The ambulance ride was one scare after another. Dick woke up and began floundering around, causing the shard of glass in his leg to shift. It forced the paramedics to sedate him, which caused his heart rate to drop significantly. That put a strain on his lungs, which led to an oxygen mask and two separate conversations about a ventilator.

Finally, after what felt like hours for Bruce, they arrived at Gotham Central Hospital. There was already a trauma team waiting, so the transfer between ambulance and emergency room personnel was as smooth as it could be. Bruce followed them in but was pushed away by a burly nurse when Dick was wheeled through the double doors that led to what the millionaire knew to be the surgical unit.

"We told them everything we know, Mr. Wayne," one of the paramedics said softly when he saw the devastated expression on Bruce's face. "They know exactly what to do and he's in good hands. Why don't you have a seat over here," he led him to a waiting room chair, "and someone will come out and get you when they have information."

The paramedic was a little worried. He wasn't sure what to do with the millionaire, who looked like he was going into shock. That's all they needed – both Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson in the emergency room.

"Is there someone I can call for you?" he finally asked.

Bruce slowly sat down on the chair while shaking his head. His eyes never left the double doors, and the paramedic was pretty sure he was going to stay in that position for the next however long it took for the doctors to take care of Dick Grayson.

"Well, um, I hope everything goes well," the paramedic said.

When he received no response from Bruce, the man patted him on the shoulder and left the waiting room. Thirteen minutes later, Alfred walked in. He immediately saw his oldest charge and quickly made his way across the room.

"They took him straight to surgery," Bruce supplied when Alfred sat down.

His voice was flat and emotionless. It concerned the butler, but he had faith in the doctors.

"That means they already knew the extent of his injuries, Master Bruce. It makes them more efficient, and he is getting the care he needs, sir."

Bruce mumbled something in response. Alfred decided that the millionaire would talk when he was ready. The butler was used to waiting for that to happen, so he leaned back in the chair and patiently began to wait.


Three hours later:

"Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and eyes on the floor. He started briefly when he heard his name. Lifting his head, he pushed himself up off the chair and waited for the bad news.

The doctor saw the trepidation in the millionaire's eyes and was glad he was about to diffuse it.

"Everything went well. Some of the details are a little graphic. How much do you want to hear?"

"Full report," Bruce immediately responded.

With a short nod, the doctor continued, "We were able to reset the bones in his right leg, but it's going to be in a cast for a while. The shard of glass tore through his left calf muscle, but we got every last piece out and sewed him up. He won't want to walk on it but that's the quickest way to heal it. Once he's out of here, you need to have him walk around your house every few hours. Take it slow, start with only a few minutes and gradually make it longer.

He was able to save his eyes when he threw his arms over his head, but the rest of his face was pockmarked with tiny pieces of glass. We pulled them all out, but his face is going to be swollen and sore for a few days. The head injury is minor; he'll have a headache for a day, maybe two.

You've got a strong boy in there, Mr. Wayne. He almost crashed twice but his body reacted in an unusual manner. I've never seen anything like it, and I don't really know how to explain it. Somehow, he brought himself back from the edge. We had the crash cart ready, but he had raised his heart rate and controlled his breathing before we had a chance to pick up the paddles. Has anything like this happened before?"

Yes. He's Robin, he's been injured more times than I can count, he's been trained to recover quickly.

Bruce internally chuckled when he imagined the doctor's reaction if he voiced that thought.

"Nothing like this, no," the millionaire replied.

Dick had never been in a car accident so, technically, Bruce was telling the truth.

"Well, like I said, you've got a strong boy. He woke up briefly and now he's resting. You can go see him, but he probably won't respond to anything yet. He's still pretty groggy."

"Thank you," Bruce said sincerely.

With another nod, the doctor stated, "Room 217 in ICU. That's just a precaution, I think he'll be out of there by tomorrow morning at the latest."

The millionaire returned the nod then turned to Alfred as the doctor walked away.

"Shall we go see our 'strong boy', Master Bruce?" the butler said with a smile.

"Yeah," the younger man responded, running a hand through his hair as relief raced through his eyes.

It took them eleven minutes to get to room 217. Alfred chose to wait outside so Bruce could have some time alone with his son. Bruce stepped into the room and stopped short. Dick was lying on the bed, wires covering his body and traveling up to various machines. He was too still – Dick Grayson was never still.

"B'uce?"

The quiet word pulled the millionaire out of his thoughts. He quickly strode forward and was happy to see the light-blue eyes of his son. They were cloudy, probably due to a combination of medication and pain, but they were visible.

"Wha' happen?"

Bruce pulled the nearest chair over and sat down. Dick's left hand fumbled around, and Bruce knew exactly what the boy needed. He gently placed his hand on top of Dick's, smiling when the touch instantly calmed the teenager.

"You were in a car accident, chum," Bruce finally answered. "On the way to the gala…"

"I mess' up yer gala!" Dick tried to exclaim, but it came out more as a whisper.

"No, you didn't, don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're alive."

"Phone," Dick muttered.

"Phones are replaceable," Bruce assured him. "I'm not mad at you for that."

"Did I hit anyon'?"

"No, somebody hit you. We don't know who the other driver is because he ran away instead of staying to help you."

"Scared of you," Dick commented with a chuckle that turned into a cough.

"Okay, you need to rest. We can talk about this later. Go to sleep, chum."

"So'y 'bout car," the teen mumbled as he closed his eyes.

"It was old, it doesn't matter. Go to sleep."

Suddenly Dick's eyes popped open.

"Report," he commanded, although there was no strength behind it.

"Broken right leg, torn left calf muscle, nothing wrong with your brain but you'll have a headache, glass scratches on both hands and your face but nothing permanent. It'll take time, but you'll heal."

Dick released a breath and Bruce heard the relief.

"By the way, where did you learn to bring yourself back from the brink of death?"

"Wha'?"

Dick's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Never mind, go to sleep."

"B'uce!"

With a sigh of regret – he shouldn't have said anything – Bruce stated, "The doctor told me you almost crashed, twice, but you brought yourself back. He said you stabilized your heart rate and breathing before they had a chance to use the crash cart. He's very impressed with you," the man finished with a grin.

Carefully lifting his head off the pillow, Dick glanced around the room. There was nobody else in there, and he couldn't see anybody right outside the door. But he whispered anyway, just in case.

"I'm Robin," he stated with a tiny smirk.


Four days later:

Dick's headache was lingering, so the doctor had cautioned a day of bed rest at Wayne Manor. In fact, the man had refused to discharge Dick until Bruce had given his word. One full day of lying in bed doing absolutely nothing. Dick wasn't even allowed to sit up and read a book or watch TV. Nothing, the doctor stated, meant nothing.

Bruce and Alfred had known that following that single instruction was going to be difficult. Four days in the hospital was bad enough, but now they had to keep him down an additional day. Dick hated doing nothing almost as much as Robin hated being benched. However, to their great surprise, the teenager didn't complain at all. He stayed in bed, almost completely still, and attempted to sleep the day away. It didn't work, but at least he was obeying a doctor's instruction.

The day passed slowly, and Dick woke up the next morning determined to heal as quickly as possible. It was a good thing Bruce was already up when Dick attempted to traverse the hallway from his room to the stairs, otherwise the seventeen-year-old would have fallen down the steps and probably landed headfirst on the marble floor.

Dick made it to his door, but just those few feet had tired out his left calf muscle. It was on fire, but the teen knew that the best way to help it heal was to work through the pain. That was something he had learned while still in the circus. He paused to breathe, then left his room and headed for the stairs.

The teenager had crutches due to his broken right leg, and he was using them. But he was putting as much weight as possible on his left, and suddenly it refused to accept the pain. His leg buckled and he tilted forward.

"Crap," he whispered as he watched the stairs rise up to meet him.

But then Bruce was there, catching him and pulling him up like he always did.

"The doctor said 'gradually'," Bruce stated with a sigh. "Do you know what that means?"

"He probably also said the quickest way to help it heal is to use it," Dick responded.

"Yes," Bruce admitted, "but he emphasized that you should start slow."

"I did!" Dick replied. "My bed to the stairs is only about seven yards."

"And look what happened."

Dick sheepishly glared at the ground.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"I know that healing is the hardest part for you," Bruce said. "It takes time…"

"Time that is being wasted because Batman can't do his job and…"

"Helping you is not a waste of time," the millionaire interrupted. "Gotham City can wait. You have a broken leg, chum!"

"Did you ever find the driver of the semi?" the teenager asked as they slowly hobbled down the stairs.

"No," Bruce growled.

"You should have heard his voice when he discovered who I was."

"Can you describe him?"

"It was dark, and there was a flashlight shining in my eyes, and I was kind of in a lot of pain. So…no."

Bruce growled again but didn't say anything.

"No records with the trucking company?" Dick ventured.

"Not for that night. Nobody signed it out."

"Yeah, he said he wasn't going far so he hadn't taken the time to sign it out."

"And there are no cameras in the middle of nowhere."

"Yeah, that's unfortunate. Guess we'll never find out unless he comes and confesses."

"I doubt that will ever happen."

Just as they stepped down onto the marble floor, the doorbell rang. There was a scuffling sound, but Bruce was untangling himself from Dick and couldn't get there right away. Alfred arrived just as the millionaire got free.

"We're not expecting anyone are we?" Bruce asked.

Alfred shook his head and opened the door. To their surprise, nobody was there. A package wrapped in brown paper was sitting on the porch, but there was no other immediate evidence of a visitor.

Bruce strode to the open door and picked up the package.

"It's addressed to you," he stated with a glance at Dick. "Living room," he commanded when Dick looked like he was about to drop the crutches and run to the door.

With a giant sigh, Dick carefully made his way to the living room and Alfred helped him situate himself on the couch. Bruce put the package on the boy's lap, but stayed close in case it was something bad. No, that wasn't the right word. In case it was something unusual.

Dick tore off the paper. It was a box, so he lifted the lid. He reached in and pulled out a Superman action figure. As he lifted it out of the box, a card drifted onto the couch.

"Glad you made it," Dick read after picking up the card.

The seventeen-year-old looked up at Bruce, confusion written all over his face.

"Could this be from Clark?" he asked.

Bruce was baffled, but he immediately shook his head. Clark or Superman would just come visit.

"Then who…?"

Nobody had an answer, until Alfred noticed the other card attached to the action figure. He pointed it out and Bruce made a grab for it. But Dick was faster, and he was right there.

"P.S. Sorry I didn't stay but I told you someone would find you."

"Give me everything," Batman snapped. "There have to be fingerprints or traces of cologne or hairs or fibers or something. I will find him."

Dick willingly handed everything to Bruce, who immediately raced away to the Batcave.

"I hope it's over quickly," the teenager said with a sigh. "It was just a hit-and-run, he doesn't need to beat the guy up."

"Master Dick," Alfred responded reprovingly, "there is no such thing as just a hit-and-run. You could have been killed, you almost were killed!"

"Give the guy a break, he was scared to face Bruce Wayne," Dick muttered.

"And if 'the guy' had hit Bruce Wayne instead of Dick Grayson, would you be as forgiving, young sir?"

Dick didn't respond because Alfred already knew the answer.

"You are just as important as he is, Master Dick," the butler said softly.

"Not quite," the teenager replied, "but thanks."

"How many times am I going to have to tell you to stop taking yourself for granted, chum?"

Bruce's booming voice startled both Dick and Alfred.

Ignoring the question, the teen asked, "Did you find anything out?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause.

"Well, are you going to tell us?!" Dick exclaimed.

"It's rather ironic."

Another long pause.

"What?!" Dick finally yelled.

"I looked at the cameras and Bat-cameras around the Manor. The guy put down your 'present' and ran. As he sprinted through the front gate, a car turned the corner."

"Did he…"

It was Dick who paused this time. Bruce had called it ironic.

"He didn't…die, did he?" the teenager asked quietly.

"No, but the paramedics are currently attending to him. I don't know the extent of his injuries. Batman will pay a visit to the commissioner tonight and let him know that the hit-and-run truck driver is in the hospital. I have all the evidence he needs: fingerprints, camera footage, and a piece of hair stuck in the tape on the box."

"Well, okay, then."

"I have one thing to say to you, Richard Grayson."

Bruce's voice had gone from amiable to stern. Dick had no idea what was coming, so he braced himself for something terrible.

"Never try to go twenty-five miles on half a tank of gas in an old car."

Dick gaped at the man for several seconds. Then he grinned.

"Maybe I shouldn't drive an old car anymore. It seems to be hazardous to my health."

Bruce rolled his eyes; he had walked into that one.

"Or maybe I'll talk to your coach about not making practices run so late."

"Or maybe you should only attend galas that aren't so far away."

"Gentlemen," Alfred finally interrupted the good-natured bantering, "breakfast is served as soon as Master Dick makes it to the dining room. Please don't allow the food to get cold, sirs."

With one of his trademark long-suffering sighs, although this one was full of mirth, the butler turned around and headed for the kitchen.

"Let's not keep the food waiting!" Dick exclaimed. "I haven't had a real Alfred meal in five days!"

Bruce chuckled and strode to where his son was struggling to stand.

"Do you want me to carry you so we can get there quickly or…"

"Bruce," the teen said reprovingly, "it won't heal as fast if I don't use it. Also, I'm seventeen."

With matching grins, Bruce and Dick slowly began the long trek to the dining room.

"One thing I've been wondering about," the man said conversationally.

"Only one?"

"I'm the World's Greatest Detective," Bruce reminded him. "I've figured out everything else from the positioning of the vehicles and your injuries. You had already exited the car when the accident happened, which means that you were probably trying to flag him down so he would give you a ride. You could have just called me."

"Okay," Dick responded when Bruce paused.

"Your phone was crushed to pieces on the ground, but it was several yards away from you. So, what happened to your phone?"

"It's stupid," the boy mumbled.

"Okay," Bruce echoed.

"I was mad at myself because I wasn't going to make it on time, and I knew you would be upset. I may have yanked it out of my pocket, and it may have slipped out of my hand."

"You're athletic," the man commented.

"I dove for it," the teenager stated in agreement. "But my foot hit the edge of the door, the phone landed on the ground, I landed on the phone. See? It's stupid."

"Accidents happen," Bruce said with a shrug.

"But it was brand-new!"

"It's not a big deal, I already bought you a new one. But I assumed that it had happened during the accident, so I was wondering why you hadn't called me before you got hit. I thought maybe you were worried about my reaction."

"I was going to call you, Bruce – that's why I was trying to get my phone out – but I didn't have a chance because it happened right when I was getting out of the car. Yeah, I was worried, but not enough that I wouldn't have called you."

"Okay," the man said thoughtfully. "I just wanted to make sure we're good."

"Yeah, we're good. But you would have been upset, we both know that."

"Oh, look, here we are in the dining room," Bruce deflected. "Time to get one of those good Alfred meals you've missed."

Dick chuckled softly. Of course the millionaire wouldn't admit that he would have been upset.

"Chicken," the seventeen-year-old challenged in amusement.

"No, I think he made pancakes."

With that, Bruce pulled out a chair, helped Dick arrange himself, and went to the other end of the table to sit down.

"Thanks for being cool about the phone," Dick stated.

"Accidents happen," Bruce repeated.

THE END


A/N: Those of you who were unsatisfied with the ending of "One Thing...", thanks for being patient with me. I hope this is enough to satisfy you. ;-) Thanks to everyone who took the time to read! :)