log: bruce/dick Who: Bruce & Dick What: Hospital visit. Where: Uh, the hospital. When: Backdated to before plot & before Bruce leaves Gotham. Warnings/Rating: Nah.
It was early, early morning when Bruce arrived at the hospital. Too early for visiting hours, but no one would deny the man whose generous donations kept the doors open access when he asked for it. It was why Dick had a private room, it was why he had a team of doctors, it was why there was someone watching him 24/7. And they whispered, the nurses, whispered about Bruce Wayne's adopted son and the silence which surrounded his admittance; no one was talking. A motorcycle accident was all that was known and he intended to keep it that way.
No one said a word in front of him, of course. Quiet, it was quiet, and no one met his gaze as he was led to Dick's room, though he could feel their curious eyes on his back as he walked away. Bruce knew it was bad. He knew, but he didn't want to hear. He just wanted the doctors to do everything in their power to fix him, and then, then maybe he would stop closing himself off to reality. He should have been there. He should have done a thousand things, but he hadn't. Misplaced guilt and blame that wasn't his had always been his strong suits, especially here, in this world. And ever since he'd come back he'd been distant, he knew that too.
The doctor left him at the door with the promise of privacy. Bruce paused before pushing it open, soundless as he stepped inside and cleared his throat. "Dick?"
Dick had been slowly waking up here and there since he’d been out of his initial set of surgeries. He was “resting comfortably” in his room now, only disturbed by the nurses checking in on him and pumping him full of more medicine at every opportunity. He was at a point where he was never quite sure what was real and what he was dreaming. It was taking some getting used to, his mind as fuzzy as it was. Soon after he was out of recovery and his first few sleeps in the hospital he had worked out a system. If he could feel his legs he was dreaming. That was the stark contrast because suddenly not being able to feel his legs was a sensation he couldn’t quite describe.
He took stock of the moment when he’d heard Bruce’s voice, he blinked slowly and turned his head oh so slowly toward the door, it still felt like his head was going to loll off if he rolled it too fast. “Bruce,” he closed his eyes, couldn’t feel his legs, and he struggled to open them again. He didn’t know how to convey any of this to the man standing in front of him. He never wanted to be seen this way for him. “I screwed up,” he said almost immediately. Old habits die hard in the Bat Family.
Once he saw that Dick was awake, Bruce closed the door behind him. He'd never been very good with words and now was no different, but he had to try. He owed him that much.
"You didn't screw up." His response was immediate; while he was always quick to blame himself, he was just as quick to take the blame off those he cared about. He hesitated before taking a few steps forward, then another few, until he reached his bedside. He looked vaguely uncomfortable and plagued by perpetual weariness, but this moment, just then, wasn't about him. It was about Dick. "You're only human," he said. "You can't blame yourself." Hypocrisy at its finest.
If it didn’t hurt to roll his eyes Dick would be doing exactly that. Instead he hoped the expression he was making in his mind was at least somewhat noticeable on his very numb, yet tingly, swollen face. “I did screw up, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. I shouldn’t have gone in alone and I should have been better rested before going on patrols. Christ if I can’t get you to scold me, I’m going to have to do it myself.” It all spilled out rather quickly and he didn’t even realize he’d been saying it out loud for the most part.
“I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you. I’m just,” he slowly turned his head to look away from Bruce, anywhere other than right at him when he had to admit the next part of what he was about to say. “Bruce, I can’t feel my god damn legs.”
There was a time when Bruce would have lectured. He would never be as harsh as their Bat, no, but in his concern he often scolded, and maybe Dick had made mistakes. Maybe this was preventable. But things had changed, and he didn't have the energy to tell him everything he'd done wrong. He blinked, but if the words stung he didn't show it. He'd become too accustomed to such hurt to react anymore. "I don't think you need to hear things you're already telling yourself," he said quietly. "It's done. It's over. Me scolding you won't make a difference." Why dig the knife in deeper?
He didn't say anything when Dick said that he wasn't mad at him, because he wasn't altogether sure he believed that. But what he said next turned the blood in his veins to ice, and he closed his eyes, briefly, before reopening them to force himself to look instead of looking away. He had no idea what to say. "Have you talked to the doctors yet? It might not... be permanent."
“Bruce,” he cleared his throat wincing slightly, “Bruce I’m not angry at you,” he said one more time for emphasis. “You have to know that. I’ve been awake for 12 seconds, I don’t have the capacity to be angry at you. I’m just angry.” He didn’t want to have a bad visit. He didn’t want to remember this as awful, he didn’t want to be at odds with Bruce when he thought he needed him most. “You’re right. I’m telling myself plenty.”
Dick couldn’t move but he wanted to, he was always animated and he felt trapped in his own body for the first time in his life. He wanted to shake his head and say there was no hope. He wanted to scream that of course there was hope. He was starting to feel like he was panicking if that was even possible with as many drugs as he had in his system. “They don’t know. We’re waiting and seeing.”
He blinked, and then he nodded. This wasn't about him. It was about Dick, and he had to put his own problems aside to focus on him, even just for now, and be there as he should be. "I know," Bruce said, wanting to get that settled lest he make things worse. "I know. Of course you're angry." He took a breath, paused, and finally sat. "I'm not going to repeat what you're telling yourself. I'm going to try to keep you from believing it, because blaming yourself... you don't need to do that." Hypocritical as it might be, he did believe it. Not when it came to himself, maybe, but what was done was done; Dick was only torturing himself by telling himself he'd messed up, that it was his fault.
At that moment, he knew he had to be positive. Even if it was false, even if he had to force himself to do it, Dick didn't need his negativity. He could do that much, at least. "You're a fighter," he told him. "You'll walk again."
“Then how do I stop doing it?” he asked, knowing there was no answer. Because there was no actual way to stop it. There was no way to not feel badly about it. It wasn’t because of anything that had been “done” to them. Or anything that they’d ever be able to control. But their family made the burdens of the world their own personal burden and when they stumbled it was nothing except failure.
Dick sighed and inhaled with a raspy breath and tried to calm himself down, he knew that getting worked up this early on was half endorphins, half pain meds and the third half well….everything else. “I need to do more than just walk again, Bruce.”
If only he had an answer. He was very, very good at shouldering guilt and blame, and he hadn't yet figured out how to stop either. Bruce sighed, a heavy, tired sound, and he shook his head. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I wish I did, but I don't." He could tell Dick that it wasn't his fault over and over, and it wouldn't make a difference. He had to believe if, which was incredibly difficult, but until he found that within himself words would just be words; meaningless.
"I know." Walking wasn't enough, why would it be? It wouldn't be enough for him either. "And you will. One step at a time."
Dick winced as he tried to move to look at Bruce’s face and searched it for something, for anything. “Thank you for being here.” He said sincerely. Maybe it wasn’t the most comforting thing in the world, maybe he was cocking it all up by snapping. But Bruce was here and that meant more than he could say. Even if the last thing he wanted was to be seen as completely weak by the one man he’d always tried to be strong for.
Had he known that Dick was worried about appearing weak in front of him, he'd have told him that there wasn't any reason to be. Bruce didn't think any less of him because he'd been injured, and even if he never walked again he still wouldn't have. But we was strong. He would recover. He had to believe that, because Dick? Dick deserved better. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "Of course I'd be here." He didn't know if he always would be but, for now, he was, and that was what mattered.