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Something’s on top of him. That’s the first thing Dick notices. It’s hard and heavy, solid and difficult to move, pinning his body down.
The second thing is that breathing hurts. He can’t fill his lungs much at all, their space far too compressed.
The third thing is that the object weighing him down isn’t an object at all. It’s a person. An extremely large and heavy person, but a person, nonetheless.
He doesn’t know who it is. Doesn’t know where he is or what he was doing before ending up in this predicament. Pain pulsates down his neck from somewhere on his head. A head injury? That would explain the memory loss.
Dick shifts. Sharp stabbing pain races up his chest and he gasps, freezing in place. His eyelids open and that’s when he realises they were closed to begin with.
Above him is golden light. A chandelier?
Is he Nightwing or Dick Grayson? On the one hand, his present situation suggests Nightwing. On the other, the chandelier might hint otherwise.
Careful not to set off whatever hurt before, he moves his head slightly, enough to peek down at what little of his clothes is visible. Black, a hint of white. A tuxedo, he’s wearing a tuxedo.
Right. He’s Dick Grayson, then. Wonderful, that’s exactly what he needs.
Whoever is on top of him seems totally unconscious—or dead. They could be dead. They are a pretty dead weight.
‘...ck!’
He catches the tail end of a familiar voice yelling. At the same time, every other noise returns and it’s like being hit by a tsunami (and he knows what it’s like to get hit by a tsunami) of sound. He flinches instinctively, crying out when it jars whatever injuries are lurking under the Dead Weight.
‘Dick!’ The voice comes a second time. Tim. It’s Tim. ‘Dick, if you hear me, call out!’
That sounds like a terrible idea, all chest-crushing things considered. Still, if Tim doesn’t find him, nobody heaves the Dead Weight off him, so it’s really his only choice. Thus, he takes a second to brace himself and—all in a rush—he draws in a painful breath to yell, ‘Here, Tim!’
The blinding pain that engulfs him is somewhat outweighed by Tim skidding to a stop next to his head. Emphasis on somewhat.
His brother is decked out in what might’ve once been a nice dark blue suit and tie, and is now so torn and dirty and bloodstained that it’s unrecognisable. ‘You’re…okay?’ Dick struggles to say past the weight on his chest and sudden wetness in his throat. There are no obvious severe injuries upon first look, but there’s far too much blood on Tim’s clothes for comfort.
Tim raises an eyebrow. ‘Are you seriously asking me that?’
‘It’s…valid…question…’ The wetness is worsening. Dick coughs, trying to clear his throat. ‘What….happened?’
‘Attack,’ Tim says succinctly, eyes scanning Dick—or what’s visible of Dick, all things considered—closely. ‘By this guy, actually.’ Tim pokes at Dead Weight with one filthy hand. ‘He blew up the hall.’
And himself with it, apparently. ‘...Why?’
Tim scowls. ‘Haven’t a clue. Terrible presentation as supervillains go, didn’t give even the most basic of explanations. 0/10.’ He narrowed his eyes at Dick. ‘You’re aware your head’s bleeding, right?’
The wetness reaches Dick’s tongue—salty, iron-like. His head’s not all that’s bleeding.
‘Alright,’ Tim says. ‘Let me have a look, see what it’ll take to move this guy off you.’ He moves out of Dick's line of sight. ‘...Oh boy. Right. We're gonna need help with this.’
That doesn’t sound good. ‘What’s...?’
‘Nothing too bad,’ Tim says hurriedly—too hurriedly. ‘Only...he’s not all that’s on top of you. If it were only him, I could probably lever him off, but...’ he trails off.
‘But?’ Dick probes, frowning.
‘Nothing!’ Tim says, in a tone that very much suggests Something. He hunkers down by Dick’s head. ‘Keep breathing shallowly, okay? I’ll be right back.’
Tim disappears off somewhere. Unable to see where he went, Dick closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, slowly and shallowly. From Tim’s urgency and advice, Dick is suspecting Dead Weight’s been impaled by something and—by extension—possibly Dick too. That might explain the blood in his throat. He coughs, trying to clear it. Blood comes out, dampening his lips. Definitely not an ideal situation.
Dick shoots an annoyed glare at Dead Weight, whose poor planning caused this whole mess. If you’re going to terrorise a bunch of rich people—valid choice—you should at least have the decency to do it right. No need to blow yourself up too.
Breathing in and out, slowly, slowly, Dick casts his mind back, trying to remember what the hell happened. The last thing he recalls is being in the Titans HQ, talking to Donna. He doesn’t know what about—which isn’t exactly a pleasant discovery, if that by some chance ends up being the last conversation he ever has with Donna, he’d much rather remember it...
Pain races out from under Dead Weight and, through the black dots obscuring his vision and train of thought, Dick realises his breathing is quickening. A panic attack is not what he needs, that really would finish him off. Fighting back the rising fear, he focuses on his breathing—slowly, in and out.
‘Dick!' Tim’s back, sliding into place by Dick’s head. ‘How’re you doing? Paramedics and firefighters are outside trying to work out a way into the building. Whole thing’s been destabilized by the explosion, they don’t want to bring it all down on top of us. Pity we're in New York. Gotham’s rescue services have this kinda situation down.’
They’re in New York? From what little Dick recalls, that checks out. Presumably, this was a gala they were invited to as members of the Wayne family. Is Bruce here? ‘Bruce?’
‘Not here. He sent you and me, remember?’
Dick does not remember. He doesn’t say that. ‘Hurt?'
‘I’m okay, Dick.’ Tim runs one hand through his hair, making it all stick up in the air, thick with dust and debris. ‘Paramedics are coming. Hold on for them, okay?’
The Titans. Shouldn’t they be here in New York? There’s a reason they’re not; Dick’s sure there is, he just can’t remember.
It’s cold. Why is it cold all of a sudden? He’s shivering, why is he shivering? Unless he’s missing more time than he thinks, it should be July. New York’s not cold in July.
‘Shit.’ Tim's leaning forward, eyes roving Dick’s. He yanks off what’s left of his jacket, wrapping it around the part of Dick’s body that’s accessible. His gaze darts around, his face pale. ‘I’ll be right back, gimme a minute.’
He races away and Dick stares after him. He can’t think of what Tim might be doing? Does someone else need help? If someone else needs help, of course Dick would want Tim to help them. Yet, he still feels sickeningly bereft. Part of him wants to call after Tim, to beg him not to go, not to leave him, please, but he stops himself. Tim is gone for a good reason, he tells himself. Someone else needs him. Don't be selfish.
More blood is in the back of his throat. Nausea swirls in the depths of his stomach. Bile is trying to climb up his oesophagus. Dick fights it back, forcing himself to focus on his breathing. Breathe, in and out, in and out.
He blinks and Tim's back, arms full of fabric. It takes a second for Dick to process that he's holding tablecloths, several of them. Without a word, Tim wraps them around Dick's shoulders and head. ‘Hold on,’ he says, pressing the last one into place. His voice breaks on his words. ‘Just hold on, Dick, please.’
It’s so cold. Tim’s crying. Why is he crying? ‘You...hurt?’ he asks.
Tim shakes his head, choking on his breath. ‘I’m fine, Dick, it’s you who's...’ He cuts himself off. ‘Keep breathing, slowly. Okay?’
Dick blinks.
‘...ick, please, talk to me. Keep talking, I know it hurts, but you can’t fall asleep.’ Tim’s hands are on either side of Dick’s head, gripping tight. He’s rambling on, an endless stream of words falling out of his mouth. ‘Focus on me, Dick, please, you have to stay awake, please...’
Words are agony to say. Dick forces himself to speak anyway; he can’t abide that look in Tim’s eyes. ‘I’m...here…’
‘Dick!’ Tim’s voice breaks. He’s crying even more now. ‘Good, hi, keep talking to me. You need to keep talking.’
‘Hurts.’ As much as Dick loves Tim, talking is far too excruciating to keep on going with.
‘Okay, okay, okay.’ Tim’s breathing is coming faster. ‘Then listen to me, okay? Stay focused on me talking.’ His hands are trembling. He starts telling a story from school; Dick isn’t following much of it. He fights to keep focused on Tim all the same.
There’s a faint whoosh and the grinding of stone being moved. Tim goes white, sagging forward, muttering thanks to a litany of deities Dick’s fairly sure Tim doesn’t believe in and resting his forehead on Dick’s. ‘You’re gonna be okay, Dick.’ Tim’s voice is shaking. For the first time, he actually sounds like he believes his own words. ‘You’ll be fine. Hold on for me.’ He rises to his feet, cupping his mouth. ‘Over here! We need help over here!’
The whoosh repeats and a familiar face, one that will never cease to bring instant relief and security to Dick, stands over him. Uncle Clark. Or Superman, as he technically is right now, probably best not to ruin his secret identity in front of a bunch of New York socialites.
‘Hey there, bud,’ Clark says, crouching down with a warm smile. ‘I’m going to get this off you, okay? Paramedics are ready, just keep breathing for me, okay?’
Dick forces himself to nod and keeps breathing. In and out, in and out, in and out.
‘I’m going to start by clearing all this debris off you. Don’t move.’ The load on Dick lightens when Clark lifts an array of stone wreckage off of Dead Weight's chest. ‘Good. This next bit will hurt, alright? I need you to try and keep breathing through it. If you lose your concentration, that's okay, resume when you can.’
With that, Clark grabs hold of something above both Dick and Dead Weight. Just touching whatever it is sends pain rippling through Dick’s body. Fighting back the urge to cry out, he closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing.
A wildfire of blinding pain sweeps through him, overwhelming him. The next thing he’s aware of, an oxygen mask is on his face. Unfamiliar faces surround him, talking in an incomprehensible buzz. Dick doesn’t know what's happening but he forces his mind to focus on breathing, in and out, like Clark told him to. In and out, in and out, in and out.
Flashing lights and a cold rush of air flit by him, white lights and more concerned faces hover above him. And everything fades.
The next thing he becomes aware of is more white. He blinks, staring up at it. The oxygen mask remains covering his mouth and nose. He’s lying on softness. Fabric is touching his skin. Something is in his arm, his elbow. He moves his eyes to follow a long tube up from his elbow to the IV drip looming over him.
A hospital bed. That’s where he is.
Once he realises that, everything makes sense. Dick draws in a breath of sweet oxygen. His chest throbs in response but it’s nothing compared to when he was trapped. He looks to his right. There, Tim sits in a chair, working on his laptop, a frown of deep concentration on his face.
‘Having fun?’ Dick croaks out.
Tim jumps, nearly dropping his laptop. ‘Dick! You’re awake!’ He snaps his laptop shut, shoving it on the table by Dick’s bed. ‘How do you feel? Bruce is on his way up; he’s been delayed by certain Gotham antics. Also, your friends told me to tell you that if you ever nearly die while they’re off-planet again, they’ll kill you.’ He stops and grins. ‘And Clark’s here. He’s getting me food from the cafeteria.’
That was a whole lot of information that Dick’s half-struggling to process. ‘I’m okay. Chest hurts.’
‘I’ve heard that happens when a bar impales one of your lungs. You were haemorrhaging by the time we got you out.’ A haunted expression settles on Tim’s face. ‘You flatlined twice on the way here.’
Damn. ‘I’m sorry, Tim,’ Dick says.
‘What for? Wasn’t your fault.’ Tim’s face twists.
Okay, either that’s aimed at Dead Weight or Tim himself. Based on Dick’s knowledge of Tim, it’s almost certainly the latter. ‘It wasn’t your fault either,’ Dick says. Admittedly, he has no memory of whatever happened, but he’s sure Tim has no reason for guilt.
Tim glares at him. ‘Do you even remember what happened?’
‘Okay, maybe not...’
‘I was stupid.’ Tim cuts him off, scowling. ‘I didn’t hear you tell me to get out the way. So you pushed me out of the way. If I’d been listening, maybe we would’ve both escaped unharmed.’
‘Tim. It wasn’t your fault.’ Dick doesn’t have to remember to know that.
‘How can you say that? You...’ Tim stops, swallowing hard. ‘I didn’t hear. I should’ve heard.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe I didn’t tell you.’ Dick sighed, shifting painfully in bed. ‘Honestly, I don’t remember. I can see myself leaping into action without thinking to call out to you.’
‘...I guess?’ Tim is unconvinced.
‘Hey, I’m fine. I’ll heal.’ Dick smiled at him. ‘No need for guilt regardless.’
Tim scowls. After a second, he nods.
There’s more to be said, Dick knows, but he’s said all he can for now. He’s tired and in pain and Tim seems a little lighter than he did when Dick first awoke. That’s something, at least.