---- From chapter 9 ----

D: Why do people keep trying to put a blanket on me?
W: Because you're in shock
D: That doesn't mean I need a fucking blanket!

----

His team was scattered around him, like a handful of coins that had been thrown into the air by bored and cruel God's and left to crash back to earth at random. His body laid against the ground in the same position that it had landed in when the explosion of the now burning building threw them all off their feet. His numb cheek pressed against the harsh ground and he could feel the dust stick to his lungs when he stole a breath, his throat making a horrible, hoarse noise when he did so. There was a rock digging into his cheek, he could feel it cutting into his almost frozen skin. Fighting against the dizziness that overtook his mind he forced himself to his knees and swiped his forearm across his forehead, whipping off the blood his face before it could fall into his eyes with his shaking hands. He willed them to still.

"Oh? The birdie still wants to play!" A chipper voice made his head throb and he swayed briefly, hearing his death approach him in the form of the man in a purple suit. Begging his body for a deep breath and nearly choking on it, Robin stood on shaky legs, only to jerk back as a gloved hand wove its way through his hair and jerked him up, pulling him close- too close- his knees giving out from under him. He could feel his heart jump in his chest and for a second it stopped, a hot flush dancing through his body, followed by a cold chill.

"We should play one more round!" came the same voice, pensive, as if considering it. He felt nauseous, struggling to get his feet under him. He needed to fight. If he didn't stop them now, they would get away and more people would die. God, their blood would be on his hands.

"Not now! We've got to go before the bat shows up!" a second voice argued, panicked and scattered, filled with terror as always, but set in madness. He had to fight; he was Robin.

"One more round, Scaredy Crow," the first voice insisted, lowly. It was threatening, directed towards the bird.

He had no time to brace himself. He couldn't even see properly, his vision crowded with blood and sweat, but no tears.

The crowbar slammed into his ribs only once, at the same time the hand in his hair disappeared, hitting him like a baseball, and it was enough to send him crashing into the dirt, sliding a few feet and feeling sharp rocks slice his skin open wherever his suit was damaged. He could feel the lingering pain of the hit as three different ribs broke, and his vision spun, almost enough to make him throw up. Pushing onto his side and coughing up blood he curled into himself as the impact of a solid boot striking him in the chest rattled the broken bones inside him.

"We've got to go!" the second voice returned, rushed and closer, pulling this first away from him, Robin wasn't even sure if they were real anymore. His vision kept flickering in and out. He couldn't remember if he'd been injected with fear gas or not.

The man in the purple suit unceremoniously dropped the rusted crowbar onto the bird's chest, giggling to himself as he walked away, his white gloves stained with blood-like rust.

He coughing roughly and the metallic taste of blood that filled his mouth had him pushing to his knees and spitting the offensive substance away, arms clutching his broken ribs under him. Using his free hand and fighting against the darkness in the corners of his eyes he rubbed the blood from his head away from his eyes again, almost falling.

Taking a sharp- and what some part of him was was sure would be his final- breath, he forced himself onto his knees and reached into his utility belt, searching for his tracker-shooting gun. He heard a car engine startup. With his lack of balance and sharp movements, he soon fell to the ground, scraping his chin on the ground, but still reaching out desperately, the gun held weakly in his outstretched hand. With a shaking grip and swaying aim, he fought for strength, willing himself to pull the trigger. The shot was silent, the pin-sized tracker firing out and into the darkness. The forced jerked his wrist back, and he had no idea if he had hit his target.

Laying in the dirt with dust, sweat, and blood matted in his hair, the touch of the man in the purple suit still lingering, his team, the only true friends he's ever had on the verge of death around him, he lost consciousness.

----

Alone in a painfully white room with the feeling of drowning clogging one's thoughts and a lack of breathing being done was a terrible way to wake up. One Dick was uncomfortably familiar with. His eyes snapped open with a stomach-lurching spike of overly-sweet adrenaline. He gasped for breath only to be forced upright as he hacked and coughed. The room was cold, and a quietly humming heater mounted to the wall was failing to heat it up, only succeeding in making the room smell like artificial fire.

Coughing jostled something in his chest and, hunched over and coughing, he wasn't surprised to see blood against the no-longer completely white hospital-like bed sheets pooling around his hips. Feeling a rush of fever-like heat had Dick kicking away the thin, scratchy blanket and swallowing back the urge to vomit.

After carefully pulling the IV from his arm, he slid a hand across his face to make sure that his mask was still in place out of pure paranoia. He was in the process of getting up when the steel door to the room opened and Batman entered, his lips pressed into a thin line. Seeing Bruce calmed his disorientated, yet numb, paranoia over where exactly he was. The man paused only to check on his son, throw the blanket over his shoulders, and turn the light off before he left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Dick with nothing other than the lingering order of "sleep."

There was work to be done, after all, one couldn't stop to fret when two murders were still on the loose. Dick knew this, he also knew that Bruce would return as soon as he could and stress over him until the acrobat recovered. And once he had, Bruce would double his training quota and make him write a full report on what he did wrong during the mission.

There was no room for mistakes in their line of work, and Robin would meet that standard.

Now left in the darkroom, Dick shrugged the blanket off and raised a dirt-matted, bloody hand to his throat, his eyes searching the room for a glass water. Thanks to whatever higher powers were responsible for creating all of existence, whether it be the Egyptian gods or Dick himself, there was a clear glass of water on the table on the other side of the room.

After staring at the unmoving glass for a full minute, taking back the gratitude he had just expressed toward any higher powers, Dick threw his weak legs over the edge of his uncomfortable and temporary bed, pausing only to steady himself before he took the first of few reckless steps.

He had made the progress of an unimpressive five steps before his legs gave out, only inches from the glass of water. His knees would have crashed into the cold and hard floor had it not been for the strong arms that had suddenly appeared around him and halted his descent.

Looking up into Conner's disapproving eyes Dick gave no more than a weak cheeky smile and a shaky wave. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off when Conner suddenly pulled him to his feet, carrying him across the room and carefully dropping him back on the bed, turning and grabbing the water, so easily it made Dick feel even more pathetic. Still, Dick chugged most of the cool liquid the second the glass was in his hands. Conner waited for him to finish patiently. When Dick set the nearly empty glass aside, his hand slick and chilled from the condensation and looked to Conner expectedly.

"Kaldur wanted me to tell you that the league has gone after Scarecrow and Joker," the super said. He was most likely the least beat-up of Dick's teammates, physically at least, so it was likely that he was the only member of their team who was already back on their feet. It wasn't surprising he was head to give Dick a status update on Kaldur's orders; the Atlantan knew how much Dick stressed.

Dick looked back at the blurred thoughts of the battle a mystery amount of time ago and remembered Conner being dosed with fear gas, along with Dick himself.

"Thanks, SB," Dick replied, giving Conner a grin and saying nothing as Conner adjusted the blanket so it fit over his shoulders again. Whatever Conner had seen while his worst fears were played in front of his eyes had made him extra dotting, so Dick would play along like he usually did.  Whatever Conner had seen while his worst fears were played in front of his eyes had made him extra dotting, so Dick would play along like he usually did.

Dick watched as the powerhouse of the team walked away and couldn't stop himself from wondering what exactly he had seen while the gear has had a holdover him.

Dick slipped out of the blanket again almost as soon as Conner left the room, but the door didn't even have time to click shut before it was being pulled open again.

Red Tornado entered the room, the red of his mechanical body stark and bright against the white background. Dick was entirely too dizzy and distracted by the blanket that continued to land on his shoulders to pay his full attention to the questions aimed at him. Red Tornado seemed to decide he needed more time to rest, so after checking that the fear gas was entirely out of Dick's system and there was no internal bleeding from his broken lungs, left the room.

Dick blinked hard, suddenly unaware of how much time had really passed and unable to remember anything since waking up in vivid detail. He looked around the room and slid a hand across his face to make sure that his mask was still in place out of pure paranoia, noticing the black rectangle of his phone on the table next to the cot.

He plucked it from its resting place, wondering if it had been there the whole time or not, and his hands started messaging Wally without him really even thinking about it.

D: Why do people keep trying to put a blanket on me?

Wally was probably laid up in bed just like Dick, although probably just as a formality; speedsters always healed ridiculously fast, and no one was quite as beat up as Dick. His phone buzzed in his hands and left his palms tingling. 

W: Because you're in shock

Wally's text was incredibly accurate considering the fact that the speedster knew little of the birds actually bill of health and Dick didn't let himself think that maybe Wally had asked about him. They were friends, of course Wally was worried. He typed his response with shaking hands.

D: That doesn't mean I need a fucking blanket!

Pressing the send button and setting his phone off to the side, Dick wasn't surprised nor shocked to find the speedster suddenly in front of him. In fact, the breeze that came with it was refreshing.

The door was falling shut slowly in the background. Wally had a bandage wound around his head and most likely more around his chest but that was the most Dick could see of the ginger's injuries and he made a mental note to search the speedster later.

"What's up, babe?" Wally said as a greeting. His hair was tousled with the trip from his med-room to Dick's, and if he wasn't covered in blood-stained bandages, no one would be able to tell he was injured. His skin was flushed with health and his freckles splattered over the bridge of his nose like stars.

"Gas prices."

"I hate you."

The words slipped past his lips instinct, the universal sarcastic reply to any negative remark, but, for some reason, silence hung in the air after Dick said them.

"Love you, too."

Wally's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and Dick cursed himself for having let down his guard. Dick cleared his throat awkwardly, sitting on the edge of the bed carelessly, forgetting his three broken ribs and getting a blast of pain for it, doubling over and fighting to catch his breath.

"Hey, are you alright?" Wally's voice was high with concern and he was suddenly much closer, kneeling on the ground in front of Dick, one hand on the younger's knee to brace himself and other on his cheek, making Dick look at him.

Feeling the heat build under his skin, Dick kept his expression impassive and didn't let his cheeks colour. His eyes flicked to Wally's lips for a mere second, pursed with concern as he looked over Dick for any sign of injury. They looked soft, and so, so hot; like Dick would melt if they ever touched him. Dick's skin felt so cold against Wally's.

Dick nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady, and avoid eye contact with the speedster.

"Hey. Look at me," Wally pressed, gently, tilting Dick's chin up so that he had no choice but to lock eyes with the older. He was so close that Dick could feel his warm breath against his lips, and when Dick locked eyes with him the speedster only leaned closer.

Their lips were only millimetres apart when there was a knock on the door. Dick didn't jump, didn't back away or jerk his face out of Wally's hands, just let his eyes slide past Wally to the door.

"Hey, Bat-bitch," Roy's voice was muffled thanks to the barrier separating them, but it was clearly him; rough from years of smoking and tense.

"One second, Bow-bitch!" Dick called back, his voice even, looking back to Wally and fighting to keep a bright red blush from painting his cheeks. He swallowed thickly, waiting for Wally to make the next move. It was as if someone had painted the back of his throat with honey, and everything he wanted to say was getting stuck in it.

Seconds ticked by before Wally slowly stood, running a hand through his messy red hair. He raised a hand across his chest to rub at the shoulder he had been bracing his weigh on before he turned and opened the door, grinning at Roy.

Roy took a step into the cold-hot medical room of Mount Justice and gave the two a suspicious look, shouldering around Wally, who's expression went starry-eyed as he saw what Roy was holding. Roy had a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and his red hair was darkened with water. It must have been raining outside.

He held up a cardboard box, unbothered by the drips of water running down strands of his short hair and onto his shoulders, "I brought pizza!"