Chapter Text
It had been a long night in Gotham.
Batman sat uncomfortably at the computer, running news surveillance in an attempt to check on the recent gang activity in crime alley. Unfortunately for his operation, every news outlet was screaming: "Bruce Wayne nearly blown up while attending an event benefiting displaced youth throughout Gotham." That wasn’t news to him, or his ribs. Bruce was appalled with himself, but very alive, thanks.
In the preliminary sweep for the benefit, he had found and disabled two chemical bombs, satisfied in knowing Harvey Dent loved to work things in pairs. Unfortunately this time that meant two kinds of explosives. In addition to the disabled chemical bombs were two regular explosives. It wasn’t a mistake Batman was going to make again.
"I need a stand in for the next party, or Bruce Wayne does..." Bruce mused to himself while pulling the cowl off.
"Master Richard," Alfred’s voice came from behind him.
"Too short, it would look suspicious if Bruce Wayne were always being rescued by Tiny Batman." He rejected the idea.
"Tiny Batman? Please tell me that isn't my codename now. I’m not even that much shorter than you." Dick's voice was far closer to the chair than he should have been. He could understand Alfred sneaking up on him, but Bruce should have heard Dick skulking around. It would help if the explosion from earlier wasn’t still ringing in his ears.
"Dick, what are you doing here?" The question lacked tact, but Batman had a reputation for tactics, not tact.
"You're hurt. I'm here to help." Batman spun the chair lazily to look up at Nightwing. His first son had always been more human than Batman, or even Bruce Wayne.
“I’m fine, I just--”
“Nearly got blown up on national television and then declined to tell the league or your family what happened.” Damian’s hiss came through the encrypted frequency on the computer. “Penny-One, can you send me GPS coordinates for the deal Red Robin told us about?” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Master Bruce if you could find it in yourself to move from the primary controls,” Alfred crowded him, reaching to the controls to comply with Robin’s request.
“I can send coordinates, I am fine!” Bruce insisted, but he moved from the chair to make room for Alfred, forcing his body to move naturally, to not limp or slink.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of my bleeding ear drums. Oh wait, that’s your eardrums, right, “Nightwing sniped. “How’re the ribs doing? I figure having at least two cracked would affect your breathing a bit. Probably affect your posture if you didn’t have so much Kevlar literally forcing you upright.” Dick’s strength had always been Bruce’s weakness: communication.
“Dick I don’t have time for--”
“For what? To heal? To sleep?” Nightwing took off his domino, rubbing his eyes while they adjusted to the natural light instead of the HUD. “You were just injured on League business and now this? There isn’t even a threat, Bruce, you’re running yourself ragged over drug dealers and street punks.” Clearly Dick wasn’t going to be derailed, they were definitely doing the talking thing.
“It’s three ribs, by the way, and swelling in his left knee.” Batgirl sauntered from one of the cave’s convenient shadows with an encrypted smartphone in her hand.
“It hasn’t proved to be injury enough to warrant an X-ray so I’ll have to take your word for it,” Bruce glared, pulling the cowl back on. If he couldn't use the cave computer directly he’d use the remote connection.
“Well someone has,” Dick countered. Batman was about to ask about that tidbit when his HUD pinged:
- All WayneCorp Appointments cancelled, out of office email set.
- New Appointment created: Sleep.
- Appointment set for 3 minutes from now.
“Did you do this?” Bruce rounded on Dick, but he had taken off his mask and without his display, clearly had no idea what Bruce meant. Dick’s confused face was nearly comical but Bruce didn’t feel like laughing.
“I did it.” Robin answered over the channel.
“Don’t punish the kid, I told him to,” Batgirl shrugged, walking toward them.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Batman growled, all pretense of Bruce gone. He turned suspiciously to follow her movement as she rounded behind him.
“Pff, language old chum,” Dick chided, but Bruce kept his eyes on Barbara.
She paused in her stalking for a second, clearly pleased, “I’m the goddamned Batgirl.”
The tranquilizer dart had come from the direction of the Batcomputer where Alfred sat looking entirely demure and innocent.
Bruce’s vision swam and he thought some not very tactful thoughts. He had a moment to appreciate that Batgirl and Dick at least managed to catch him before he hit the ground and jostled his already injured ribs. The last thing he saw was Babs leaning in with a cheshire grin to plant a kiss on his cheek.
###
When he heard that Bruce Wayne had been blown up, Clark Kent had nearly leapt from the nearest office window to fly to Gotham himself. The fact that the Planet’s windows didn't open at this height–or that he was at work– were a large contributor to his staying in Metropolis.
Instead he listened, his panicked search revealing he could hear Bruce’s heartbeat. Steady, regular, only slightly elevated, a heartbeat he could pick out in a whole planet of hearts.
Thankfully when Bruce had been lost in time, none of the league had questioned that ability of his.
Clark listened in as the EMTs explained the damage to the seemingly unruffled billionaire. When Clark was sure that Bruce was okay and headed back to the manor–undoubtedly planning on going out to patrol that night– Clark picked up his phone and walked to an often empty hallway, dialing a number from memory.
“Clark Kent, to what do I owe the pleasure?” A warm voice chirped from the other end after exactly two rings.
“Dick, it’s great to hear your voice,” Clark checked again that he was the only one in the corridor before continuing, “Say, did you hear that Bruce likely ruptured his eardrums at that charity event he went to with Mr. Dent?”
“You know, I hadn’t heard that yet, anything else I should know about?” Dick sounded aggravated. Clark knew the feeling intimately.
“Couple of broken ribs, his bad knee’s a little wrenched, and between you and me, this is closer to that league activity than I think he had expected.”
Batman was wearing himself thin. Superman peered around and found Dick in Bludhaven, practically throwing a set of escrima sticks into a duffle.
“I’m on it.” Dick said, hanging up and shoving the phone into his jacket pocket. “Don’t you worry about a thing.” he mumbled to himself.
A few short hours later, Clark fiddled with a pen, still at his desk at the Daily Planet. He had already done his writeup of the bomb attack and now he was watching what was undoubtedly a very personal drama unfold (Through a bit of the Earth’s upper mantle, with x-ray vision, extraordinary concentration, and skill).
Dick accused the glowering Bat of having two broken ribs, so Clark texted a very secret number to tell Batgirl that it was, in fact, three ribs and his knee. Clark had heard her conspiring with the butler earlier that evening, but watching the events were somehow even more satisfying than he could have hoped. As Alfred helped Dick and Barbara strip the vigilante’s armor for bed, Clark hit send on the writeup and checked out for the night, fully expecting a visitor the next morning.
No one pulls a plan like this on the Batman without him finding out.