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killerplink · 17 days ago

Text

FRACTURED

Characters: Dick Grayson x Female Reader, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson (bonding)

Words: 4,5k

Plot: When a casual night turns into a nightmare, you fight to stay alive, but all you can think about is the one you can't bear to lose.

CW: established relationship, angst, mention of blood, violence, injury, near-death experience, hurt/comfort

It happens so fast.

One moment, you're walking to your car, lost in your own head, thinking about nothing important. What you're gonna make for dinner, whether Dick's already home, if you should stop for coffee on the way. Just the usual thoughts that fill the quiet in between moments, the kind that don't really matter but keep your mind occupied.

And then? Then everything changes.

The sound of footsteps echoes behind you, too close, too deliberate. At first, you don't think much of it, just another person walking to their car, heading home for the night. But then the steps don't slow, don't waver, and something shifts.

A bad feeling creeps up your spine, settling in your gut, a prickle of unease spreading over your skin. It happens so fast you barely have time to process it, barely have time to react before—

Impact.

Something slams into your side, hard, shoving you forward with brutal force. The air is knocked from your lungs in an instant, your body lurching forward as your balance tilts dangerously.

You stumble, hands flailing for something, anything to catch yourself on. Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps as your mind scrambles to catch up, to understand what's happening, to see who—what—where—

Pain.

Searing, hot, and sudden. It rips through your side with an intensity that steals the ground from beneath you, burrowing deep, tearing through muscle, sharp and wrong. Your nerves scream, your body jolting from the shock of it, and for a split second, it doesn't even feel real. It's too fast, too brutal, a kind of pain that doesn't belong in the quiet of a normal evening.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Your brain stalls, takes a second too long to catch up, a second that stretches endlessly, feels like forever. It isn't until you feel the warmth spreading across your skin, wet and slick, that the reality of it finally sinks in. By the time your gaze drops, by the time you see the blade—gleaming, stained red, still buried in your side—it's already too late.

You're already falling.

Your knees hit the pavement first, jarring against the rough concrete, sending another sharp jolt of pain through you. Your hands follow, weak and trembling, barely catching you before your body fully collapses. Your palms scrape against the ground, but you hardly feel it over the white-hot agony radiating from your side.

It's spreading too fast, a sickening pulse of heat that won't stop, that won't let you breathe. Beneath your fingers, something warm pools, thick and sticky, soaking into your skin.

Blood. Your blood.

The guy, whoever he is, mutters something under his breath, but the words are lost to you. Your ears are ringing too loud, drowning out everything else.

You can't move, can't react, can barely think, and for a terrifying moment, you can't even breathe. Your chest tightens, your lungs refusing to expand properly, and it's not just the pain now. It's fear.

You're bleeding. Fuck, you're bleeding.

And then? Then he's gone.

Vanished into the night like he was never even there. No hesitation, no second glance, just a shadow slipping away, leaving you behind, crumpled and gasping on the cold pavement.

And you? You're alone. Alone, bleeding out, the night stretching wide and empty around you, swallowing your shuddering breaths. The cold creeps in faster than it should, seeping through your clothes, through your skin, making everything feel distant, unreal.

No. No, you can't.

Your phone. You need your phone. Your fingers fumble weakly at your pocket, shaking too hard to get a proper grip. Everything feels sluggish, your body fighting you, but you force yourself to move, to breathe, to focus.

You can't stop, not now, not when the weight pressing against your ribs feels heavier by the second, when your vision is already starting to blur at the edges. You need to—

You need to call—

Dick.

It takes everything in you just to press the button. Your hand barely cooperates, slippery with blood, but you manage. You barely have the strength to hold the phone to your ear. And when he picks up? The second you hear his voice, warm and familiar, filled with that easy confidence that's always made you feel safe—

That's when you realize. You're not gonna make it home. Not without him. His phone buzzes once. Twice. And then he picks up immediately.

"Hey, pretty girl," he says, voice warm and easy, like he's been waiting for you to call, like he's already smiling, ready to tease you for taking your time. There's a lightness to his tone, the kind that makes it sound like nothing in the world could be wrong, like this is just another night, another conversation. "You heading home?"

And then—

Then he hears it.

The way your breath hitches, sharp and unsteady. The way the silence stretches just a second too long before a shaky inhale rattles through the receiver. The way you suck in a gasp—pained, uneven—before forcing out something so small, so fragile, it makes his stomach drop.

"Dick—"

And just like that? His heart stops.

"Baby?"

His voice is different now. The warmth is gone, replaced by something sharper, something tense. His whole body goes still, instincts kicking in, every nerve suddenly alert, his muscles locking as if bracing for impact.

A pause. A tiny, pained inhale. "I—"

Then a whimper. Soft, broken, like it barely made it out at all. And then, barely above a whisper—

"I need you."

And just—

Fuck. That's all it takes. His body moves before his brain can catch up, muscle memory kicking in, pure instinct driving him forward. He's already grabbing his keys, already shoving his comm into his ear, barely registering the click as it connects.

His pulse slams against his ribs, loud and insistent, drowning out everything but the sound of your breathing—too shallow, too unsteady—on the other end of the line. He throws open the door to the garage, doesn't bother with the lights, just moves, grabbing his helmet, swinging his leg over his bike in one fluid motion.

"Where are you?" His voice is tight, controlled, the edge of panic barely restrained.

A sharp inhale. A weak, wobbly breath.

"I—fuck, I don't—" A choked noise, a shudder. And then, so fucking small, so fragile it makes his throat close up, "I think I got stabbed."

And everything inside him freezes. No. No, no, no—

His grip tightens on the handlebars, fingers pressing into the leather so hard they ache. He swallows back the immediate rush of panic threatening to claw its way up his throat, forces himself to move, to breathe, to act. His free hand fumbles for his comm, shoving it deeper into his ear before his fingers flick over his GPS, pulling up your location—

Thank fuck for the tracker on your keys. There. There you are. His blood runs cold when he sees how far.

"Stay on the line," he breathes, voice barely holding together, his other hand turning the key, the engine roaring to life beneath him. He doesn't even think, just goes, peeling out of the garage so fast his tires screech against the pavement. "I'm coming, baby. Just—just stay with me, okay?"

And then? Then he drives. Fast. Too fast.

Because Gotham is too fucking big. Because you're too far away. Because every second that passes is a second too long, a second where you're bleeding, where you're hurting, where you're alone, and he can't let that happen. His body is running on pure adrenaline now, hands gripping the handlebars so tight his knuckles go white, jaw clenched so hard it aches. He doesn't care.

All that matters is you. By the time he gets there, you're barely conscious. Sprawled on the pavement, one hand pressed weakly to your side, blood pooling beneath you, your phone discarded just inches away—

And for one, horrible second, he can't move. Because this... this is his worst fucking nightmare. But then—

Then he's off the bike, barely registering the way it skids as he drops it, his feet hitting the ground hard as he runs, closing the distance between you in a breath, a blink, a heartbeat. His knees hit the pavement beside you, hands shaking as he reaches for you, grabs your face, tilts it gently toward him.

"Baby," he breathes, voice wrecked, raw, barely able to force the word out.

His fingers brush over your cheek, warm despite the chill settling into your skin, desperate to find you through the haze of pain, to ground you in him.

Your eyelids flutter. Your lips part. And then, so soft, so fucking weak—

"Dick."

And just—his heart shatters.

"I know, baby, I know," he whispers, voice tight, pained, barely holding on. His hands press firmly against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding, to keep you here, to—

"Fuck," you whimper, body twitching, and just—

His throat closes. "I'm sorry, my love," he breathes, barely above a whisper, pressing his forehead against yours, his grip gentle despite the way his hands shake. "I know it hurts, baby, I know, but you have to stay awake, okay?"

A pause. A weak, trembling inhale. Your fingers curl into his sleeve, barely able to hold on. "So cold," you mumble, voice so quiet it nearly gets lost in the night air.

And just—fuck. His jaw clenches.

"I know," he whispers, voice cracking, slipping his jacket off in one swift motion. He tucks it firmly around you, making sure it covers every part of you, his arms wrapping around you like it'll be enough to keep you warm, to keep you here. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft and lingering, his breath unsteady, his chest aching. "Help's almost here, baby, just—just hold on."

A shaky, tiny breath. A ghost of a smile. "Knew you'd come."

And just like that, he breaks. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, his breath shuddering as he buries his face in your hair, lips pressing against your forehead, against your temple, his grip desperate, aching, pleading.

"Shhh, I got you," he whispers, voice wrecked, breath shaking. "I got you, baby."

You barely nod. Just the faintest tilt of your head against him. And then... then your body slumps. And Dick? Dick falls apart.

He doesn't even realize he's shaking as he stares at your unconscious form, the life draining out of you too fast, too violently, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. His hands are slick with your blood, staining his gloves, seeping into the cracks of his fingers, and for the first time in a long time, he feels helpless. Utterly, terrifyingly helpless.

The entire ride to the hospital is a blur—he remembers shouting, pushing, running, people yelling at him to step back, but he doesn't, he can't, not when you're barely breathing in his arms. It's only when the ER doors swing shut, when you're wheeled away from him, disappearing behind sterile white curtains, that reality slams into him like a freight train.

And then he's left in the waiting room. Pacing. Restless. Agitated.

His boots echo against the linoleum as he stalks back and forth, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Every muscle in his body is coiled, wired with adrenaline and fear and something deeper, something primal that he can't shake. His hands are still stained, and no matter how many times he scrubs them against his suit, he still feels it—your blood, your warmth, fading, slipping, and he can't fucking breathe.

"She's been in surgery for hours," he mutters, voice raw, almost hoarse. He's barely stopped moving, his fingers threading through his hair, gripping at the roots, chest rising and falling too fast. "Why is it taking this long?"

Bruce is there. Silent at first. Watching.

"Dick," his voice is calm, measured, but firm, that same tone that used to keep him steady when he was a kid, when the world felt too big, too cruel. "She's going to be fine."

Dick laughs, but it's humorless, breathless, shaking. "You don't know that," he snaps, and immediately regrets it. He exhales hard, pressing his palms against his face, dragging them down like it'll somehow ground him. "Sorry. I just... she was right there, Bruce. Bleeding out. And I—I couldn't do anything."

Bruce doesn't flinch, doesn't let the words shake him. Instead, he steps forward, places a heavy hand on Dick's shoulder, the weight of it solid, grounding.

"You got her here."

Dick swallows hard, his throat burning. "What if it wasn't enough?"

Bruce squeezes his shoulder. "It was."

Dick shakes his head, jaw tightening. "You don't know that—"

"I do." Bruce's voice is unwavering, steady in a way that makes something inside Dick crack wide open. "She's in the best hospital in Gotham. The best surgeons. The best care. She will make it through this."

Dick wants to argue, to push back, to say but what if? But when he looks at Bruce, really looks at him, he sees it—an unshakable belief, the same certainty that carried them through years of impossible odds, of near-death escapes. Bruce isn't just saying it to calm him down. He means it.

And that? That makes it a little easier to breathe.

Bruce exhales softly, a rare moment of warmth breaking through his usual stoicism. "I know what it's like to sit in these rooms. To feel powerless." His voice drops, quieter now, something heavier laced between the words. "I've done it too many times with you."

Dick's throat tightens, his breath catching.

"I know it's terrifying," Bruce continues. "But she's strong. And she's got you to fight for."

Dick's legs finally give out beneath him, and he drops onto the chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He doesn't even realize he's shaking until Bruce sits beside him, a steady presence, and—God—before he can stop himself, Dick turns into it, leans against him just enough to feel something solid.

Bruce doesn't push him away. Doesn't lecture him. He just rests a firm hand against the back of Dick's head and stays there. Silent. Steady. There.

And when the doctor finally comes out, when they say you're stable, that you're out of surgery, that you're going to be okay—Dick breathes for the first time in hours.

When you wake up, it's to warmth. A steady weight, something solid, something real, wrapped around your hand, grounding you, keeping you from slipping back into the dark. It's the first thing you register, the soft press of fingers against yours, the way they tighten slightly, as if making sure you don't drift away again.

And then—

A voice. Soft. Shaky. A murmur of your name, so quiet, so hoarse, like it's been spoken a hundred times before you even heard it. Your eyelids flutter, heavy, sluggish, but you fight against it, pushing through the lingering haze of unconsciousness. And when your vision clears, the first thing you see is him.

Dick. Sitting beside your hospital bed, his fingers clinging to yours like a lifeline, like if he lets go, you'll slip right through his grasp again. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhaustion painting dark circles beneath them, his face wrecked, jaw tight, like he hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, hasn't even breathed since you collapsed in his arms.

And when you stir, when your fingers twitch the tiniest bit in his grip—

His breath catches. "Baby?"

It's barely a whisper. Barely even a word. Just a breath of hope—raw, desperate, aching. You swallow, throat dry and sore, and part your lips. It takes a second. It takes effort. But then—

A pause. A shaky, slow smile. "Hi."

The way his breath shudders out of him, the way his entire body sags forward, forehead pressing to the back of your hand, his grip tightening like he's trying to memorize the feeling of your skin against his. He exhales hard, like he's been holding it in for hours.

And then, so soft, so fucking wrecked, "You scared me."

And just—fuck. Your heart cracks. Because you've never seen him like this. Never seen him so wrecked, so raw, so utterly drained in a way that has nothing to do with sleepless nights and everything to do with you. With the fear of losing you.

So you squeeze his hand. Just the tiniest bit. Just enough for him to feel it, to know you're still here, that you're real, that you're alive. And when he looks up, his eyes are glassy. Red. Wrecked. So full of love, of relief, of something too heavy to carry alone.

And you whisper, small, so fucking gentle, "But you found me."

And just like that? He melts. A quiet, wrecked laugh escapes him, something wet and breathless, something that sounds like it's carrying the weight of every single fear he's ever had about losing you. His fingers tighten around yours, holding on, grounding himself in the fact that you're still here.

Then he leans forward again, pressing his forehead against your hand, against your knuckles, against anything he can reach. His voice—

His voice breaks. "Of course I did," he breathes, so soft, so full of something you don't even have a name for.

And in that moment, there's only one thing that makes sense to him. "You're my home."

Because you are. Because you're the one thing that always pulls him back. Because without you, he's lost.

Fuck. You don't even get the chance to say anything back, to let him know that he's yours, that he's the one thing you always come back to, because—

There's a soft cough from the corner of the room. And when you blink, when you manage to turn your head, you finally notice.

You're not alone. Bruce is here. Standing near the window, arms crossed, his entire posture so tense, so rigid, like he's holding something back. His eyes are sharp, serious, but gentler than you've ever seen them.

And when you meet his gaze, when he sees the way your breathing steadies, the way your eyes focus, the way your fingers are still wrapped so tightly around Dick's, his shoulders relax. Just a fraction. And then, finally—

"You gave us quite the scare."

His voice is even. Neutral. But there's something underneath it, something warm, something grateful.

Something that tells you he was worried. That maybe, just maybe, he was scared too. And God. That's when it hits you. Bruce wasn't just here for you. He was here for Dick. Because Dick—

Dick is his son. And he almost lost you. And for Bruce? That's almost the same thing. Losing you would've been almost as bad as losing Dick himself.

Because you're not just someone to Dick—you're everything. His home. His safe place. The person who grounds him, who keeps him from feeling lost. And Bruce? He knows that. So when Dick almost lost you? It wasn't just your life on the line. It was his son's heart.

Bruce watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but his silence says more than words ever could. His shoulders are stiff, his stance unyielding, but there's something else beneath it now—something hesitant, something restrained, like he's holding back more than just exhaustion.

And when he finally steps closer, it's not much, just a fraction of a movement, but it's deliberate. Intentional. Close enough that you can feel it, that you know he's here.

His eyes flick down to where your fingers are still tangled with Dick's, to the way his son is gripping you like he's afraid you'll slip through his fingers again. And when he looks back up, there's something tight in his expression, something carved into the set of his jaw, the pull of his brows. He doesn't say anything at first, just watches, and you can't tell if he's searching for something in your face or just making sure you're really awake, really here.

And then—your voice. Quiet. Guilt-ridden. An apology you don't even realize cuts deeper than any wound ever could.

"I'm sorry."

Bruce exhales, slow, measured, but something flickers in his eyes. Something sharp. Something that almost looks like anger—but not at you. No, never at you.

Because why the hell would you even think to say sorry? Why would that be the first thing out of your mouth after nearly dying? After everything?

He hates it. Hates that you feel like you have to carry that weight, hates that it even crossed your mind to apologize for surviving. Because it wasn't your fault.

Because you were the one bleeding out in Dick's arms, and yet here you are, looking at him, at Dick, like you need to make it up to them. Like they wouldn't burn the whole damn world down just to make sure you stayed.

His jaw tightens. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach out, to do something, but Bruce Wayne has never been good at this—at softness, at warmth, at saying what he actually means. So when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, steadier than before, but there's an edge to it. Something firm. Something final.

"There's no need to apologize." A slow exhale through his nose. And then, quieter, like it's the only thing that really matters, like maybe if he says it, you'll believe it, "I'm glad you're back with us."

It's not much. Not flowery, not emotional, not even close to the way Dick is looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky, but for Bruce? It's everything. It's as much as he'll allow himself to say. And somehow, that makes it hit even harder.

Then, just like that, his entire demeanor shifts. The warmth, the hesitation, the careful softness—it's gone, replaced by something sharper, something colder, something that leaves no room for hesitation. His expression hardens, his jaw sets, and when he speaks again, his voice is steady, firm, like he's already made up his mind about what's coming next.

"I just want to know what the guy looks like. If you remember."

Dick stiffens beside you. And you—you do remember. Clear as day. So you swallow. And you tell him. Everything. Every detail. Every scar, every feature, every fucking thing you can recall.

And Bruce? Bruce just nods. Once. Then turns and walks out the door. And just like that? You know. It's over for him. Whoever he is. The room feels quieter when Bruce leaves.

Like the air has settled, like the weight of everything that just happened is finally catching up to you. You breathe in. Slow.

And Dick—Dick doesn't move. Doesn't shift, doesn't loosen his grip, doesn't even blink as he stares at you, like if he looks away for even a second, you'll disappear again.

And then—soft. A press of warmth against your forehead. A kiss. Gentle. Lingering. Just his lips, just his breath, just the quiet weight of it grounding you in a way nothing else could.

And when he pulls back, his thumb traces over your knuckles, slow, careful, like he's memorizing them. Like he needs to. You exhale, try to shift, and fuck—pain lances through your side, sharp, hot, and you flinch, sucking in a breath through your teeth. Dick reacts immediately.

"Hey, hey—"

His hands are on you in a second, firm but careful, steadying you, stopping you from moving too much.

"Baby, don't—just... stay still, okay? You need to rest."

And just, God. The worry in his voice. The way it wavers, the way he looks at you like you might break all over again. It makes your chest ache.

You swallow. Blink up at him, slow, tired, voice small, "I'm a little thirsty."

And Dick, God. The relief on his face, like he's so grateful that the only thing you're asking for is water and not a damn doctor—it's almost heartbreaking.

"Yeah," he breathes, voice lighter, steadier, "I've got you, baby."

But he doesn't let go. Not really. One hand stays wrapped around yours, tight, secure, while the other reaches for the water pitcher on the table beside you. He pours you a glass, careful not to spill a single drop, and then he shifts.

Braces an arm behind you, supporting your back, keeping you steady as he helps you upright, soft, softer, like you're the most fragile thing he's ever held.

You wince in pain, a sharp jolt shooting through your side, and his heart clenches at the sound. The way you flinch, the way your body tenses, it breaks something inside of him. He'd give anything, everything, to take that pain away from you. But all he can do is hold you, steady you, whisper words that feel too small for the weight of the moment.

"Easy, pretty girl," he murmurs, voice soothing, so full of something warm. "I've got you."

And then—he brings the glass to you, cool against your fingers, the coldness of it a small comfort. He's right there. Watching you. Close. So close, his presence a steadying force as he tilts the glass toward your lips. You take a sip, your throat aching slightly as you swallow, but his careful hands keep the glass steady, guiding it just the right way.

When you lower the glass, his eyes are still locked onto you, taking in every little movement, every little shift, still taking in everything, still not letting a single thing slip past him. And you... you can't help it. Your lips twitch.

"You know," you say, voice still hoarse, still exhausted, but teasing all the same, "you can blink, baby. I'm not gonna disappear."

And Dick—his breath hitches. Then, a small, wrecked, quiet laugh.

"Yeah," he breathes, pressing another kiss to your knuckles, voice so fond, so full of relief, "I know."

But you pout, just a little, because even though you're tired, even though you're sore, you just want to curl up against him, feel his warmth, let it chase away the ache in your bones.

"Wanna snuggle with you."

Your voice is small, laced with exhaustion, barely above a whisper, but he hears it. He always hears you. His face crumbles. Just a little. Just enough that you see the way his jaw clenches, the way his throat works around something thick, something painful.

"My love," he murmurs, shifting, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, so soft, so careful, like you're something fragile, something precious. "You need to rest. I don't wanna hurt you."

But then, softer, like a promise—"Soon, okay? As soon as you're a little stronger. I'll hold you all night."

And then, like he can't help himself, like he needs you to believe it, he leans in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your lips. Just a soft, lingering peck, warm and tender, filled with everything he can't say yet. Then another, and another, the barest brush of his lips over yours, like he's trying to soothe something deep inside you.

And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your skin.

"I'm right here," he whispers. "Not going anywhere."

And just like that? You believe him. Because he never has. And he never will.

@ellesthots, your man comforting my man is everything to me ✋🏻