High Flying, High Crashing Who: Dick and Liz NPCs: Leslie Thompkins Where: Gotham General Hospital When: Saturday, November 10, 2012 What: Dick is hurt. Badly. Rating: PG-13 Status: In Progress
Park Row
It was late. Leslie was preparing for bed, when she heard a crash downstairs in the clinic. Her first thought was kids looking for drugs, and she was tempted to call one of the Wayne kids, when she remembered Cass was back with her. Leslie grabbed the bat she kept just inside her apartment door, and, nodding to a ready Cass, moved downstairs after her.
On the floor, bleeding and looking beat up, was Nightwing. As long as it took Leslie to process that, Cass was already by his side, examining his wounds.
Leslie dropped the bat and grabbed a first aid kit, running over to him and examining him. His eyes were unfocused and there was a nasty head injury, a gash that cut into his hair. Why did the boy never wear protective headgear?
"My God, he has a concussion. Quick. Help me change him into some spare clothes. I need to call an ambulance!"
Hours Later
Gotham General
The first thought that Dick had when his mind started to surface was that it hurt too much for him to be dead. He sensed others in the room, as he had when he'd woken up briefly before and found Cass there, waiting. He could tell from her every movement she'd wanted to leave and find who did this to him, despite indicating she'd stay. But he knew she had to act. It was how she dealt with things. He gave her permission to call Liz, then, and started working on a cover story before he passed out again.
There were beeps. There were rushed, urgent voices and hands. There was darkness.
And in that darkness he saw Bruce. Not the Bruce the public saw. The real Bruce. Hard-edged, telling him to hold on, to stay conscious, to fight the encroaching darkness. Explaining the medical dangers of a concussion, even as he was shouting at him. He didn't know how often this happened, only that when he awoke this time, the air felt calm, the lights were dimmed or turned off, and someone was holding his hand.
He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, and he croaked a small sound, before closing his mouth and trying to work the saliva into it. He wanted to open his eyes, but they were still too heavy. And he knew the hand. He knew who was here at his side. He could smile, and so he did. Nothing else moved, because it either hurt or felt too heavy, but he could smile as wide as he did atop the Big Top before a gasping crowd.