Chapter Text
Bruce bursts into the Batcave at full speed. He’s barely even killed the engine of the Batmobile before he’s running to the medical area of the cave. He’s almost to the top of the stairs when Alfred faces him, a grim expression stark on the butler’s face.
“Where is my son?” Bruce asks as he takes off his cowl. He drops it to the floor without a second thought.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred tries to explain the situation to Bruce. “They brought him in twenty minutes ago, but he’s lost a lot of blood—”
“Is he alive?” Bruce can’t shake the fear growing in his chest.
“Yes, but the wound is deep and he continued fighting after he was injured. He may have strained himself too much this time—”
“I need to see him,” Bruce pushes past Alfred. Jason and Tim stand along the wall, still in uniform from patrol, but Bruce doesn’t even notice his other sons. His eyes gravitate to the sight of his oldest, lying on the operating table with red seeping from his uniform.
“We are doing everything we can, but at this point I don’t think even the best medical team in Gotham would be any help,” Alfred says from behind him. Bruce stands still with shock for a moment before kneeling at Dick’s side.
“Dick?” Bruce asks as he grabs Dick’s hand.
“Bruce,” Dick’s voice is weak and his breathing is labored. “I went exactly where you told me. But the tables turned against me,” he winces slightly as he tries to tell Bruce what happened.
“I know, I know,” Bruce’s eyes start to burn as he tries to calm his oldest son.
“I—” Dick tries again, but pain washes over his face again.
“I’m sorry. I know you did everything you could.”
“Even though I called for help, there were too many for me to fight,” Dick’s stares at Bruce but his eyes are looking past him.
“I’m sorry, son. I should have known,” hot tears fall down Bruce’s cheeks as he tries to stay calm for Dick’s sake.
Dick takes a deep breath as tears form in the corners of his eyes. “There were too many to fight—” he cringes with a sharp jerk.
“I know. Save your strength and stay alive,” Bruce tells him.
“Alfred! Is he breathing? Is he going to survive this?” you say as you rush to the examination area. Your clothes are disheveled and your makeup is running, but all you care about is the well-being of your son.
You land on the other side of Dick, flinching when you realize just how much blood is on the table. Your head snaps up to face Bruce, and anger swells inside you. “Who did this?! Bruce, did you send him there alone?!”
“Mom, I’m so sorry for forgetting all you’ve done for me—” Dick’s eyes refocus on you.
“My son,” you cry, cupping his cheek in your hand.
“We played piano,” he smiles.
“Yes, I taught you piano,” you smile fondly at the memory of teaching a newly orphaned Dick Grayson how to place his fingers on the piano keys.
“You would put your hands on mine,” he says, completing the warm scene in your mind.
You laugh as tears fall down your face. “You changed the melody every time.”
“Because I’d read the wrong line,” his face brightens slightly for another moment before darkening in pain once more.
“I know, I know,” you shush him and pet his hair.
“But you were always by my side,” he takes another labored breath, and it seems like he can’t get enough air.
“Can you sing the robin’s favorite song?” you starting singing one of the piano warm ups you taught him, and Dick joins, though you can see the light in his eyes starting to dim.
“Good,” you smile at him before starting again. “Can you sing the robin’s favorite song?”
Dick’s breath is shallow when he starts again. “Can you sing—”
You stare at him as the words escape him and his hand falls to his side. “Favorite song…” you continue, refusing to accept what just happened.
“Robin…” oxygen escapes you for a moment. You feel separated from your body. Your son is dead.
You hear a despairing wail of grief before realizing that you were its source. Tears freely fall down Bruce’s face, and he takes your hand from across the table.
Disgust fills your body. You jerk your hand away from your husband. “This is your fault,” you say in a quiet tone that scares everyone in the room. Quiet anger stings more than any other kind, and Bruce slowly stands up.
You bury your face in your hands, mourning the death of your son.
Bruce’s feet move without him telling them to. He walks past Jason and Tim without seeing their tear stained faces. He makes his way back down the stairs of the cave until he reaches the Batmobile. He sits for a second as the guilt settles over him.
Even before you told him, he knew it was his fault.
He drives to the heart of Gotham, the guilty weight of his son’s death heavy on his shoulders.