The days passed with alarmingly fast speed, slower than eons. One moment Dick would be in bed and the next he would… still be in bed, a week later. At the same time, he was in bed for hours on end, each minute feeling like an hour feeling like a year. It was no surprise, then, that whenever he deigned to lift his head up and look around, his mind was so confused by the hour that he ended hunching back down in his shell for another age.
Bruce and Alfred weren't happy with this turtle business, but Dick could care less. He hardly gave either of them the time of day (though he rarely, if ever, knew it himself) and ignored all attempts on their part at integrating him back into the world. For the first week or so they let him be, probably figuring he was still mentally (and physically, though that was of lesser importance in everyone's minds) recovering and needed time to sift through himself. As a result, they each in turn tried to play therapist and get Dick to talk about what happened, though never with any success. Leslie even tried once or twice, but Dick gave her twice as cold a shoulder and considered doing much worse.
After two weeks, however, the two adult inhabitants of Wayne Manor were beginning to reach their limit. Dick heard daily mutterings about 'needing to move on', 'responding to treatment', and 'responding to anything at all' and blissfully ignored them. He felt sick, he hurt, and sometimes he wanted to die. Never in the literal sense of considering taking his own life, but simply wishing that maybe he would fall asleep one night (or day) and just never wake up. Or at least, wake up somewhere else. One time he did wake up somewhere else, but that somewhere else was the bathtub and it was less than glamorous.
A few days after Dick's initial arousal he finally managed to convince Bruce to let him go into the bathroom by himself and do his business and clean himself up. Other procedures had previously taken care of that sort of thing for him and Dick was well through with them. He figured Bruce only agreed to his request, however, because it was quite nearly the only contact that Dick made with anybody. Friends had been presumably banned from the Manor indefinitely and, as previously stated, Bruce and Alfred were treated as part of the furniture. Quite annoying furniture, to be sure.
Bruce carried him to the bathroom; there was no negotiation there. Dick minded less than he would have thought as his injured leg had been making itself more and more known over the past few days. He had no idea when he'd be able to move it, let alone walk again, but at this rate, he wasn't feeling a particularly strong desire too. Once in the bathroom, Bruce had placed a chair along the wall as well as one in front of the mirror and sink (the shower and bath were still forbidden) and handed Dick a crutch, commanding him very sternly to not, under any circumstances, put any weight on either his leg or his arm (which Bruce had bound up in a sling). Dick had said nothing but was pleasantly surprised at all the freedom he was receiving, despite it only being in the bathroom.
His bathroom wasn't very big, so Dick suspected that Bruce expected him to transfer chairs if ever he needed to move, but he simply positioned the crutch under his good arm and prepared himself to look in the mirror. He'd been prepping for this day since he'd learned the extent of his injuries but still struggled to raise his head. His hand had already felt the fuzziness of his new haircut as well as the cut on his face, but touch and sight were two very different senses indeed. When he'd finally looked up, to say he'd been shocked was an understatement.
The first thing Dick saw was his hair. It was short – really short. Like, shorter than Dick ever wanted to see on his head. It was fuzzy and kind of greasy and stuck straight up and out. But that was the least of Dick's worries. The cut, or soon-to-be scar, on the side of his face was long. It stretched from his forehead to his cheek and was still bright red, despite being closed up. He'd kept his right eye closed, as he'd taken to doing, and he could even see a line over his eyelid. The scar was seared into a ridiculously pale face, especially for someone who was naturally tan, and it traversed sharp cheekbones overlooking gaunt cheeks. The feeding tube weaving its way out of Dick's nose didn't help anything.
After that day, Dick hadn't asked to be taken to the bathroom again, though Bruce still did it. Dick avoided the mirror at all costs, not wanting to see the pale face of the stranger ever again. He became even quieter, rarely uttering a word, something so unusual for the boy that Bruce once had Leslie check to make sure he hadn't damaged his vocal cords. Bruce, Alfred, and Leslie all pleaded with him to talk, but still he kept his silence and refused to be swayed.
As it was, he refused a lot of things. Talking being only the least of them. Eating being the greatest. After the second night of turning away at the sight of food and even jerking violently when Alfred tried to 'feed' him, Leslie 'installed' the feeding tube. It hurt horribly but Dick didn't complain. He'd felt a twist of guilt at the sight Alfred's face as the long tube was fed down his nose and throat, but he just couldn't handle the thought of food. Even the smell made his stomach turn so violently that he wanted to throw up – he did throw up once. He felt sick nearly all the time, but food made it ten times worse.
Another thing he refused was 'therapy' of any sort. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't cooperate. When Leslie came over, he glared at her or looked away. She would try to get him to move his arm and he'd refuse. He actually hadn't done anything with his right arm all. Bruce had put it in a sling and Dick kept it that way. It was out of sight and immobile. Like it should be. Eventually Leslie got exasperated with him and, pinching her nose, demanded Bruce bring him into Gotham General (not her own personal clinic, because it wasn't the safest place and because Bruce had to be seen at least once taking his ward in for a check-up). It was the probably one of the single worst experiences of Dick's life.
The visit took place about a week and a half after Dick had woken up and he was currently off the morphine drip (though he now took more pills than he could count), and had been with the feeding tube for a week or so. Bruce had brought a wheelchair into Dick's bedroom and picked the boy up and placed him in it before wheeling him out. Bruce had then carried Dick down the stairs (wheelchair and all, much to Dick's embarrassment) and Alfred had driven them both to the hospital. The results were less than encouraging, including orders to start physical therapy as well as orders to eat – Dick was still severely underweight, even with the heavy leg brace on.
So physical therapy started, something else that Dick often refused. With the knowledge that he would never fully be recovered still engulfing his mind, the boy had very little motivation to do anything. The man Leslie had hired didn't help matters either – he was a very nice, young doctor, but was far too lenient with Dick and often gave into the boy's stubbornness. He told Bruce and Leslie that Dick just needed time to 'adjust' and that his refusal would turn into acceptance soon enough. After of week of Dick refusing to do anything, however, Leslie grumbled and groaned and took over. Any leniency was gone.
Bruce tried to participate in the therapy as well, but, considering it normally took place in the morning and afternoon, and Bruce was still trying to manage his company through all of this (though he did take considerable time off, something that caused the guilty feelings to threaten Dick's obstinacy), Leslie or Alfred was the typical therapists. And as more time passed, Alfred more and more was in charge of the sessions.
Dick didn't mean to fail so utterly at the therapy, but it hurt and he didn't care. Normally he wasn't one to let pain dictate anything in his life, but this was pain unlike Dick had ever experienced. It was always there, throbbing and twinging and stabbing, and, even with all the drugs, it halted any advances Dick ever tried to make. It was like it was dogging his steps, never letting him get farther than a few feet away before it pounced and dragged him back to his cage. And there was nothing left that made Dick want to try to beat it. So he made little to no progress in therapy, barely moving his leg and never moving his arm.
But the worst part of anything that was happening was the flashbacks. They happened randomly, sporadically, and were always as vivid as plain day. Needles, bright lights, lying flat, faceless voices, singing, whispering – they were all triggers. Dick hated the flashbacks more than the nightmares, though sometimes he wasn't sure which was which. More drugs, the doctors said, more therapy, Leslie said, more talking, Bruce said (hypocrite), more eating, Alfred said. More this, Dick, more that, do this, do that, listen to me, do what I say, grow up, suck it up, freaking fight it.
oOo
"Hey, Dick."
"Bruce let you in?"
"Um, Bruce is… away. Alfred let me in."
"Oh." Dick turned away from Barbara, focusing instead on the Leslie to his right. He rarely, if ever, focused on the doctor, but today it seemed like the lesser of two evils.
"Glad to have your attention, Richard."
She was mad. Dick only sighed and then winced as she pushed his leg back up towards his chest again.
"We're almost done here," Leslie told Barbara, ignoring Dick's grimace and pushing farther.
Dick glared at her but said nothing. It was upsetting enough that when only a few months ago he could bend himself in half he was now struggling to move his knee towards his chest. There was no need to add insult to injury and whine to Leslie. She assumed he was whining most of the time anyway.
"It's fine, I can wait." Barbara took a seat in a chair against the wall, crossing her legs and watching Dick.
Dick immediately felt uncomfortable, something he wasn't used to feeling… ever - especially not around his best friend. But he couldn't help feeling ashamed now as he lay on the rubbery mat on the gym floor, struggling to perform such a simple task as bending his knee. But finally it was over and Leslie left Dick to lie still on the mat, covered in a thin layer of sweat, his leg aching.
"Decent today, Dick, decent," Leslie told him, standing up and stretching. "But I don't think you're ready for self-regulated exercises yet."
Dick just shrugged, closing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. Leslie had gradually coaxed him into taking his right arm out of its sling and moving it around a bit. I wasn't much good for anything, but Leslie thought it was progress. He still barely moved the hand though, because it hurt and because it felt… weird.
"I'm going now to give Alfred another meal plan." Leslie just kept talking! "Did you follow the one for yesterday?"
Of course he didn't. Dick said nothing, however.
"Dick." Leslie sighed and Dick could just imagine her crouching down next to him, her 'sympathetic' face on full blast. "You have to eat, otherwise I'm going to have no choice but to put you back on the feeding tube."
Still Dick didn't reply.
"I also left a sheet with more vision exercises – please do some. They will help, I promise. And how are the stairs going? I really wish you weren't so stubborn and just agree to temporarily sleep downstairs."
"No." Dick didn't open his eyes.
"Fine. Just don't make things worse. Take it slow."
Dick rolled his eyes. First it was 'Dick, you need to work harder', and then it was 'Dick, just take slow'. He would take it whatever pace he pleased, thank you very much.
"Alright, I'm leaving now, Dick. I'll see in a few days."
Silence.
"Good to see you, Barbara."
"You too, Dr. Thompkins."
"Goodbye, Dick."
And still, silence.
Once Dick was sure Leslie was gone, he slowly sat up, blinking as his eyes opened and adjusted again to the dim lights in the gym. He rested his bad arm on his lap as he slowly swiveled to face Barbara.
"Gosh, Dick, did you have to be such a jerk?"
Dick snorted.
"It's good to see you too."
"Yeah, good to see you Babs."
"Wow, cold."
Dick sighed and looked down. Barbara wasn't the enemy here.
"I'm sorry, Babs. It really is good to see you."
"Wow, what a gentleman."
"Hey, I said I was sorry!" Dick sat up straighter and glared at Barbara's smirking face.
"What's got your panties in a bunch?"
"Do you want me to make you a list?"
Barbara pursed her lips before smiling. "Last time I was here…." She trailed off for a second before continuing. "Last time I was here, you were like Frankenstein after the monster killed William. Now you're just… sassy."
Dick sat up indignantly. "I am not sassy!" He really wanted to make a comment about Barbara's literature choice, but the need to defend himself rose to prominence first.
Barbara shrugged.
"Ugh."
"Okay, well, whatever you are, can we get out of this room? It kinda smells weird and reminds me of being knocked around by Bats."
"Yeah, sure." Dick sullenly rose to his feet, using only his right leg and left arm to get up, his bad leg hanging in the air. He hopped over the wall and grabbed the single crutch leaning against it and positioned it on his arm. "But don't expect it to smell any better when we get out – it's probably me. I get sprayed with a hundred weird things a day and I'm soaked."
"Ew."
Dick half limped half hopped out of the room, Barbara following close behind. They emerged in a large hallway off the entrance hall and Dick led the way in direction of the staircase. After a few minutes of slow progress Barbara finally spoke.
"So, are you going to say anything to me or just pretend like I don't exist?"
"I said it was good to see you."
"Wow, you're great at following social cues when they're shoved down your throat." Barbara's tone was bitingly sarcastic and Dick almost winced.
"What do you want me to say?" He ground out instead, not turning to look at the girl next to him.
"How you're doing, what's up, what's been going on, I don't know! You can tell me about your dog for all I care."
"Leslie locked him in my room."
"Huh?"
"Ace; Leslie locked him in my room."
"Why?" Barbara gave Dick a funny look.
"'Cause he tries to attack Leslie during therapy."
Barbara raised an eyebrow.
"He's really protective." Yeah, that was an understatement. "If he thinks anyone's hurting me, he like, head-butts them – really hard."
"O-kay…."
"You happy now?" 'Wow, Grayson, when did you become a class A jerk?'
"Gosh, Dick, I thought you would want to see me! That's why I came here. It's not like I want to watch your PT."
"Join the club," Dick sneered.
"What is wrong with you?" Barbara demanded, stepping in front of the boy and effectively stopping him in his tracks.
"You want a list?"
"Ugh!"
Dick felt bad for his attitude but refused to meet Barbara's eyes. As he stood, the pain that was ever present steadily grew stronger and he could feel it feeding his bad mood.
"Look at me, you little-!" Barbara forcibly forced Dick's face up to look at her. "I get that you're hurt, okay? I know could never understand what this is like. I'm ignorant, but I'm being ignored. Last time I came over you were so deep in your depression you wouldn't even look at me, but I let it go. It was only a few days after you woke up – I had gotten it. But now? You know what, never mind. Whatever." Barbara let her hands fall and Dick watched her turn away. He took a long, calming breath.
"Babs-"
"I'm all ears, Short Stuff. Throw me your best apology."
"I'm a jerk, okay?"
"Wow, I'm unimpressed."
"Let me finish." Dick leaned heavily on the crutch, his arm getting a little sore. "I'm sorry that I'm a jerk. I just-" Dick took a deep breath, trying to practice the pain-coping techniques Leslie had shown him. "Can we just make it up the stairs and then finish this?" Dick knew that if it were Artemis she would defiantly say 'no way' and they'd end up sitting on the ground, in the hallway for the next two hours but as it was….
"Sure."
The journey up the stairs was long and when they finally reached Dick's bedroom, Dick was pretty sure he was going to pass out. Wouldn't be the first time. He managed to make it to his bed (not before Ace glomped him as well as Barabara) before he dropped the crutch and fell across the dark blue comforter. He felt Barbara sit next to him and he struggled to make into a semi-respectable position. Finally he was propped against the headboard, his left leg stretched out in front of him, the large metal brace showing through his sweatpants, and Barbara was sitting cross-legged across from him. Ace was lying with his head on Dick's lap.
"Any time," Barbara smirked and Dick sighed.
"Alright, here goes." Dick gathered up all his strength and fought to remain calm. He really was glad Barbara was here, despite his attitude saying otherwise. Bruce rarely let his friends into the Manor (and even then, only Wally and Barbara and Artemis on occasion), and it had been a few weeks since he'd last seen Barbara. Okay, he hadn't seen her since the week he'd woken up. Now would be a good time to start that apology.
"Barbara Gordon, will you forgive me? I'm a jerk, I treated you like trash, and I deserve to be thrown out the window of a speeding van. However, I acted under the influence of having-to-deal-with-Leslie-Thompkins-for-three-straight-hours-which-included-force-feeding-and-a-direct-violation-of-the-fifth-amendment, so I think that I should be looked upon with pardon. That in no way, however," Dick continued rapidly, seeing Barbara's face. "Excuses my actions and I deserve the aforementioned punishment and much more because I suck at being a friend."
Suddenly Barbara's arms were around him and Dick suddenly breathed deeply of some fruity shampoo and red hair. "So, I'm sorry," Dick muttered into her hair. "You forgive me?"
"I'll think about it."
Dick sighed but Barbara let go with a smile.
"So, you want to tell me how things have really been going?" She asked, absently reaching out and stroking Ace's back.
Dick looked down, his eyes blurring out of focus (something that he had taken to doing a lot recently) as he started fiddling with the brace on his right hand. That was… a hard question. Dick remembered his interaction with Artemis hardly two days ago after she'd snuck in his window. She'd demanded a full report and he'd given it to her, sneering remarks and all. After the archer had slipped out in barely contained anger and frustration Dick had felt bad, but the pain in his arm had grown so intense by then that he hadn't been able to bring up the will-power to call and apologize. He still hadn't.
Dick wasn't in the mood for another repeat with Barbara so he thought carefully before he finally replied:
"Things have been going… not well. I…." Dick trailed off, unsure how to continue. He didn't like talking about himself - most of the time Leslie talked enough about him for the both of them - but when he did have to, he felt… ashamed. It was his fault and his alone that he was doing so badly in recovery. He knew he wasn't trying, he knew he was giving up, he knew that everything was his fault. But it didn't increase his drive any. He wasn't any more determined to bend his knee when he was forced to acknowledge that everything was his doing.
"Alfred told me you're… struggling," Barbara said, drawing Dick's attention back to her.
"Are those the words he used?" Dick glanced up briefly.
"Very nearly."
"Hmmm…." Dick looked down again, affirming what the butler said was all too true.
"I heard about Robin. Artemis told me."
"You two friends now or something?" Dick hoped his question didn't come harsh or bitter. It seemed that no matter what he said it had a sharp bite to it.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that."
Dick nodded. "I heard you were filling in for me, when I was… gone."
"Oh, yeah." Barbara laughed, a high, clear, sincere laugh. "Quite the… experience."
Dick smiled a little. "Well, thanks for doing it. I know it probably wasn't fun."
"Yeah, running around in bright red spandex-Kevlar and a yellow cape isn't exactly what I'd call a night out."
Dick tried to smile again but failed. He couldn't hold back his next remark, no matter how hard he tried. "Well, you might want to get used to it. Looks like it'll be permanent. Though, I suppose you can pick a new costume, if you want."
"Dick…." Barbara laid a hand on his leg, her eyes sorrowful. "I'm so sorry."
"Me too." Dick normally wasn't one to feel sorry for himself but no matter how much he brooded, sulked, screamed, cried about this, he couldn't get over it. It was infuriating and depressing and destroying all at once.
"Dick, Bruce says that you don't want to recover because… of this." When Dick didn't respond Barbara continued. "I-I know I got mad at you when I found out you'd kept Robin a secret from me for all this time, but… I'm not mad anymore. And I didn't just get over it, either. I think I understand now. Spending all this time being, well, Robin, I've realized how… dangerous it is. And also how… it changes you. Maybe it isn't the same for you, but when I was Robin I felt Barbara slip away. I become something so different that something I didn't even recognize myself. And of course Batman made me swear an oath of secrecy but even when I asked myself whether, if he hadn't, I'd tell my dad about it, I always answered 'no'.
"I… understand why you didn't tell me. You wanted to protect me but also… I was in such a different world than you were. I would have never understood what you did, why you did it. I'd never been out there fighting off the worst that human nature can produce. I didn't know how the mask can change a person. I get it now though. I'm glad you didn't tell me, Dick."
Dick didn't look up. He didn't want to hear this right now. Of course he was glad Barbara understood, that she forgave him for what he'd done, but he was also mad. It was his place to ask for forgiveness. He was the one who was supposed to say he was sorry, not her forgive him before he even asked. He felt… terrible. He couldn't even apologize right. Or apologize at all.
"Listen, Dick." Barbara was playing with Ace's fur now, twisting it between her fingers. "I don't want you to take this wrong way, but… I'm really worried about you. You're my best friend and you not wanting to get better… it scares me. I-I know I don't understand any of this. What it's all like for you, but, please…."
Barbara choked a little and Dick looked up in surprise.
"I know being Robin means the world to you, but… isn't there more in the world? Please, Dick, please, I just… Don't I matter to you too?"
"Babs, I-" Dick stopped. He watched her choke on a few more sobs, her fingers laced tightly into Ace. "I'm sorry." And it was the most sincere thing he'd said… since he'd last apologized to her, nearly three months ago.
"Just… get better!" Barbara sobbed, launching herself at Dick again and burying her face in his shoulder.
Dick was a little taken aback and awkwardly patted her back, glad that she wasn't leaning too heavily on anything painful. He wasn't really sure what to say. He'd found since he'd woken up that he was suddenly horrible at communicating with… anybody, but Ace. He either yelled at them and generally acted like jerk or ignored them entirely and wallowed in his own little pit of self-pity until they left him alone. Finally, Dick managed to choke out:
"I'll try." And he really, truly hoped he meant it.