim with his back to Bruce, slouched in the bedside chair. Steph was in bed, propped up against the headboard, and Cassandra sat cross-legged on top of the covers. Both she and Steph were holding playing cards, and a considerable number of cards were spread face-up in front of each of them.

"Do you have a six?" Steph asked.

"Go Fish." Cassandra smiled.

"Rats. Your turn."

"Do you have a… an A?"

"An ace?" Steph sighed as she selected a card and handed it over. "I just picked that up."

"I know."

Steph narrowed her eyes. "You're bluffing. You are so bluffing."

"Do you have an eight?"

Steph passed another card over to the grinning Cassandra. "Maybe we should play a different game. It's not fair of you to come into my room and beat me at something I taught you."

"Maybe not fair. Still fun. Because…" Cassandra displayed her last pair to Steph. "I win."

"I should teach you Boggle next," Steph muttered as she scooped up the cards. "Tim, you sure you don't want to play a round?"

Bruce pushed the door open before Tim could answer. "Tim. A word?"

Tim nodded and stood up. Once they were standing alone in the hall, he cast tired blue eyes up at Bruce and asked, "Where's Dick?"

Birds of a feather, Bruce observed wryly. Out loud, he said, "Resting. How are you?"

"What does it matter?" Tim shot back, so much sudden vitriol in his tone that Bruce was honestly dumbfounded. "I'll be out of your hair soon enough. I just stopped to wait and make sure Dick was all right."

"You're leaving?" asked Bruce, too nonplussed to be annoyed by the rudeness of Tim's retort. Of course, I won't stop you if you want to go home, but… "Why?"

"Didn't you tell me to?"

Bruce cast his mind back to the debacle in the Batcave and mentally cursed.

"I told you to go upstairs. Not to leave the Manor."

Tim blushed crimson, ducking his head. "I… I thought…"

"I already told you. You're welcome to stay here for as long as you want." I'd repeat it every single day if it made you believe it.

An unsaid question hung in the air for a minute or so, while Tim looked determinedly at somewhere past Bruce's shoulder and Bruce wrestled with thoughts that would not transform into words.

"You did everything right, earlier," he said, finally acknowledging the elephant in the room. Tim's head whipped up. "But I had the situation under control." It's not your fault—never your fault. Dick didn't want you to see him at his most vulnerable.

"The situation? Is that what we're calling it now?"

"If you have something else to say, spit it out," Bruce said shortly. He felt too drained to play mind games—and definitely not with Tim, of all people.

"I'm not an idiot," said Tim. "I know Dick doesn't have a panic disorder. You would have put it in his files, if nothing else. But there's definitely something up, and you need to talk to him. He needs help, and he won't accept it from me."

The last sentence seemed to echo in the silence of the room. Bruce had no counterargument for Tim's ultimatum. Apparently sensing Bruce's discomfort, Tim shifted on his feet.

"Do you know if Leslie—"

"We're not involving Leslie in this," Bruce said sharply.

"Okay, it was just a thought."

In a gentler tone, Bruce added, "She's a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist."

"I know. I was wondering if she might know anybody who… could… help."

Tim's words faltered and finished gracelessly. Both of them knew why. There were very few people who knew their identities, and especially in light of recent events, Bruce wanted to keep it that way.

"It doesn't matter. Since Leslie left Gotham, we lost contact."

Oh, Dick, I didn't mean to upset you. I don't know why you're so afraid to face me… unless you've done something terrible. Or something terrible has happened to you. Is that it? I wish you felt comfortable enough to talk to me. Am I the problem? Because I sure as hell don't think I'm solving anything right now.

"He… tried to talk to me," Bruce said, and Tim's head whipped up.

"What did he say?"

Bruce shook his head, still disturbed by the change in Dick. He thinks he failed me. "He wasn't capable of thinking straight. But," he added when Tim opened his mouth again, "I'll talk to him tomorrow."

Tim gave him a sort of half smile, looking appeased.

Afterwards, down in the Batcave again, wooden box in his hands, Bruce gazed at the rings, at the high ropes and trapeze equipment. If he half-closed his eyes, he could almost see a small, energetic boy leaping from one ledge to another, swinging upside down, laughing from those lofty heights.

He remembered a time, long ago, when he had been training Dick to become Robin. He had not sent Dick away like he had sent Tim; instead, Bruce supervised all of the training himself. Dick was precocious in many ways, but Bruce always saw room for improvement. They spent many hours in simulations, sitting in the cave and just honing Dick's observational skills. Even once Robin was out on the streets, Batman would take him to a lonely gargoyle or a ledge or a rooftop near a quiet alley, gesture for silence and then say:

"Tell me what you hear, Robin."

And Dick would smile that wide, wide grin of his and say something like, I hear two people crossing the road, coming closer—probably a man and a woman, and Bruce would be secretly pleased because despite Dick's usual inability to sit still, he was observant. Sometimes they were in the Batcave, and Dick would continue by adding things like, I hear the hum of the generators and the moths that keep flying into the lights, and occasionally he'd finish with, And I can hear you thinking, Bruce. If you think too much, you'll let your guard down, you know? And Bruce would reach out and ruffle the boy's thick black hair.

Dick turned into a teenager before Bruce knew it. Despite being keenly aware of its impossibility, Bruce still wished he had known Dick before the boy reached twelve. But that line of thinking was a threshold he was determined not to cross. Dick would be happiest if his parents were still alive, but some selfish instinct in Bruce did not like the thought. Who wouldn't give anything for their parents back?

"You and Alfred gave me a home and you gave me what we don't mention. The L word. You were the best family I could have had. Thanks."

Bruce spoke the words to the silence of the Batcave, but they came out in a whisper.

"I love you, Dick." As much as if you were my own flesh and blood, and I wish I could have given this to you when you turned 18, but we weren't talking and then I drove you away and you hated the sight of me and I didn't know how to tell you, and now I'm the worst father in the world because I can see that you're hurting but I can't seem to do a single damn thing about it…

A/N: The scene in the Batcave was the first scene I wrote for this story, and Dick's panic attack is based on personal experience. If it is not typical, it is at least true to life.

Sources:

Dick's quote about "the L word" is from Nightwing (1995) #4.