Chapter Text
A decade and a half of near-constant training.
A decade and a half of pushing himself to the limits and fighting and trying to be the best he could possibly be.
A decade and a half as Bruce’s contingency plan―the “oh-shit” button for when things finally got too intense and someone needed to step in, whether it was with Bruce or with someone else.
A decade and a half to prepare for the day Bruce finally told him to go all out, and yet―
And yet he still hadn’t been strong enough to do what he needed to do.
He’d fought his way through the big bad’s troops, swift and ruthless and sparing no thought toward non-lethality, because leaving them alive was a lot less important than getting them out of the way. Because Bruce had told him to go all out. He’d struck them down one after another and he’d barely broken a sweat by the time he reached Arrio.
And yet…
It hadn’t been enough.
When the moment came, when victory was just a second or two more away― he hesitated. Instead of landing the final blow, he’d paused. A half-second’s delay, no more. No less. But it was enough and too much.
Arrio had taken the brief pause and used it to his advantage.
Thrust his spear through Dick’s unprotected abdomen―in through the stomach, out between his shoulder blades. It almost happened in slow motion, and he almost didn’t even feel the tearing of skin and organ and muscle or the breaking of bone as it happened. His brain was too caught on the fact that just a second had cost him this.
The force of the blow lifted him off the ground, and Arrio had grinned. Laughed. While Dick suddenly found himself with a mouthful of blood, heart pounding in his ears.
Arrio practically kicked him off the spear.
He hit what little remained of the wall with a thud and a crack―another broken bone, he imagined.
It was all he could do to try and get back to his feet, but he never made it. He only managed to scrambled into a more upright sitting position before Arrio was there. Before the Spear was piercing back through him. In through the stomach, out through the lower back.
All of a sudden he couldn’t feel his legs.
Was this it?
Was this the end?
A decade and a half, and this was what he did when his moment came?
He hesitated landing the final blow and got himself killed?
… Oh, well.
He’d done all he could. He’d tried.
At least he’d done enough that maybe, just maybe, the others would be able to take Arrio down. If nothing else, he’d bought them time.
Bought them time and wore Arrio down even just a little bit.
His hands scrambled to the spear still embedded in his gut, starting to feel the pain of all the damage―the impalements, the impact with the wall, all the other hits Arrio had landed. It was enough to make his vision go blurry around the edges. Enough to make the gasping breath he took in shake. Blood soaked through his suit, creeping through the material and spreading upwards while it started to coat his hands as well.
God.
God.
Oh, God, he―
He was going to die.
He struggled to stay calm, struggled to try and steady his breathing, clutching at the spear. But each breath still came as a gasp, some ending in a cough. His mouth was full of the taste of copper and more than once he coughed hard enough he spouted blood from his mouth. He could feel it drying on his chin. His ears were ringing and he was shaking until he wasn’t anymore and everything sort of went black. Had his eyes fallen shut?
Some sounds broke through the ringing. Sounds of fighting.
Someone was touching him. Someone’s hand was on his chest.
“Dick?” Raven’s voice cut through the noise, “Dick, can you hear me?”
He struggled to look at her. Tried to open his eyes, but… Everything felt so heavy. He got a flash of light, managing to crack his eyes open for a second before they fell shut again.
There was nothing but the ringing for another moment.
Then, a hand on his head, running through his tangled hair.
“You did really well,” Raven said, and she sounded a little choked up, “Thank you.”
He wanted to say something.
All he managed was a weak hum on his next exhale.
At least he wasn’t gasping anymore.
“... Go ahead,” She uttered, “It’s okay. You can let go. You deserve to rest.”
Another hum.
But he obeyed―he stopped trying so hard. He stopped making an attempt to open his eyes, to speak, to listen.
He exhaled slowly, letting himself go more or less limp.
He didn’t even hurt anymore. He didn’t know when he’d stopped hurting.
He just felt cold, now.
“Raven?” He heard Tim ask, “Is he―?”
“Not yet,” She replied, “... But there’s nothing I can do for him. He’s lost too much blood already. He’s barely here at all. I― I don’t know how he’s still conscious. He should be in shock.”
She sounded like she was choking a little, and he hated it.
He hated the sound of someone else giving a choked noise even worse.
“Grayson,” Oh, that was Damian. “You idiot. You weren’t supposed to die.”
There was no response that he could give aside from a soft breath. That was all he had left in him, really―breathing. For now.
A sniffle. “I― I’m going to miss you. Dumbass.”
… He’d never heard Damian cry before.
But he was hearing it now, no matter how cut off it was― no matter the fact that he sniffled and clearly scrubbed roughly at his eyes and cursed under his breath as if angry and ashamed that it was happening at all. That seemed… Just like Damian.
Unprompted, the mental image of Damian at his funeral knocked the wind out of him―or would have, if he was breathing properly to begin with.
The ringing in his ears returned.
He breathed out, and choked on his next inhale.
If he could still speak, he may have asked someone to put him out of his misery. Not let him choke to death on his own blood. Not let him bleed out like this.
“Fuck’s sake,” Jason’s voice came through the ringing, “You’re just going to let him choke to death?”
Well, at least someone else was on the same page he was. And at least it was Jason.
Jason would put him down clean.
But he didn’t hear anything else.
He felt someone put their hand on his chest again, softly. It… He could tell it wasn’t Raven, or Jason, or even Damian. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.
The hand moved to his right hand, carefully prying it away from the spear. Suddenly he felt like he could sort of breathe again. He felt a little less weak.
He pried his eyes open.
The first thing he processed was that everything seemed frozen. That was because his gaze was directed upwards, at the sky, and there was a bird. Stationary. Unmoving with its wings spread open in flight. Prying his gaze away, he looked to see who was touching him at the same moment they pressed something into his palm.
Whoever it was, they were cloaked much like Raven, with the hood obscuring their face. The cloak was gray and settled around their shoulders as they held his hand. As they closed his fingers around whatever they’d given him, then laid his hand back over his abdomen. There was a chain, he could feel that much. Some kind of pendant?
“Take this.” They said, and even their voice was unidentifiable. “And try again.”
“Try again?” He croaked in question.
He jerked awake, sitting bolt upright in bed and shaking from head to toe. His right hand was clutched against his abdomen, other holding him up as he panted for breath.
Lord, what a nightmare that had been. He could almost still feel the pang in his gut from having been impaled. That was freaky.
At least it was only a dream, though.
Just a dream, and thank fucking Christ for that. That had been horrifying. It was still horrifying. Jeez. Bleeding out slowly in an old courtyard… Ugh. Not how he wanted to go.
He panted until he could draw in a reasonable breath, finally peeking his eyes open to stare at his lap.
He squeezed his hand tighter against his stomach, about to relax, but…
He was holding something.
He was holding something and he could feel a chain.
Slowly, so slowly, he opened his hand and looked into his palm. There was a small golden locket on a silver chain, engraved with an hourglass.
Take this and try again, his mind supplied.
Try again?
Something like cold dread washed through him. Try again? And he’d woken up not on the battlefield? Where was he?
How far back had it set him?
His head jerked up. He didn’t recognize the room around him― not at first. It was so plain and cold-looking. Devoid of personal touches.
And then he realized.
The place he’d been staying before Bruce took him in. That was what this was. That was where this was.
Horrified, he swung his legs out of bed and scrambled for the mirror he knew was above the dresser, just out of his view. He was off-balance, stumbling on his way. Realizing that his worldview had been severely altered. Everything was too tall now.
He made it to the dresser, heart pounding in his ears, and looked into the mirror.
And his ten year old self stared back at him from the reflection.