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The first text comes late in the evening:
NW and BL have been dark for almost 24h. Sending in Aquaman.
It’s alarming but not completely unexpected. Missions go awry all the time. There are millions of reasons why Dick and Jefferson haven't responded, and not all of those reasons are of concern.
… or that's what Bruce tells himself, firmly overriding Bruce Wayne’s heart with Batman’s brain. Until there's a real threat, panicking does nothing.
The next text is hours later and well into the night. Batman is in the middle of an elaborate plan to shut down a recent string of arms deals coordinated by the Penguin.
Aquaman and Wyynde have them. I didn't get a good look. Stand by for hostage status.
Hostage status, Barbara says. Not agent status. Not rescue update.
Hostage status. Which means Dick and Jefferson were captured. And the need to stand by for a status is never a good sign.
Batman concentrates on his current task. He locks down his mind, blocking out Bruce’s concerns and worries.
Barbara calls him on a private channel forty-eight minutes later.
Calls.
“B, you got a second?”
Batman slams his fist into a thug’s cheek and kicks the other goon in the head. Then he grapples for the rooftops.
“Go.”
“Black Lightning is recovering well. Nightwing is… unstable.”
Batman doesn't ask if that's in the physical sense or the mental. “Where is he?”
“Premiere Tower.”
Literally on the other end of the country. A zeta tube will turn that four-hour flight to a thirty-second walk, but he’s also in the middle of something. “I’ll be there in an hour. Two hours. For now, give me details.”
Barbara hesitates. “He’s… I don't know, I saw him and called you. Dr. Jace is with him, but he's… barely responsive. Mostly just groaning. And his temp is through the roof. 104.1.”
There’s gunfire from below. The thugs have come around and are shooting at him like it’s a competition for who empties their clip first. Batman sweeps his cape in front of him, deflecting the spray, and disappears into the shadows.
“Keep me updated. And… keep him alive.”
“Believe me, Batman; I’m trying.”
---
Today could have gone better. Barbara isn't sure how, exactly, it could have gone better, but she's sure there was a way. She's been playing back her actions of the past thirty-six hours, wondering what she did wrong. Asking the now-obvious questions of, “Why did I wait so long to call for backup?” and, “What was I thinking, sending Dick and Jefferson into a death trap like that?” and, “Why didn't Batman know about the X-Pit?”
But even more than that, she needs to know the answer to this: “What the hell is wrong with Dick?”
“I don't know,” is the answer Dr. Jace gives the most, sometimes loudly in an organized panic and sometimes under her breath, spoken only to herself.
And all the while, Barbara holds Dick’s hand and hates how helpless she feels, asking herself those impossible questions.
“What's wrong with you?” Barbara murmurs to the man in the bed, his skin leeched of color and clammy with sweat. He doesn't answer, of course, merely groaning with a smattering of “Bruce?” and “Babs?” and, heart-wrenchingly, “Mom?” (Barbara isn't sure if that one hurts more or less than when he asks for Jason.)
Of course, every time Dick requests one of his favorite people, Barbara lies. She swears up and down that she is Tim or Alfred or Dick’s long-dead parents. Anything to calm him down. Anything to bring him comfort.
It never works.
So Barbara kisses his knuckles gently and grips his hand like he’ll fall apart if she lets go.
“I don't get it,” Dr. Jace finally says, turning away from the vitals and watching Dick carefully. “I’ve run every lab I can think of, and nothing is causing this. Negative for TBI or meningitis. White blood cell count is normal, so there's no infection. He’s been out of the X-Pit and actively cooled for over an hour, so it’s not heat exposure. His labs are overwhelmingly healthy.”
“But he's not,” Barbara says immediately. The moment she says it, she wishes she could take it back.
“I know that,” Dr. Jace sighs. “Obviously.” She shakes her head and heads for the door. “I’m going to check on Jefferson. If anything changes - and I mean anything - yell. I’m not joking.”
Barbara knows. And she really wishes she didn't. “Of course.”
“B-Babs?”
“Right here,” Barbara promises, attention snapping back to Dick. She rubs circles into the back of his hand with her thumb. “I’m right here.”
Dick grunts, eyes shut tight. The sweat rolling down his skin intermingles with two deep rivulets, carving their way down Dick’s face with salt-ridden tears.
“Oh. Hey.” Barbara grabs a tissue and wipes away the tears. She wishes she knew what else she could do. “You’re safe, okay? Granny is gone. You’re safe.”
Dick either doesn’t hear or doesn’t understand. He whines, chest heaving from the mere effort of breathing. When Barbara lays two gentle fingers on his neck, she feels the fluttery, skittish pulse under his skin.
“You’re okay,” she says, despite nothing being further from the truth. “You’re okay.”
---
“‘Psychic damage?’ ‘X-flu?’ You realize how ridiculous this sounds, right?”
“I do,” Dr. Jace replies, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. “And you realize that I was the chief physician for the Royal Markovian family?”
“And I once did heart surgery with a steak knife and the tweezers from an Operation game,” Bruce counters, not backing down an inch. “Your former title doesn’t impress me. Tell me what his labs look like, not some made-up diagnosis.”
Dr. Jace sniffs. “Frankly, there’s nothing to tell. His labs are unremarkable. CT came back clean. Yet his temperature is up to 105, and he has no idea where he is or what’s going on. There’s no ‘real’ diagnosis to give.”
“Hyperpyrexia, unspecified,” Bruce replies.
“That’s not a real diagnosis either.”
“Dr. Jace!”
Dr. Jace turns immediately, sprinting back to Dick’s room. Bruce follows close behind, stomach sinking.
“He just started- I don’t know! He just-” Tim is completely lost for words, trying to keep his brother’s flailing limbs from hitting him.
“Seizure,” Dr. Jace replies, running to the medicine cabinet. “Someone get ice! A lot of it!”
Bruce is about to grab it, but Jefferson and a few others are by the doorway, announcing that they’ll grab the ice, and Bruce is left to try to keep Dick from knocking himself off the bed.
“Someone hold his arm still,” Dr. Jace orders, a syringe in hand.
“Here,” Bruce does as she asks, and she pushes the medication through the IV on Dick’s arm. He continues to shake for a few seconds, and then the tremors die down.
“Dick?” Tim asks hesitantly.
Dick groans. He’s still completely out of it.
“What happened?” Barbara asks, not for the first time this morning.
“His temperature’s up to 107. With a temperature that high, he’s at a high risk for seizures, brain swelling, organ failure, coma…”
The word “death” is unsaid but heard by everyone in the room.
“Ice?” Jefferson and Conner have returned, and they help pack it around Dick. Dick shivers and tries to push them off, but he’s too weak to do any real damage. And isn’t that a scary thought? Nightwing, too weak to move a five-pound bag of ice.
Bruce tastes bile.
Dr. Jace and the Bat-family stay in the room, watching as Dick’s temperature slowly ticks down from 107.1 to 105.4.
“I’ll run labs and a CT again,” Dr. Jace announces. “Call me if things change.” She sounds exhausted.
“Take a break, Doctor,” Bruce tells her. “He’s stable for now. We’ll keep you updated.”
Dr. Jace rolls her eyes and walks out. “Yes, ‘Dr. Wayne.’”
Bruce shuts the door behind her. He just… They all need a minute to breathe. A moment without people spectating their family emergency.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” Bruce tells Barbara.
“I know.”
“What did Dr. Jace say is wrong?” Tim asks hesitantly.
“Nothing,” Bruce reports back. “She’s claiming every test and scan is perfect. I seriously doubt this round of labs will say the same.”
“... Dad?”
Bruce’s stomach races to the floor. Dick isn’t asking for him. He’s only called him that twice, and in both situations, Dick was under severe duress. Bruce knows he’s asking for his real dad - his birth dad - but considering John Grayson isn’t going to show up anytime soon, Bruce strides to Dick’s side.
“Hey, chum. How are you feeling?”
“Don’ feel so good. Can we go home?” His clammy hand reaches out, finding Bruce’s wrist.
Gross, Bruce thinks.
“Real soon,” Bruce says.
Looking up, Bruce realizes that both Barbara and Tim are watching them, their eyes revealing the tragedy of the moment.
A beat passes, and Tim clears his throat. “What should we do? What can we do?”
“We should transfer care to the Cave. Or a hospital, at least,” Bruce says. “Jace has been a royal physician for decades. She was giving out bandaids and treating the flu, not… whatever this is. She’s out of practice.” Honestly, Bruce would’ve made the suggestion earlier if Jace hadn’t stayed in the room for so long.
“Alfred would flip if he had to manage this,” Barbara counters. “Dick needs an ICU.”
“Yeah.” Bruce moves to massage his temples, but Dick is holding onto his wrist with far more strength than he seemed to have before. He leaves his hand where it is. “I know. I want to talk to everyone first, if we can.”
“I’ll keep an eye on Dick,” Tim offers. “You can give me a summary later.”
Bruce frowns, eyes crinkled with worry and brow creased in pity. His poor, poor boys. Even now, Tim has a hand resting on Dick’s ankle, like he’s afraid he’ll die if he loses contact for a second. Though it would be best for everyone to be present, Bruce allows Tim this grace. It’s the least he can do.
Unfortunately, it’s also the most he can do. His poor, poor boys.
---
Tim hums a nameless song, watching the vitals monitor dutifully. He doesn’t fall asleep, even if he’s really tired and the bed he’s resting his elbows on is really comfy. If Dick’s fever spikes again, Tim needs to know immediately.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Tim notes, tracing an “R” into the back of Dick’s hand. “I missed you. But it’s… kinda hard to plan family dinners between meta-trafficker raids and foiling Granny’s plans and all that.”
Dick mumbles back, and Tim strains his ears, trying to form words with the syllables he’s given. When he comes up with nothing, he goes back to talking.
“I was thinking, we’re due for a game night or something. A movie. Anything but patrol or missions. It’s… It’s been too long.”
“Ugh. Tim?”
“Dick!” Tim grabs his arm. “Hey, look at that! You’re awake!”
“Yippeeeeeee,” Dick groans. “What’s… What’s happening?”
“Aquaman pulled you out of the X-Pit.”
“Oh. Right. The-”
There’s shouting outside. Dick jerks upwards, ice bags sliding off the bed and splitting against the tile. Little cubes of it go everywhere, skittering across the floor.
“Relax!” Tim urges, though he’s more than a little curious about what they’re yelling about. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.
“Wh’s… What happened?” Dick nods at the door.
“Not sure. Lay back down.”
“No,” Dick grunts, twisting so his legs hang over the edge of the bed. “Gotta… It’s my fault they’re yelling.”
Tim puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder, keeping him on the bed. “You’ve got a fever of 104 and are completely delirious, and you think everything is your fault. Just get some rest, okay? Bruce will be back in a minute.”
“No,” Dick insists. “Listen.”
Begrudgingly, Tim does. It’s muffled, but one voice, angrier and clearer than the others, rises above the din.
“Did Dick recruit me from Markovia just to keep me in the fold??”
Oh. Okay. Maybe this is Dick’s fault. Partially, anyway.
“Please, Tim,” Dick rasps. He sounds horrific and looks five times worse. Only an idiot would try to get up in his condition.
Tim, meet Idiot.
“Whoa!” Tim has to rush to keep Dick from taking an elegant swan dive off the bed and onto his face. “What are you doing?”
“Gotta-” Dick coughs. Tim can feel the heat coming off him in waves. “Gotta explain. He’ll listen to me.”
“I seriously doubt that, dude. Sounds like he’s not listening to anyone.”
“Tim, if you don’t help me, I’m going to keep getting out of bed.”
It’s not a false threat. He’ll do it. Over and over until he finally falls and breaks his stupid nose.
“Alfred should have left us all a long time ago,” Tim realizes. “Well, you and Bruce. I’m an excellent patient.”
Dick snorts. “Mr. I-Have-No-Spleen-And-Write-Case-Reports-When-I’m-Bleeding-Out.”
“One? Horrible name. Two, the spleen thing is a disability and not my fault, so quit shaming me for it. And three, the case report thing happened once.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dick says dryly. “C’mon. Just let me talk to them, and then I’ll go right back to bed.”
Tim has heard that one before, but he doesn’t have the energy to make the argument. “What-ever, dude. Your funeral.”
“I want ‘We Are the Champions’ to be the procession music. And funfetti cupcakes with blue frosting at the reception.”
“Dear god, just shut up,” Tim mutters, pulling Dick’s arm over his shoulders and hauling him to the door. He’s even weaker than Tim expected, knees shaking and barely holding any weight at all. “Just be glad it’s me here and not Alfred. He would not encourage this.”
“Oh, I’m not…” Dick pants, breath already gone after four steps. “... not brave enough to… ask Alfred.”
They make it out the door and into a crowd of chaos. Jefferson has his back to them, absolutely laying into Bruce and Kaldur’ahm. “That’s not an apology!”
“I’m not going to apologize for putting the mission first,” Bruce replies coolly.
“What good is the mission if we lose ourselves trying to fulfill it??”
“Jeff,” Dick croaks out. He leans heavier on Tim, and Tim ignores the spike of fear that evokes. “I think the person you’re really angry with is me.”
Tim thought Jefferson had already lost it. But he was wrong. Because now? Now, Jefferson loses it.
“You’re damn right you are! Mr. I-Don’t-Join-Teams Grayson, calling me up for some secret freelance op backed by the leader of the Justice League? Getting backup from a Bat drone? And thinking I wouldn’t notice?? You’re a real piece of work. You all are.”
“Jeff, I can explain-”
“Save it, Dick,” he grits out. “I know everything.”
Tim shifts, pulling on Dick’s arm to keep him from slipping. He’s holding less and less weight by the second. They really don’t have much time before he collapses.
“Dick, let’s-”
“No,” Dick says, voice stronger than it’s been since the X-Pit. “Jeff, I’m sorry for not telling you. I am. But if we’re going to beat the Light, we can’t do it splintered like we are. The teams don’t like to work together, so we had to find a way to make it work.”
“Sounds to me like you’re not sorry at all,” Jefferson replies, eyes narrowed. And he’s right. Most apologies followed by a “but” aren’t exactly genuine.
“I-”
“Just stop,” Jefferson sighs. “I’m gone.” He looks around the room, checking the balcony above their heads for movement. “Where’s Helga?”
Garfield speaks up, eyes tenuously bouncing between Jefferson and Dick. “Uhh… she left a while ago with Violet and the Markovs.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame her. Probably didn’t want them to see all this.” He shakes his head and walks off, disappearing behind the elevator doors.
“Wait, Jeff-” Dick doesn’t finish whatever plea he was going to make to convince Jefferson to stay. Instead, his eyes roll up in the back of his head, and he goes completely boneless.
“Dick! Dude, I can’t-!” Tim loses his grip, and the pair goes down together.
“Dick!” That’s Bruce’s voice, and Tim can hear the uncharacteristically loud snaps of his shoes against the tile. He falls to his knees beside them, pinching Dick’s shoulder to try to rouse him. “Are you okay, Tim?”
“Yeah,” Tim breathes. “Fine. What should we-?”
“Hospital,” Barbara says, rolling over to them. “I told you, Alfred would have a fit. This is not something we’re equipped to handle.”
And for once, everyone agrees.
---
“-doesn’t… doesn’ look like th’ Cave.”
“Cause it’s not, you big goof,” Barbara sighs. “You’re in the hospital. We’ve been over this.”
Dick hums. “Right.” His glassy eyes search the room. There’s zero recognition in them. He doesn’t remember a second out of the last two days here. “I ‘member.”
“Liar.”
“Hey, the coffee shop was out of almond milk, so I got you oat instead.” Tim hands Barbara a coffee cup and then takes a long sip of his own.
Barbara hums. “I suppose that's fine. Maybe. What did you get?”
“However many shots it takes to fill a trenta cup.”
“You're going to have a heart attack.”
“One can only hope,” Tim replies wistfully. “Sorry, none for you, Dick. If you want, I can ask the nurse about injecting espresso into your IV bag.”
Dick grumbles but doesn't reply. Barbara's not certain he understood any of that.
“How’re you doing, man?” Tim asks, tapping Dick’s foot to get his attention.
“Just… really cold,” he murmurs, but the vitals monitor suggests otherwise. In fact, Barbara is tempted to ask the nurses to bring back the ice. His temperature only recently got low enough to remove it. “Where’s B?”
“Out stopping Granny,” Tim replies, and the desolate sob that evokes from Dick makes his shoulders hunch. “He’ll be back as soon as he’s done,” Tim swears.
But Dick just gasps like he finally came to the surface after a month underwater. “I- I can't get it out of my head.” He's shaking, voice pained and expression pinched.
Barbara runs her thumb back and forth across Dick’s hand. “Can't get what out of your head, Dick?”
Dick winces, whining from the back of his throat. “Granny,” he whispers like a curse. “She… She made me…” He lets out an inhuman keen and a choked off sob. Tears flow freely, and Barbara's heart breaks in two. He would never want Tim to see him like this. Even with Barbara, he can be a brick wall. But actively crying, begging for help? She doesn't know what Granny did to him, but whatever it is, she's going to pay for it.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Barbara tuts in a high pitched tone, like she's soothing a baby or a frightened puppy. “It's okay, Dick. You're here with us. You're safe.”
“No, you- you don't understand,” Dick moans. “You're not… not safe around me.”
Tim shifts awkwardly beside Barbara. “We’re all okay.”
“I…” Dick looks between the two, eyes red and expression stricken. “I hurt you. I killed you. Over and over and-”
Barbara's heart breaks all over for him. “That wasn't real, Dick. You never hurt us.”
“You don't get it,” Dick replies, louder and more insistent. “I did. It was real to me. I thought that was you and Bruce and…” He buries his face in his blanket. “And I still killed you. I peeled off your skin and dug out your hearts and kept you alive just long enough to-” His voice chokes off into a sob. It's a sound Barbara has never heard Dick make before. A sound she’s never heard anyone make before, so desolate and heart-rent that it makes her hate Granny even more than before.
Before Barbara can respond, Tim sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Dick to his chest. He’s a little hesitant, a little awkward, but it's a clear replication of something Dick has done for him in the past. He shushes Dick softly and rubs circles between his shoulder blades.
“You're safe, Dick,” Tim tells him. “We’re right here. I’m breathing, and so is Barb.”
Barbara squeezes Dick’s hand, and he grips back with the intensity of a vise.
“I’m sorry,” Dick murmurs feverishly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn't want to. I told her I wouldn't, but then she…” He never finishes the sentence.
“We're right here,” Tim promises. “We aren't going anywhere.”
Dick sniffles, but he relaxes slightly, safely surrounded by those who will love and protect him to the end.