Dick Grayson one shots

Hunted P2

Whumptober day 30: Recovery

Bruce sat at the dinner table, watching disinterestedly as his sons bickered. Things hadn't gotten too violent yet, so there was little point in him interfering. They'd be back at it again in a few minutes anyway.

His phone buzzed, drawing his attention away from the squabble between Damian and Tim.

An emergency alert flashed on his screen, disgusted as something less conspicuous, but still immediately recognizable. He stood, leveling Damian and Tim with a glare as he walked past.

"Father," Damian called. "Where are you going?"

"Out," was the only response.

Bruce picked up his pace after leaving the dining room, another alert flashing on his phone screen, this one alerting him to a drop in vitals. "Hang in there Dick," he mumbled under his breath, nearly tripping in his haste to get down the steps to the Batcave faster.

Instead of his Batman suit, he opted to simply grab his utility belt and a domino mask. He couldn't afford to waste valuable time changing into Kevlar.

—

Dick lay on his back, pinned to the ground by Slade's knives. He stared up at the plastic covered shell of a building, his body filled with a strange numbness.

Perhaps he should give himself over to the numbness, let it carry him away.

He shivered as a breeze blew through the unfinished walls. He was cold.

Dick wanted to keep shivering, wanted his body to try and do something to try and keep him alive. It seemed he didn't have the energy however.

When a smear of black in the vague shape of a man appeared in his vision he didn't pay it much attention, his mind dulling moment by moment as he bled out.

A warm hand cupped his cheek, the low rumble of someone speaking softly barely computing in Dick's mind. He looked up at the person, missing the warmth their hand had provided when they moved it away.

Bruce mumbled reassurances to his son as he knelt next to him, his stomach sickening as he examined his wounds. He continued to speak soothingly to the acrobat, wondering wryly if the words were more for him or his son.

Dick mumbled something too soft to hear, his gaze seeming to be drawn to whatever ceiling was above him.

Bruce grimaced. He had to remove the knives pinning Dick's wrists to the ground so he could get him some medical care. He glanced at his son's face again, noting the pallor of his skin, dirt and sweat smeared across his chin and forehead. His lips were tinted blue, parted for labored puffs of breath.

"I'm sorry," Bruce whispered, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before taking hold of one of the knife's handle. He pulled it free of the floor, the blade sliding free of Dick's skin.

Blood flowed more freely from the wound now, and Bruce was quick to apply pressure while he reached for bandages.

Dick breathed out an almost inaudible whimper of pain, his eyelids hanging low over his eyes.

"Stay awake bud," Bruce said, his voice shaking as he wrapped the acrobat's wrist tightly in fresh bandages.

Bruce moved on to the other wrist, tugging the knife free before tightly wrapping the wound.

"C-cold," Dick mumbled.

Bruce gathered his son into his arms. "Shhh," he hushed. "You're safe now. I've got you," he reassured.

Dick quieted, settling against his father figure's chest, warmed by his embrace.

"How touching," Slade's cold voice cut through the air.