Author's Note: This story is told through two separate narratives, one happening after Bruce's death (those chapters all start with After in the title), and one happening before Bruce's death (those chapters all start with Before in the title). Chapters alternate in a pattern of After-Before-After-Before-etc.

Dick was going to choke to death on his own blood. His chest rose and fell—unsteady and shallow—and the red at his throat bubbled like a simmering, burnt soup between her fingers. Blue flickered under his half-shut eyelids.

"You're going to be okay," she begged. She kept pressure, but his neck was so small. "I'm hurting him." It came out as a sob. "Jim—"

"You're saving him," Gordon interrupted. His hands shook as he wrapped the bandage, already soaking red, tight around Dick's head.

"I'm hurting him—"

"You are. That's what he needs right now." Alfred's voice was tinny and quiet through her phone from where it sat on the warehouse floor, matted in blood and gravel. "I'm almost there."

She stared at the phone. It was several feet away, the assuredly-cracked screen face down. The phone was just one of the many things littering the destruction of the warehouse. Glass stained red lay in pieces in the pooled water beneath the broken tank, shards of what had been between her and Dick at one point. The dancing disco lights were still going, casting sickening yellow and green across the broken contraptions. The water. The acid. The body—

Her stomach convulsed. She fought it back, but bile still burned in her throat. She couldn't look at that. She couldn't.

"We'll be gone by the time you get here," Gordon said. "Hands."

She could have done better. She could have prevented this.

"Hey!" Gordon snapped his fingers. They were slick, and the sound was quiet. He adjusted his hold on the bandages. "I've gotta wrap his neck. You have to work with me on this."

She nodded, not trusting her own voice. She kept one hand flat across his neck and moved the other to lift Dick's head. Her fingers caught against the stickiness of the bandages there. "He's still bleeding."

"Head wounds bleed a lot." Gordon nudged her hand to lift so he could start wrapping.

"I know that."

"We have to move him."

"Right." Those were problems that needed solutions. She lifted her now-free hand to start pulling at the cowl on her head. As she did so, she looked across the room for something they could use, looking everywhere but at the bo— "There're curtains."

Gordon taped the end of the bandage in place and looked up to follow her line of sight towards the velvet curtains framing the oversized puppet stage. One of them was still smoldering and entangled with the dead hyena, but the other had held on strong. It was bright green with a floral design in purple. "Not a single thing can be normal," he muttered. He grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. "Get out of that costume before you make me have to answer questions I don't want to."

She looked down at Dick. His eyes had finally shut, but she could hear his gurgling breaths as assurance that he wasn't dead. She lowered his head carefully and shifted back so she could haul herself to her feet. The uniform was heavy, but most of the weight dropped once she got the cowl off and the cape detached. Her hands shook too much when it came to the gauntlets, and it was a bit hard to see from the blood dripping down her eyelashes. She managed to finally rip the gauntlets off, one and then the other. She wanted to throw them away, but Alfred would barely have time to do what he needed to without having to search for pieces of the uniform.

Gordon was back, tying the ends of the curtain to make it easier to hold. "I'll need your help getting him to the car."

She peeled off the rest of the uniform like she was removing poorly shed skin. "I don't have other clothes."

"I have a coat." He crouched down by Dick's side and motioned to her. "Alfred?"

"I will be there in four minutes."

"I'll make the call once we get Dick in the car. Help me lift him."

She dropped hard to her knees. When she shifted Dick, he gasped, and the next sound that left him was a scream, gurgling and distorted through his cut throat. "I'm sorry," she panted, helping Gordon lift him onto the curtain. "Where's the car?"

"South-east alley. Get that end. Good. Lift."

Dick's screams died off into ragged pants as they carried him out of the theatre. The only movement to his body was from the swaying of the makeshift stretcher and the unsteady, shallow rise of his chest. He shrieked again when Gordon fumbled with the curtain while trying to get the door open. Dick's sounds broke off to choking. Gordon shouldered the door, and they had to shuffle carefully to get through the narrow exit. She had already been shivering from the fading adrenaline, but now the cold midnight weather and the fact that she was stripped down to sports bra and underwear made her trembling almost unbearable.

At some point, it had started raining.

"Move fast," Gordon grunted. "We don't want to waterboard him."

They reached the car, and Gordon did his best to brace his end of the curtain in one hand while he yanked open the back door. "Slide him in," he directed.

"How far is it?" she asked, guiding Dick in with shaking hands.

"I'll drive fast." Gordon tore off his trench coat and threw it at her. "Get in. I have to make a call."

She scrambled to pull the coat on. Past the rain, she could hear him calling the GCPD to alert them to the situation. Or at least parts of it. He was leaving things out. Not mentioning some of the important details. Trusting that Alfred would be there to collect the suit and any other incriminating evidence before the other cops arrived. Once she'd tied the coat tight, she crawled into the back seat and carefully rested Dick's shoulders across her thighs, cradling his head in her hands.

Gordon got in the driver's seat and slammed the door. He turned the sirens on, and the car peeled out. "Are you hurt?" he asked over the blaring sound.

She blinked at the rearview mirror. He was glancing at her in the reflection. "Yeah," she rasped. "But not as bad as Dick."

"Obviously. But you'll need to be seen, too."

"He stabbed me. I burned it."

"You burned it?" The faux leather of the steering wheel squeaked as his grip tightened, knuckles whitening. He took a breath and then a long time letting it out. "Of course you did," he muttered. "Why wouldn't you?"

"If I bled out while trying to take care of Dick—"

"That was rhetorical," he snapped. "For now, just sit there and do your best not to die."

She'd done that her whole life, not dying. She could do that for a little bit longer. At least until Dick was somewhere safe. Until he was okay. Because he would be. She would make sure of it.

Gordon's sirens guided them all the way to Gotham General. He came to a stop in the emergency bay, and people were already waiting. She scrambled out of the car, clutching Gordon's coat close and shivering.

"Careful," she croaked. "His throat's been cut. And he's been shot. That's the most important."

They hauled Dick onto the gurney, and she moved to follow as they started wheeling him inside.

"Ma'am, do you need to be seen?" someone said, coming to her side and supporting her elbow. She hadn't even thought she'd been unsteady until then, but now the world was swimming.

"He's been shot," she repeated. "In the head."

"Okay. Can you tell us his name?"

She was being led inside, and she squinted at the person guiding her along. He was a bit taller than her. His scrubs had panda bears on them, and his name tag read Soren Langbroek. The end of registered nurse was partially hidden by a green smiley face sticker.

"Ma'am?"

"Richard Grayson," she said, forcing herself through the haze. "He goes by Dick."

"Okay. Are you related to him? Are you—"

"Yes. I'm— He's my brother's— I'm his aunt," she settled on.

"Can you tell me his birthday?"

"Three, twenty-one, nineteen-ninety. He, he's twelve."

"Good. Does he have any allergies?"

"No. No, he doesn't." She blinked, realizing that, at some point, Soren had steered her into one of the rooms.

"Good to know. I just need you right here for me, ma'am." He helped her ease onto the bed. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Alex," she rasped. "Alex Wayne."

"Okay, Miss Wayne. I'm seeing a lot of blood. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

She hurt all over. She'd burned herself, which had made things hurt more, but she'd needed to. She'd had to.

"Miss Wayne? Can you hear me? Miss Wayne!"