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There was a loud ringing in Dick’s ears. Very loud. Very distracting. Especially since it didn’t sound like his alarm clock. No, something was wrong.
Maybe he should open his eyes.
But that was easier said than done, because they worked against him as Dick pried them open with all his might. And as soon as he caught a glimpse of the lurching world around him, Dick understood why. They had been protecting him. Protecting him from the wild whirl of colors that didn’t make any sense.
With each green that bleed into grey that turned into pink his head thrummed in pain. In confusion.
Why was the world such a kaleidoscope of color?
Why was nothing making any sense at all?
Why…?
Dick stared at his own hands, the only thing that wasn’t currently dancing in circles through his field of vision and realized that they were wearing a rather familiar black uniform. He knew these gauntlets; even as they swayed, even as his own hands seemed to belong to someone else, his body not feeling real at all.
And if his head would stop pulsing for just a moment, Dick would be able to figure out just where he had seen them before. On whom. Whom… that seemed to be the important bit, his fumbling brain told him.
Black clothes… a stern face… warm and familiar eyes… Bruce? No. Batman.
Why was Dick wearing Batman’s costume? Was he Batman?
With that the world lurched again, and Dick couldn’t stop the nausea from spilling over his lips. For a long, long moment the world turned white, as Dick spilled the insides of his stomach on… on whatever he was currently sitting on.
He couldn’t really tell, since his surroundings hadn’t stopped spinning yet, the ringing in his ears so loud, he feared his eyes would bleed.
But finally – finally! – things began to focus again, even if Dick was not yet able to discern any sense behind the things he was looking at.
In front of him were trees. Broken, destroyed trees that Dick could see through the frame of something that looked like the window of a cockpit. Outside the world was green and brown and blue – the forest and the sky. Glass shards surrounded him, and Dick was floored when he once again realized that he was wearing the Batman suit.
Trouble in retaining short-term memories, and recalling long-term memories .
That was probably not good, especially since it had been Bruce’s voice that had whispered that information. But Dick was alone. He turned around, only seeing the broken cockpit around him and the trees outside, his father nowhere in sight. Bruce wasn’t here. Dick was alone, and yet he could swear that it had been Bruce who just warned him.
But memory problems seemed to be in line with everything else – the nausea, the confusion, the… the… there had been something else as well, but the pain in his head was too fierce for Dick to recall it right now.
Maybe it would help if he got out of the plane. Was he in a plane? It would make sense. The control panels in front of him looked suspiciously like those of the Bat-plane.
If Dick was Batman… did that mean that this was in fact the Bat-plane?
He shook his head to dislodge the thoughts trying to run away from him only to realize what a truly bad idea that had been. The world swam once more, colors bleeding into each other, trees swaying in very un-tree-like ways.
Dick had to steady himself against the seat he was sitting on, because the floor beneath him threatened to fall away, and Dick wasn’t sure if he would be able to catch himself. He wouldn’t. Not with the way his arms failed to follow his commands, or the tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach that announced that he would throw up again should he dare to move. The burning smell of his own sick didn’t help to settle the nausea either.
Taking deep breaths only did so little.
There was a plan. A… a contingency that Dick had to follow. Now he only needed to remember what it was.
Okay… he could do that. He had been doing this his entire life. He only had to follow the steps he had learned before Bruce had let him leave the Cave. The steps that were so ingrained in his psyche that not even a… a plane-crash (?) would be able to knock them loose.
The first step was an easy one: Assess damage.
Dick wasn’t 100% sure if that meant him or his surroundings, but he would try his best to get a grasp on what the fuck was going on.
He knew very little currently, but the things he could say with a certain level of certainty were these:
He was concussed, badly if the headache and lingering vertigo were anything to go by. His arms and legs were working, but his coordination failed him. He might have cuts and bruises, but he was afraid of moving his head too much to check. His ears were still ringing, still hurting so much Dick wanted to cry.
But what else was going on?
He was in a plane – probably the Bat-plane – he was dressed as Batman, and – another glance out of what was left of the window – he was currently stranded in a forest. The chances were high that the plane had crashed.
That was it.
No matter how much Dick strained his hurting head, he couldn’t remember why he was here. Why he was wearing the costume. Why he was in this forest at all.
He didn’t know if it had been machine failure, or enemy attack, or pure dumb bad luck, that had ended with him struggling to connect the dots.
But he could remember Step Two of the protocol Bruce had made him learn:
Contact the Cave and ask for backup.
His hand shook as he pressed his fingers against the comm unit of the Cowl. Nothing happened. Dick pressed down again and again and again, but the answering beep never came. No BEEP pierced the ringing in his ears, no rough “Nightwing” greeted him.
Okay.
So, the comms were down.
But he shouldn’t panic yet.
There was no need to panic yet.
He could do this. He could still do this.
His search for the emergency contact button on the cockpit in front of him turned a bit frantic, but Dick wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do. He was confused. He was in pain. He was alone.
His brain was scrambling for scraps and pieces of information and suddenly the idea of emergency communication seemed like his only saving grace. Every bigger standard issue piece of Bat-equipment had ways of communication built into it. For emergencies. For situations like this.
Dick only needed to find it.
His fumbling hands needed to find the right button on the control panel in front of him. And then they did. The switch was small, and on the far-left side, probably to minimize the chance of accidentally switching it on. But Dick wanted to turn it on. He needed to turn it on.
And it did.
The small red light next to the emergency communicator started to glow.
Dick had made contact.
Now he only needed to relay his message. His SOS:
“Nightwing… or Batman, I am not sure, to Cave. Nightwing to Cave. Um… I crashed the Bat-plane. I think. Can you track me.”
This was a shitty message, and Dick didn’t have to have a clear head to know that. But his own voice sounded false and wrong and flat as it reverberated in his skull, and he couldn’t recall what the code for extractions from the field were, anymore.
All he knew was that it hurt worse to talk, that even that small movement of his jaw sent spikes of pain through his entire brain. Not even squeezing his eyes shut, helped anything. If anything it made it even worse.
Dick waited and waited and waited, but no answer came over the comms. Maybe nobody had heard his SOS yet. Or the speakers of the plane were broken.
He would have to try again:
“Um… I am not sure if you are getting this message, but I hope you do. I… Nightwing to Cave. Or Batman to Cave… I am… somewhere. I think... my plane crashed. I need…”
Dick’s stomach lurched once more, and for a few precious moments the world stopped spinning, but only because Dick was so miserable in every other aspect of his existence the world didn’t matter anymore. Was he imagining things or did the thumping of his head get worse?
“I need… I might need medical… head hurts…”
His own voice sounded more fake than ever, as if Dick was hearing someone else speak from a great distance, trying to match the movement of lips with the idea of sound. He didn’t like it. No, he didn’t like it one bit.
And could the ringing in his ears please stop? If only for a moment?
“Yeah… um, this is my SOS signal, I… plane crash, I don’t know how where I am… and… and…”
Something important. Something Dick knew he needed, something very, very important.
“Oh, yeah… medical would be great. Batman out. Nightwing… over.”
With a sigh Dick leaned back against the seat he had woken up in. His eyes still squeezed shut, tears leaking from underneath his closed eyelids. His head hurt so bad. No matter what he did, the vertigo wouldn’t go away, and it felt as if he was constantly falling… falling… falling… even as he kept still.
Dick didn’t like falling.
Or he did.
But not like this.
Not when it felt like dying.
He waited for someone to tell him that everything would be alright, for Batman to promise him that Dick would be safe, but no sound echoed through the destroyed cockpit, no sound but the intense ringing in his ears.
Were they bleeding? It felt like it…
With a background noise like that, it was no wonder that Dick couldn’t concentrate on anything. Maybe he should go and check where that noise was coming from. It couldn’t be healthy to be exposed to such a sound for a longer period of time.
No, Dick should really go and check that out.
The trees were still swaying when Dick opened his eyes again, the sky a mess of blue and white and blue and… Dick tried not to look too closely, the nausea bubbling in his stomach already bad enough.
He… he probably shouldn’t do this. A voice that sounded suspiciously like his dad’s told him that moving with a possible head injury was a bad idea, but the ringing was so annoying. It hurt so bad. Dick just wanted it to stop.
Maybe it was an emergency signal of the plane. Maybe the plane would explode soon.
Dick had to check that, had to make sure he wouldn’t be in grave danger just because he ignored the alarm of the Bat-plane. Did the Bat-plane even have an alarm? You know, like those car alarms that always started after an earthquake or a world ending catastrophe? They were super annoying, Dick thought, when you were currently engaged in a wrestling match with an alien.
But he wasn’t wrestling Superman’s cousin right now.
No… right now, Dick only wanted for the ringing in his ears to stop.
He pushed himself upwards, away from his seat, in an effort to get his feet underneath him, ignoring how the ringing got worse, the vertigo all-encompassing. He could do this. He would do this.
And he managed the first step. And the one after that, until he had left the cockpit of the plane behind, standing on soft grass, surrounded by green, and blue, and brown, the dark black of Batman’s aircraft forgotten behind him.
Why… why had he left the plane again?
Tears ran down his cheeks, and when he tried to dry them, his gauntlet came away red. Was he bleeding? Why was he wearing Batman’s gear? Wasn’t he Nightwing?
Dick turned around, and with him the world fell.
His ears were ringing.
Why were they ringing?
He lost consciousness before his body hit the grass.
Bruce had given Alfred the day – evening, really – off, in an effort to ease the nerves of everyone. It hadn’t been long since he had returned from the dead, and he would do his best in making this return as smooth and effortless as possible.
And Bruce knew exactly what he had to do, to ensure that Alfred would be eased back into his return; there was only one Batman currently decorating the Gotham skyline and it wasn’t Bruce.
It was hard to watch his son bear the burden of the Cowl – something Bruce had never wanted for any one of his kids – but he couldn’t deny the pride that bloomed in his chest whenever he saw Dick succeed. Whenever he realized how great the man his child had become was.
And if that meant taking over the comms until Damian and Dick and Alfred and Tim and Cass felt comfortable enough with letting him leave their field of vision again, then so be it.
Bruce had probably talked more with any of his kids – except Jason, because there always had to be at least one exception to every rule – than he had in the years before. It was easier for Bruce to offer encouragement when he was far away, hidden behind tech and in the safety of a Cave, than it was when he was Batman, a general who had to ensure the survival of his soldiers in the field.
While managing comms, Bruce was just a dad – a grumpy, strict dad, according to Steph, but a Father nonetheless.
He was talking to Tim when the emergency transmission came in:
“Why do I have to take Robin with me, B? Can’t Black Bat handle the brat for tonight?”
“Batman isn’t in town, Red Robin, and the two of you need field experience together. It is an easy case, it should be no-”
“I know it’s an easy case. That’s why I know I would be able to handle it alone!”
“Red Robin… that is not how this works and you- Oh.”
“What?”
“Emergency transmission. I will talk to you later. Take Robin and go. B out.”
Bruce switched off his communication channel with Tim, focusing on the incoming SOS signal. The Bat-plane currently in use by Dick somewhere in Russia, was sending a signal. Dread started to pool in Bruce’s stomach.
He clicked accept transmission and listened, his breath loud in his own ears:
“Nightwing… or Batman, I am not sure, to Cave. Nightwing to Cave. Um… I crashed the Bat-plane. I think. Can you track me.”
It was definitely Dick’s voice that Bruce was hearing. But he didn’t like the slurring or the way in which Dick’s confusion was audible. Concussion, if nothing worse.
Bruce really, really hoped it was nothing worse.
But he could worry later, now he had to answer, to ensure that his son knew that he would come, and that everything would be alright:
“Cave to Batman. Currently tracking your location. You are somewhere in a 50-mile radius from Kemerovo in the Siberian tundra. We should be able to pinpoint your location more exactly in a couple of minutes. What is your status?”
Silence.
Bruce closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of panic. And then he opened his eyes again, steeling himself for whatever would come. He could deal with his emotions later, for now he had to save his son:
“Do you copy, Batman?”
Still, no answer.
And then:
“Um… I am not sure if you are getting this message, but I hope you do. I… Nightwing to Cave. Or Batman to Cave… I am… somewhere. I think... my plane crashed. I need…”
Okay… Dick was alright. Or at least he was still conscious. The speakers of the plane were probably broken, and Dick was panicking just as badly as Bruce wanted to.
Confused and alone with a possible head injury didn’t sound like a fun Saturday afternoon activity – and as Bruce listened to Dick throw up, worry settling deep in his bones, he hoped that he would get a chance to hug his son close, soon enough.
“I need… I might need medical… head hurts…”
The slurring was getting worse, and if Bruce knew anything it was that Dick would probably lose consciousness soon. His fingers were moving across the keyboard at lightning speed, sending a message to the Watchtower for medical evac with Dick’s coordinates, while remotely accessing the stats of the plane from his chair in front of the Bat-computer.
The read-outs sent a shiver through Bruce’s whole body. The plane had indeed crashed, the engine destroyed beyond salvage, only the emergency generator still running. But that wasn’t what had caused the icy shivers.
No, what truly worried Bruce was the fact that the speakers were in perfect working order.
Dick should be able to hear Bruce:
“Cave to Batman. Do you copy? Can you hear me?”
No answer, not that Bruce had truly expected one. Still, it was harder to push down the worry when Bruce was forced to confront the fact that something was actually wrong.
Concussions didn’t normally come in a combination with hearing loss.
Maybe the crash had been especially loud – and what had caused Dick to lose control of the plane in the first place? – and Dick was just momentarily deaf? Or maybe something worse had happened? A basilar skull fracture could cause hearing loss, if one was unlucky. So could most TBIs---
Stop. Bruce needed to take a deep breath, focus his thoughts and emotions, and move on. He would only do harm if he let himself become a victim of his own emotions. During the mission, logic always came first. He would sit at Dick’s bedside later, clutching his son’s hand, reliving his panic and helplessness, but for now, he would stay calm and collected.
“Batman? Can you hear me? Please tell me if you copy!”
Or as calm and collected as he could manage.
This time, however, someone answered. But the message made clear: Dick hadn’t answered him. No, Dick was just as lost, trying to get a SOS signal to the Cave.
“Yeah… um, this is my SOS signal, I… plane crash, I don’t know how where I am… and… and… Oh, yeah… medical would be great. Batman out. Nightwing… over.”
The slurring had gotten worse, and Bruce knew that Dick was on the verge of unconsciousness. Still, it was heartbreaking to hear just how confused his son was, how hurt he sounded – and alone.
Bruce couldn’t stop himself from answering, even though he knew it would be worthless:
“I hear you, chum, I hear you. And help is going to be there soon enough. Look, Rayner is the Green Lantern on duty… he will be at your coordinates soon. Everything will be okay, chum. I know it…”
Bruce was rambling and it hurt deep inside his bones to know that Dick wouldn’t answer, couldn’t hear all the soothing words Bruce was mumbling. His boy could need the comfort of an ally. The comfort of his dad telling him that everything would be alright.
He continued to listen, offering commentary to the Justice League communications he was getting, telling Dick that soon – soon – someone would come for him and save him. He let himself be comforted by the fast sound of Dick’s breathing, by scratchy noises of the Batsuit moving against plastic and metal.
For as long as Dick made noise Bruce could be sure that his son would be alright.
And then the noise stopped.
And with it Bruce’s heart came to a standstill:
“Batman? Dick! DICK! ANSWER! Are you okay…? Please answer Dick…”
But no answer came.
Every emotion, every feeling, every fear, Bruce had pushed down, threatened to resurface, but Bruce couldn’t allow himself to be swallowed like that. Not now. Not yet. Not while he hadn’t had a chance to save his son yet.
He knew that Kyle Rayner was on his way to retrieve Dick, he knew that the official protocol for heroes on League missions was underway – but Bruce was still a father, still a man that wanted to know his children in safety.
He dialed a number he knew better than his own, not waiting for an introduction when a sleepy voice greeted him on the other end:
“Clark, you still owe me for Moskau 2002. Fly me to these coordinates – Dick is in danger.”
He didn’t have to tell Clark twice.
Not even thirty seconds later, Superman was standing in front of him, hair a mess, suit rumbled in a way, Bruce hadn’t known it could be. He would have to store that information for later – when he had the time and the muse to examine what that said about his superhuman friend.
“You don’t have to exchange one of your favors for this – I will always gladly help Dick.”
For a moment the two men only looked at each other, before Bruce, clad in a toned-down version of the Batman suit, stepped closer, linking his arms behind the neck of his friends:
“Well, then I redact my payment – now move.”
The world blurred and Bruce could feel his stomach lurch, though, he wasn’t sure if it was the worry eating him from the inside out or the speed that made him nauseous. The couple of minutes it took them to reach the coordinates of the Bat-plane stretched unimaginably long… Bruce cursed the relativity of time.
An eternity later Clark finally slowed down, the world around them bright in contrast to the dark night that had reigned over Gotham. Beneath them, Bruce could spot what was left of the plane, the destruction of the forest surrounding the aircraft, and a lone figure motionless on the ground.
Bruce felt the exact moment Clark spotted Dick was well, their descent accelerating.
Bruce was running towards Dick before Clark’s feet had touched the ground, his knees hitting the grass next to his son with a silent thump. Dick was so still. So silent. So motionless.
Even though Bruce was falling apart on the inside, his hands didn’t shake when he reached out towards Dick’s neck, ignoring the blood seeping out from under the Cowl. A pulse. Bruce had found a pulse. It was weak and thready, but Dick was alive.
Now that Bruce had eased that worry – and a giant part of his brain wouldn’t shut up, telling him what else could go wrong, how dangerous concussions and prolonged unconsciousness were – he could focus on the rest.
Now he could focus on the unhealthy pallor of Dick’s skin, on the sick decorating the lower half of the Batsuit, the red creating a stark contrast on Dick’s head.
“Hey, Dick… look at me Dick…”
Bruce’s voice was soft, his hands gentle as he patted Dick’s cheek, but his son didn’t react. Dick stayed oblivious to the world, and Bruce stayed only barely tethered to hope.
Behind him, he could feel Clark step closer, could almost sense the other man using his x-ray vision. They had fought together for decades, they didn’t have to talk to communicate, and yet Bruce asked anyway:
“And?”
“A basilar skull fracture. If he gets treatment soon, there should be no lingering effects to his brain activity – but he needs an OR to ease the pressure soon.”
“And his hearing?”
“There is too much blood in his ear canals to get any clear reading.”
Bruce nodded, appreciating the honesty of his friends. So, Dick wasn’t out of the woods yet. The knowledge that Dr. Mid-Night was waiting at the Watchtower ready to help Dick, did little to soothe the unease in his bones, as he scanned the sky for GL.
It hurt to look at Dick.
At the cowl his boy had never wanted to wear.
At the blood that spoke of pain and misery.
At the lack of movement that told the world just how bad the situation really was.
Dick was always moving, always doing something. And now he was still. Now he laid motionless in the grass in front of Bruce, and Bruce could do nothing but wait.
For a moment he toyed with the idea of asking Clark to carry Dick to the Watchtower himself, but there was a reason the GLs usually took emergency evacuations: Clark might be fast, but he couldn’t stop the mode of transportation from affecting the patient.
And in cases like these, in cases where it was the brain that had suffered, or worse, the spine, Clark would only make the situation worse – no matter how much it pained Bruce to admit it and Clark to be unable to help.
Both of them didn’t speak as they continued their vigil over Dick, Bruce never letting his hand wander away from Dick’s pulse point. The regular thump of a heartbeat underneath his fingers kept the panic at bay. The knowledge that his son was still alive made the fear bearable.
And then the familiar glow of a green lantern appeared above them. Renner was finally here.
It felt as if it had taken the GL half an eternity, but when Bruce glanced at his watch, he realized that it had only been 25 minutes since he had informed the Justice League of Dick’s exact coordinates.
“Batman, Superman… what is the situation?”
“A medical evac. Secure his spine and neck. And ask your inane questions later – this is a time sensitive matter”
Rayner flinched back from Batman’s dark growl, but Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry. Instead his eyes trailed after Dick, as the green glow engulfed him, carrying him away. Carrying him into safety.
“He will be alright.”
“You don’t know that.”
Bruce had no time for Clark’s optimism, he wanted the Watchtower and some clear-cut facts. As soon as he had the data, he could work on a plan. As soon as he had the information, he could ensure that Dick would be alright.
But Clark was not that easily swayed, his voice warm but firm, when he spoke next:
“Maybe not. But I believe it. Dick is a fighter. He got that from you.”
“No, I got that from him.”
Bruce looked at the hand Clark was offering him, and he didn’t even hesitate for a second, before he once again slung his arms around Clark’s neck. The world vanished underneath his feet as they followed Rayner to the Watchtower. As they followed Dick to safety.
Consciousness was a fickle thing.
It greeted him in passing, waving and vanishing again, before Dick had a chance to say hello. It looked at him, and maybe he was even allowed to try a taste, but before Dick could get used to the flavor it was gone once more.
Consciousness was a fickle thing, maybe that was why it took so long for Dick to wake up.
It was an infirmary greeting him, when he finally managed to get his eyes to stay open. The Watchtower infirmary, if Dick allowed himself to believe the information his brain supplied.
He had a killer headache, but something told him that it was the good kind of killer headache.
The one that screamed: “YAY, YOU SURVIVED,” and not: “Well… death may greet you soon.” And with the heaviness that was still lingering behind his eyes, he should be able to sleep through quite a bit of that horrible ache, until only a small whisper of pain was left.
That was the plan at least, until a concerned face appeared in Dick’s field of vision. Bruce. Batman. Bruce as Batman.
Bruce was here, and apparently, he was saying something, even as Dick’s eyes failed to follow the movements of Bruce’s lips well enough to be able to read them. His ears had stopped ringing – and Dick remembered that now, the ringing, the pain, the plane crash – but now they only felt numb, the rushing sensation of his own blood having replaced the painful tinnitus.
Was he deaf?
Dick was too high to really process that, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t feel the nervous tingle running through his body at that thought. Above him Bruce wrinkled his forehead in displeasure and Dick wanted to smooth the wrinkles away – just as he had done as a child – but his arms felt too heavy to lift.
Bruce moved away, fear gripping Dick’s heart. What if Bruce left? What if Dick had disappointed him? Had he failed? Had he done something wrong?
The meds in his system made his mind jump from thought to thought – from horror scenario to horror scenario.
But, no, before the panic could send Dick spiraling completely, Bruce reappeared, his hands no longer clad in black. They were free of any kind of fabric, as was his face, and when Bruce began to sign, Dick understood why: Bruce wanted him to be able to understand.
Hopefully Bruce recognized Dick’s relieved smile for what it was: A sign of gratitude.
“You were in a plane crash. You… broke your skull. Emergency surgery to relieve the pressure.”
Bruce’s fingers seemed unsure as they told Dick what had happened, and their clumsy fingerspelling endeared Dick. Bruce didn’t have the same experience with sign language Dick had, and yet he had always made sure to know enough to communicate. To ensure that there wouldn’t be a situation in which he would be unable to talk with his kids or his friends.
Dick had learned ASL for Jericho and Robin – Bruce had learned it for his family.
Dick was too tired to move his entire arm in order to ask his question, so he just finger-spelled, not trusting his voice as the silence surrounding him threatened to suffocate him:
“Hearing?”
For a moment Bruce’s face clouded over, and Dick already feared for the worst. He would deal with this. He could deal with this, but that didn’t mean that a pit hadn’t opened inside of his heart. It would be hard to move on, to learn certain things again, in order to be able to go back out in the field, but Dick would do it.
That was the only option after all. That was the only thing Nightwing – Batman – could do.
Nothing – no injury, no fate, no trauma – would ever be enough to stop Dick from being a hero. Certain things just would make it a bit harder.
But then Bruce started signing again and Dick chose to listen instead of getting lost in his drug-muddled brain:
“Probably not permanent. But… loss of full hearing capacity to be expected. Sorry.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t do more.”
Bruce looked so sad when he signed that, and Dick wanted to get up and hug his father. The headache still persistently torturing him, and the weakness that came from waking up from a surgery, however, told him that that would be a bad idea.
Instead he opted for a simple sign, one of his favorites:
“I love you.”
Something weird happened to Bruce’s face, and as Dick watched, tears began to drip down the face of a man who had been described as stony more times than Dick could count. Dick watched as Bruce cried, as his father cried, and all he could do was offer his hand and his love.
Bruce didn’t sign his next words, but Dick could read his dad’s lips just fine:
“I love you, too, chum. And I am glad that you are okay.”
Dick didn’t have to hear them or to see them be written to understand them, because he would always know these words by heart. He would always be able to recognize the ‘ chum ’ that fell from Bruce’s lips, and the softness that eased Batman’s edges whenever Bruce spoke of love.
Dick wanted to stand up and hug his dad, to tell Bruce that everything would be alright. That this was nobody’s fault and that Dick would deal just fine… but he was tired, and he wanted to sleep.
There would be enough time tomorrow to talk to Bruce, and there would be enough time to freak out about the fact that his ears were numb and a haze laid over the world when he returned from his nap.
But until then Dick would sleep, his father’s hand clutched in his, his eyes heavy from the meds, his heart full with the knowledge that he wasn’t alone.
He was already half asleep when Bruce tapped his shoulder, forcing his eyes open once more. Dick tried to mold his face into something resembling curiosity, when Bruce freed his hand from the hold Dick had on it.
He was instantly more awake, as his eyes followed Bruce’s movements, his heart beating fast.
Bruce was signing something, and Dick was filled with glee as he recognized the rather simple but heavy sign:
“I love you, Dick.”
When Bruce’s hand returned to hold Dick’s, and his eyes closed in a new attempt to sleep, a smile was gracing Dick’s lips.
Tomorrow would be another day, but tonight Dick would sleep soundly.