Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was like any other night, on the streets of Gotham. While it was quiet, there was always something going on, something wrong.

Dick came to Bruce three nights ago about a warehouse that he was suspicious of that he found while browsing local CCTV cameras on his computer. He was confident there was some sort of arms dealing going on in the warehouse, and when showing Bruce the evidence he produced, he was inclined to believe him. 

“The windows are boarded with wood, and the lights outside are only ever on when it’s night! There’s never any busy bodies during the day, but suddenly there’s so much work to do at night, Bruce!” He said, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pointed to his computer, the display being a CCTV camera pointed towards what looks like the shadiest warehouse Bruce had ever seen. 

“Well, Gotham criminals aren’t the best at hiding their operations” he mutters, “We’ll look into it tonight.”

After the two looked into the floorplan of the warehouse and familiarised themselves with the layout, the two went off into the night, donning their capes, cowl and domino mask to go scout the area to see if there was any consistent routine the unknown group had. 

Two nights in a wet, abandoned building later, the duo managed to piece together the schedule the organisation kept together. Where the guards were posted and when they radioed in, when they rotated positions and when they sent out their unidentified shipments. They managed to complete four shipments each night, within 5 hours. 

At the two hour mark, there was a 20-minute period where most high-weaponry guards rotated away from the warehouse. That was when Bruce and Dick planned to make their move. 

It was the first reconnaissance mission Dick had a part in organising. Bruce noted as the boy bounced on the balls of his feet, barely able to contain his excitement.

During that 20 minute period, Bruce would get in close whilst Dick kept an eye on their surroundings and keep him informed via comms, gather what information he could, and slip out undetected and with a plan to shut the group down. 

Bruce was keeping an eye on the time while Robin pressed the binoculars up against his domino mask, staring down as the second van was being loaded up with large, heavy boxes. 

He hummed, passing the binoculars to Bruce. 

“The second truck is being loaded up, B,” He whispered quietly, glancing at Bruce, who grunted an affirmative. 

“Once that leaves, we head down the fire escape on the east side of the building,” Bruce gruffly responded.. 

They watched as the van peeled off down the road and the guards checked in on their radios. “Now,” Bruce said, and the two quickly scale down the fire escape, both respectively tapping on their communication devices in their ear, the static click and hum signaling the two were connected. 

The two adopted a stealth as easy as breathing: Bruce stuck to the shadows fluidly like water, while Dick moved silently yet gracefully, precisely leaping and gliding alongside the Bat. 

They hugged the shadows against the western side of the warehouse, directly alongside the office space within the building. Bruce glanced up to the boarded windows, then back down to Dick. 

A man’s voice filtered through the wall, thick and muffled due to the layers of steel and insulated metal panels between them. 

Batman and Robin leaned in, straining to catch the words. “Tomorrow night…full load to…hollow ammunition…” That was all the two could catch before the man seemingly walked further away from the wall. 

Bruce clicked his tongue in frustration–clearly some large heist of some sort would be taking place tomorrow, and unless Bruce could get a location, they would be forced to watch it unfold. 

Dick, seemingly with the same train of thought, waved Bruce's attention upward toward an air vent cover, just a foot or two above Bruce's full height. 

“That air vent goes straight through their office—if I can just get in there, I’ll be able to hear them clearly,” He whispered before Bruce leveled him a scalding glare, shaking his head. “It’s too risky. I can’t send you in there without backup.” 

This time, Dick shook his head. “You can go through that skylight up on the roof, you would be right there with me. B, I can handle it. We have to find out where it’s all going,” He argued, his arms crossed over his chest in a display of defiance. 

Bruce gave him a meaningful once-over, before reluctantly sighing. 

Robin took that as an open invitation and quickly clambered onto Bruce's shoulders as he reached up for the vent cover. It gave way with a faint metal scrape, loud enough to make Dick tense and wait a bated breath, before slipping inside the vent. 

The vents were about as tight as he had expected. Not impossible, but barely enough space for Dicks shoulders. The stale air clung to the back of his throat, and he tried not to cough as he shuffled further inside the room. 

Bruce turned quickly to the left about to status check Dick when he made eye contact with a man whose expression was engulfed in pure, animalistic fear. Bruce didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even speak a word, as he dashed forward towards the man. He let out a terrified shout before Bruce slammed his elbow into the side of the guard's head as he watched him drop, unconscious.

He cursed under his breath before grappling to the roof, climbing across and heading for the skylight. “Robin, status report,” Bruce let out a breath as he fliddled with the lock on the outside of the skylight. 

The silence was not a comfort. “Robin, status report,” the quiet persisted, however the static picked up the sound of Robin's breath quickening. “Robin—” 

“B,” Robin whispers, interrupting him, “It’s not looking good. I’m trying to get closer to hear what they’re saying, but—” All that could be heard was the sound of his joints bumping against the side of the vent. 

“Robin, get out of there, our locations have been compromised,” He growled out before snapping the lock off the skylight and hopping down into the warehouse. 

Robin lets out an airy chuckle, “I found out where they’re shipping to, B, you wouldn’t believe it, Lex—” he began, before he was cut off by a deep yell, followed by a younger, startled shout. Bruce curses louder, this time as he rounds the hallway leading towards the office, “Robin, status report,” 

As he finished his sentence, he came face to face with four armed men. With a glare, he punches the first one straight in the face, before body slamming the next. Alongside the sound of his fist connecting with the goon, he heard a similar sound of impact through his comm. 

“You might want to throw those punches near me next time. Just a tip.”  Dick says to whoever is apparently swinging at him, and Bruce can't tell if he wanted to laugh or scold him. 

Another guard winded up his rifle and slammed it into the back of Bruce's head, disorientating Bruce as he stumbled and took a swing from the fourth guard to the gut. He let out a cough before spinning around and swinging at the man behind him. 

A deep crunch seeped through his comm. “Wow, a kid just broke your nose. That’s gotta sting—your pride more than your face.” Dick taunted again. Bruce let out a huff of amusement before a guard forced him into a headlock. Focus. 

Instead of panic, Bruce threw himself around and used the guard to body slam the other into the wall. He watched as one slumped to the ground. One more to go. 

The comm crackled. Static. Then the faintest scuffle—boots on concrete, a man grunting, before Dick’s voice breaks through, clipped, “Get your hands—off—” 

Then silence. Bruce’s breath caught, swinging his elbow up and slamming it into the final guard, the man fell unconscious. “Robin, report.”

Nothing. 

Then—

A gunshot. Not filtered through the static of their comms. Real. Close. Echoing through the night’s air.

Followed by a young gut-wrenching scream of pain. Dick. And for one terrible moment, Bruce wasn’t in the warehouse, but in Crime Alley. The gunshot, the scream, his mother’s pearls hitting the pavement—

His body went numb, an impending sense of dread filled his every orifice as he slowly walked to the door. It opened under his hand, deliberately, slowly. Like he was afraid of what he’d see on the other side. 

The room reeked of sweat and blood. Four unmoving bodies laid sprawled on the floor—unconscious, but breathing. 

Robin was on the floor, in a crawl. Moving so slowly you could barely tell he was moving at all. The blood was obvious, soaking through his bright green shorts, spilling out all over the floor. 

He looked up the second Bruce entered—His eyes screwed up in pain, before he slurred, “Took you long enough,” his voice raw. 

Two men were still standing. One held a pistol, formerly aimed at Robin’s head, before swinging it towards Batman. 

The gun clattered to the floor only a second later, the man following after, choking on his own scream. Bruce didn’t even register taking down the other man before he dropped to his knees in front of Dick, his medical training kicked in faster than his brain would process—One hand already peeling away his pant leg from the thigh wound, the other checking his pulse, strong, but too fast. 

“We need to get you out of here,” He half whispered, half growled. He couldn’t keep up his frightening Batman persona anymore. It felt like all his walls he had built to protect himself crumbled instantly at the sound of that gunshot. 

“Took four down. ‘Think I deserve a nap.” Dick says, his eyes fluttering as his head dips back. “You’re not passing out,” Bruce snapped, pulling a tourniquet out of his utility belt. He wrapped it tightly above the wound, his hands firm but shaking ever so slightly. “Stay with me. Look at me, Di—Robin. Stay with me.” 

Bruce pressed down on the wound as he wrapped gauze around it, and when Dick gasped, Bruce growled out, “You shouldn’t have been alone.”

Dick blinked up at Bruce, the tears in his eyes spilling over. “Wasn’t,” he whispered. “You came.” 

Bruce couldn’t answer. He looked down at his hands. They were painted red—wrists to fingertips. They were shaking. 

He clenched his hands into fists, like he could hold himself together. “You’re going to be okay,” his voice cracked out as he gathered Dick into his arms, the blood soaking through, warm through the gloves. Too much, too fast. 

Every step he took toward the Batmobile cemented the thought in his head this would be the last time he would carry his son. 

He could already see the casket. Black. Soft. Smaller than it should be. 

Alfred would insist on gray. Clark would give a eulogy. 

His boots hit the asphalt with dull, heavy thuds. He couldn’t hear his own breathing. He couldn’t hear the wind. All he heard was pearls falling. 

Dick, quiet in his arms. His head resting gently against Bruce’s chest like he was only asleep. 

Don’t go where they went. Please, not you. 

Bruce reached the car, its door opening in advance of his own footfalls. He laid Dick down across the passenger seat as if he were laying him to rest. His blood smeared across the leather as he let out a pained little moan. 

Bruce’s hand taps his comm, “Agent A. I need medbay ready.” A pause. Not long, but enough that Bruce could feel the panic rise in his chest. “How bad, sir?”

Bruce climbed into the driver's seat, and looked to Dick. To the blood. At his wheezing. 

“...He’s been shot.”

Then, in a quieter voice, almost childlike, “I don’t know If I’ll be fast enough.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Bruce burst into the Batcave’s medbay, Dick limp in his arms, mouth slack with the weight of exhaustion. Alfred was already there, waiting with sterile gloves on, sleeves rolled up, and a tray prepped. The sight of him should’ve been reassuring, but it wasn’t. It just meant it was real. 

Ears ringing, Bruce sets Dick down on the operating table gently. “Master Bruce, go wash your hands.” Alfred commands softly, and Bruce doesn’t even think as he turns to the sink and rinses his hands.

The water turns a deep red. No matter how much he scrubbed, he couldn’t get rid of the tacky feeling of his son's blood off his hands, out from under his fingernails. His hands moved almost mechanically, lathering itself in soap over and over, staining the suds pink. 

He drifts back to the table like a ghost, unaware of how much time has passed. He stood, hovering, useless, watching as Alfred stitched together Dicks torn flesh with finesse. Dick’s jaw twitched with a wince as he bit back a pained whine. 

Bruce can’t look away from his bullet wound. “Hold his hand,” Alfred said, not looking up from his stitching. “Or he’ll drift.”

“You okay?” Dick rasped, his voice thin. Bruce didn’t answer, just tightened his grip on Dick’s hand. If he spoke, something would break loose, something he wouldn’t be able to put back, to fix. Bruce let out a breath through his nose. It shook anyway.

Dick squeezed back. 

The table was clean now, mostly. Only the faint pink stain on the gauze tray and the red underneath Bruce’s nails said otherwise. Dick fell asleep the moment the stitching was done—his soft, smooth breathing filled the room while Bruce and Alfred stared at him together in silence. 

Bruce didn't move, didn't speak. Just stared at the neat, closed line on Dick’s thigh. Alfred reached out, and when he touched his shoulder, Bruce flinched, like the weight of his hand might shake his resolve loose. 

“He’ll live,” Alfred said, quiet but strong. “But you need to come back to the room now, sir.” He walked around the table to stand in front of Bruce, meeting his eyes with steadfast determination. 

“You didn’t bury him, so stop mourning as if you did.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Dick stirred awake, grogginess setting in. His body felt heavy and sore, a dull throb pulsing steadily to the beat of his heart coming from his thigh. He winced, tears welling up in his eyes, before registering something shifting beside him. 

There was a weight on the mattress beside him, solid and warm. Blinking through the crust in his eyes, he lifted his head up from where it was tucked into his chest. 

Bruce. 

Changed out of his suit into a softer material, something he’d be willing to bet was enforced by Alfred. 

He was sleeping on the edge of Dicks bed, looking more like he slumped over while sitting guard, ready to wake at the first sign of distress. 

Dick blinked again, swallowing around the hot lump in his throat. The numb searing pain in his leg reminded him it wasn’t a nightmare, that it happened. But the warmth beside him, the comforting weight, that was real too. 

“Thanks, Bruce,” he whispered, voice dry. 

He didn’t expect a reply, but Bruce’s fingers twitched imperceptibly, curling in the blanket between them. 

With Bruce beside him, when Dick felt his eyes grow heavy, he let sleep take him, safe in the belief that his father would keep him safe.