Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-01-22 21:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, door: dc comics |
Who: Bruce (+ Dick, sort of)
What: Narrative.
Where: The Bat!bunker → the Batcave
When: Tonight. Nowish.
Warnings/Rating: Sads and death :c
Even with the knowledge that the virus was not entirely predictable, and that next to Selina, Dick had been infected the longest, Bruce did not make the decision to stop by the bunker with the expectation of death.
Dick had been notably absent from the comm call, which might simply have meant he was too sick to respond, and so, once he'd dealt with a particularly nasty outbreak of looting in Gotham's poorer sections, he changed course to check on him. With him he brought a vial of the Lazarus Pit liquid, similar to the one he'd left in Stark's tower, merely as a precaution; he was unsure of where Dick stood in terms of using it, whereas he knew Helena was staunchly against it, and so he thought it only right to present him with the option. Even if he was in a bad state, though, Bruce would never force it on him if he was incapable of making the choice for himself.
It was why he disagreed with what the Riddler had done to Stephanie; free will made all the difference. Selina had chosen to use the Pit in order to keep herself alive. Stephanie had not, and so far, neither had Dick.
He was in full gear, mask and all, when he let himself in, through an entrance which no one could find unless they already knew it existed. Dick was in a separate room, where his vitals were being monitored, as Helena's were, and the information was routed to his phone so he would be aware of any changes. Perhaps it was faulty equipment, or an oversight, or plain bad luck; regardless, he had not been alerted prior to his arrival. As far as he was concerned, Dick was fine. Even if he'd lapsed into a coma, he would have been notified.
Should have been, that is.
"I brought more antibiotics," Bruce began, after he'd opened the sliding door which separated Dick's room from the rest of the bunker; quarantine was taken literally. "Acetaminophen. I thought you might want more, and there's... something I need to ask you. First, however, how are you feeling?" He looked up, then, but there was no response, and from his position all he could see was that Dick was lying flat on the bed.
The first threads of panic began to materialize, but even then, death did not occur to him. First, he thought he might be asleep, followed by concerns of a coma, and Bruce moved forward, the vial of Lazarus Pit liquid clutched in one hand.
"Dick?"
No response.
Once Bruce reached his side, he knew something was wrong. His skin was an odd color, not red from fever as it had been, and his lips were pale. Too pale. Beneath closed eyelids, his eyes almost seemed sunken, and after a few seconds passed, he realized Dick's chest had not moved. Panic took hold then, and he tore off his gloves without thinking, not that he cared about precautions just then, searching desperately for a pulse. The vial of green was dropped and shattered, glass and hissing liquid spraying the floor, but he ignored it. Something, he needed something, however faint, but there was nothing. Not even the lightest flutter.
He pulled off his cowl entirely, trying to fight the truth he refused to accept in favor of clinging to the small, rapidly disappearing hope that it was not too late. "No," he whispered, "no, no, no," and it became a repeated plea as he began CPR in an attempt to revive him. He wasn't sure how long he fought for, the rhythmic of pumping his chest and forcing breaths down the other man's throat melting together in a blurred haze of desperation.
Eventually, Bruce stopped. He staggered backward until his back met the wall, and then he turned, palms pressed against the flat surface, and allowed himself a moment to mourn, his grief raw and no less painful despite only having known the other man for a short while.
It was too late. Dick was gone. Gone, because he'd failed, because he hadn't been able to save him; the first Robin was the first to die. They had just begun to reach a sort of understanding, to get to know one another properly, and Bruce regretted that he had not made more of an effort. Oh, he regretted a great deal, and now there was time for none of it. All that was lost. Death took what a person had been, what they were, and what they would be; only an empty body was left behind.
Somehow, he forced himself to move, to approach the bedside and look down at the lifeless form laid there. Once, he was a man named Dick Grayson, alias Nightwing, but now... nothing. "I'm sorry," he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Cold, so cold. Like his parents had been. "I'm so sorry." Bruce knew he had to tell the others, even though he had no idea how he would find the words. That would come later. Now, he needed to move the body. Needed to bring him home, to the Manor, where he could start thinking about burial plans and funerals.
The body was sealed in a bag, one the likes of hospitals and morgues would possess, and placed inside the Tumbler for the ride. Bruce found the silence deafening, more so now than it had before, and he found it difficult to wrap his mind around the reality that Dick, who had been so full of energy and life, was dead.
Once he reached his cave, once he was home, he laid Dick's body out carefully, still in the bag, and covered it with his cape. A sign of respect, instinctive and unthinking.
This was the most secure place in Gotham. He would be safe here, Bruce decided. Now he just needed to figure out how to break the news that the first of their family had fallen.