Work Text:
It all happens so fast.
A bomb. A room full of hostages. A clock two seconds ahead.
Barry gets everyone out, but he's not fast enough.
He never is.
A piece of shrapnel shreds through his suit, piercing his side and it hurts more than expected, more than it should.
He's trained for this. He should be better. He is better than this.
He stays long enough for the paramedics to arrive, long enough to make sure everyone makes it out okay—there are three wounded: one with a pierced lung, one with a sprained ankle, one with just a few scratches.
(Barry should've done better. He should've been faster.)
When everyone's accounted for (three wounded, zero casualties, ten people very shaken), he leaves.
He normally likes to stay longer, likes to make sure everyone's okay emotionally and not just physically, but his wound burns, and he can tell that if he doesn't keep what little adrenaline he has going, he'll lose all of his speed and won't make it home.
Luckily, his suit is red so none of the bleeding shows. He just hopes his grimaces of pain didn't offend anyone.
When he makes it to his destination, he blinks in surprise. He'd... he'd been meaning to go to the warehouse, not the manor.
He...
He sags into the door.
Fuck, he's tired.
He doesn't have much of a choice now, all of his juice officially zapped up.
He just really hopes Bruce doesn't kill him over this.
"Mister Allen, come in." Alfred's voice greets him before a buzzing at the door sounds and it unlocks.
"Thanks Alfred," Barry wheezes, hand pressed against his side in a piss poor attempt at stopping the bleeding, and then he's pushing the door open with what little strength he has.
He'd accidentally entered through the main hall entrance rather than the one close to the Batcave and Barry mentally slaps himself.
He just can't get anything right, can he?
"Uhh, Alfred?" Barry calls weakly, hoping that Alfred hears him from some sort of hidden camera or something.
Barry's not sure he'll make it all the way across the manor by himself in this state.
"Master Wayne is in the Batcave if you're looking for him." Alfred's voice replies through some hidden speaker and—
Great. Yep. That's exactly what Barry is looking for.
Barry takes a look at the blood slipping through his fingers.
Bruce is definitely going to kill him.
Okay, Barry. This is fine. This is totally fine actually.
You're just currently bleeding out in Bruce's fancy mansion and Alfred hasn't caught on yet but he will soon, as you're getting blood all over the very fancy floors (is that marble?) and are two seconds away from passing out.
This is fine.
"Uhm, Alfred?" Barry asks again and is the world around him tilting or is he? It probably isn't good either way.
"Yes, Mister Allen?"
"Uhm..." Barry blinks, swaying heavily. It's getting hard to focus with the ringing in his ears. "Do you... do you have a restroom..?"
That's what Barry should be asking, right? He thinks so...
"Yes. Down the hall to your right. There is one three doors down."
Barry looks in that direction, feeling woozy at the thought of moving more than an inch.
Well, he's just feeling woozy in general, but—
Moving? That does not seem fun.
Nothing seems fun right now.
"Alfred?"
"Yes, Mister Allen?"
"Uhm, can you-can you tell Bruce I'm sorry?" Barry asks upon realising he is not going to make it to the bathroom.
"Sorry for what?" Alfred's voice takes on a weird tone. Concern. He sounds concerned.
"I'm-I'm dripping blood..." Barry blinks, trying really hard to stay awake. He... he needs to get to the bathroom. He needs to... "'m staining... floor... ‘mm sorry."
He thinks he hears Alfred say something else, but then the world fully flips and the ground is rushing up towards him and—
Nothing.
⋆.ೃ࿔˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ݁ ˖*༄
The next thing he's aware of are cold hands against his cheeks, applying a firm but gentle pressure.
He feels like his chest has been bench pressed. His entire body feels heavy and drowsy. Every thought that runs through his head feels like it's moving through sludge, much, much slower than he's used to and he frowns, confusion filling him.
Something's... wrong. Something feels wrong. He doesn't know what though.
The pressure at his cheeks shows up again, a bit more forceful this time and he frowns.
"—rry, open your eyes kid. C'mon."
Barry blinks, drowsily opening his eyes.
Warm, brown eyes meet his and Barry watches as the tense fear softens into relief.
"'ruce?" Barry asks, not quite sure why Bruce is leaning over him... or where he even is.
"Barry," Bruce says, voice as gruff as always but there's something added in it, something that Barry's slow thoughts cannot place. "You with me?"
"Mm with you. At least I think I am? Where are we? This isn't some weird kind of dream I'm having, right?" Barry's thoughts still feel like sludge and he's finding it hard to keep his eyes open, everything in his body telling him to go back to sleep.
Bruce's eyebrows furrow. "You're at the manor. Alfred told me you came of your own accord."
Barry frowns. "I did?"
"Yes."
"Huh," Barry says and then his eyes are slipping shut again. Trying to remember anything that happened before he opened his eyes is too draining. All he wants to do is sleep.
Cold hands lightly squeeze again. "Barry, don't you dare close your eyes—"
Barry's eyes open again and he sees Bruce looking at him with a fear he's never seen before. Barry feels bad that he's the reason for it.
Concentrating on speaking is hard, but he manages to mumble out an, "Mm sorry."
"Don't—" Bruce looks like he's fighting back tears and the guilt in Barry surges harder. "Jason, I swear to god—"
Barry frowns. Is there someone else in the room with them? "Who's Jason?"
Bruce's face goes pale, paler than Barry had thought was possible for the man forever shrouded in darkness.
Barry tries to focus on understanding what happened that could make Bruce react like that, but everything starts to feel heavy again.
"Barry—"
Barry slips back into the darkness before he can hear the rest of the sentence.
⋆.ೃ࿔˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ݁ ˖*༄
The next time Barry wakes up, things feel less heavy and everything is much more bright.
Not necessarily in a good way. His head hurts as his eyes open, and he winces at the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Once his eyes adjust, he realises he's in the medbay.
It takes him a moment, but then the events of the day come back to him and he winces.
Dang, this is so humiliating.
He really hopes Bruce doesn't hate him forever for staining the floors.
He tries to sit up and winces as the injury in his side decides to make itself known, pain flaring.
Ugh, he should've healed by now. What was in that bomb?
Suddenly, the smell of hamburgers and fries greets him and he perks up, stomach growling.
Now that he thinks about it, he cannot remember the last time he ate. That explains the delayed healing.
Bruce enters the room a moment later, carrying a paper bag from his favourite burger place and Barry feels both incredibly grateful and uneasy.
The burger should be a sign that Bruce isn't angry at him, but he still doesn't trust it.
Barry bites his tongue, forcing himself to keep his mouth shut until he gauges Bruce's mood better.
Bruce comes over and places the bag on Barry's lap. "Eat."
Barry stares wide eyed for a moment.
Bruce nudges the bag. "C'mon. I got it for you."
And Barry—
Yeah, he's too hungry to wait any longer.
He rips into the bag, hoovering the food down even as the movement tears at his side. The pain is inconsequential compared to how good it is.
God, Barry loves burgers so much.
When he's done, he wraps up the bag into a ball and keeps it in his lap, fingers fidgeting with the edges of it.
"So, Francis Jewellers." Bruce says, taking a seat next to Barry. Barry hadn't noticed it at first, as it's not something that's normally in the medbay. Bruce must have brought it in at some point while Barry had been out. Barry's... not sure how to feel about that. It's not the most comfortable looking chair, but it's not uncomfortable looking either. It's not plastic, which is nice. It's some sort of wooden chair with a fabric cushion. Barry really can't tell if it's comfortable. Maybe-
"Barry?" Bruce asks, and Barry realises that he'd been expecting Barry to say something in reply.
"Uhh..." Right. Jewellers. The place where Barry got got. "Yes?"
Great reply, Barry. That's definitely the response Bruce was wanting.
Bruce's lips form a tight line and Barry squeezes the paper bag tighter.
"Why didn't you call for backup?" Bruce asks, and while he doesn't sound angry, he does not sound pleased.
"I had it handled?" It comes out more of a question that Barry had been wanting it to and he swallows, trying again. "I had it handled."
"Clearly, you didn't." Bruce replies and Barry can feel the stitches in his side more prominently. It takes everything in his power to not tear at them.
"It was just a bit of shrapnel. No one else got hurt. Besides, it's not like you could've gotten there in time—" Barry shuts his mouth.
Barry, you're trying to calm Bruce down, not antagonize him.
Bruce sighs and it looks like he's aged ten years during the course of this conversation.
"I'm really sorry about the blood," Barry blurts out, the silence that had been eating at his nerves finally making him snap.
Bruce closes his eyes. "That's not what I'm upset about, Barry—"
"It's not?" Barry asks, his grip on the bag loosening ever so slightly.
"No," Bruce answers, eyes opening again and he looks tired. "I'm upset that you got hurt and didn't tell anyone until you quite literally passed out from blood loss."
"Oh," Barry says lamely. "Sorry."
Bruce sighs again and Barry can tell that that was the wrong thing to say.
He squeezes the bag tighter again. He's not sure what Bruce wants from him.
"Why didn't you ask for help earlier?" Bruce asks again and Barry looks away, eyes moving down to the bag as he fidgets with it.
"I didn't want to bother you. I-I didn't even mean to go to the manor. I hadn't really been thinking straight from the... from the blood loss. It's not that big of a deal, really Bruce. I heal. You know I heal. I would've been fine in a couple of hours." Barry's not exactly sure if he would've been fine, considering the wound is still stubbornly present, but he would've survived.
"Barry," Bruce says and Barry's shoulders tighten from anxiety. He looks up though and sees Bruce looking much calmer, eyes still concerned but also with a level of softness that Barry's not sure he's ever seen from the man. "I know I don't set the best example, but you're allowed to ask for help. You don't have to do this alone. That's why the League was formed in the first place. So we can all help each other when need be. You're not being a bother asking for help."
Barry does his best to process the words, not quite believing them, but wanting to try anyway.
"If we truly are unable to help, we'll let you know." Bruce reassures Barry and Barry feels a little better at knowing that.
"I'm sorry," Barry says again, still feeling like he's in trouble.
"Just ask next time. We can't help you, if we don't know you need it."
"Well, what if I don't need it per se—"
"Barry," Bruce interrupts him and Barry shuts his mouth. "I think an injury that leads you to pass out from blood loss is cause enough for a phone call."
Barry opens his mouth to ask another question, but Bruce beats him to it.
"Yes, I know you have healing. Yes, I know most of your injuries aren't as serious. But can you at least let me know? Just in case? Especially if said wound doesn't heal within the first few minutes." Bruce looks sincere as he speaks so Barry tries to take it to heart, nodding in reply.
Bruce leans back in his chair, relaxing for the first time since he'd arrived.
Silence falls over them. It's not peaceful—silence rarely is peaceful for Barry—but it's no longer full of tension.
Bruce closes his eyes and Barry wonders distantly what time it is. The fact that Bruce has his eyes closed speaks to wonders about how tired he is. Bruce never rests, never trusts enough to have his eyes closed.
Barry doesn't want to ruin this for him, so he does his best to keep his mouth shut, eyes looking around the room, trying to find anything to keep him occupied.
However, upon the fifth scan showing him nothing new, his brain wanders back to the brief bits of memory from when he'd gotten to the manor.
"Who's Jason?" Barry asks before his brain can catch up to his mouth and he immediately shuts it. Oh, he is so screwed.
To his surprise, Bruce doesn't look angry at the question... only resigned. His eyes open and he straightens in his seat. "I wasn't sure you'd remember that."
Barry fidgets, gaze moving back and forth from Bruce's to around the room.
"He was my ward," Bruce answers and Barry's eyes widen. He didn't know Bruce had children. Then Barry registers the tense.
Was .
"What... what happened?" Barry asks cautiously, not sure if he's allowed to.
Bruce doesn't seem to mind the questioning though, looking as though he'd been expecting it.
He sighs and Barry can feel the grief of it.
"Jason was Robin."
And oh, things are starting to make a lot more sense now.
"I take it you know what happened to Robin," Bruce says and—
Yeah. Barry knows.
Barry's spent many a late night doing deep dives into Gotham and its villains and caped crusader.
Barry had been fascinated by the Bat long before he got the chance to meet him and he'd tried to get as much information on the man as possible, which had been impossible but—
What the Joker did to Robin wasn't a secret. The Joker made sure of that.
"I'm sorry, Bruce." Barry tells him, voice heavy with sadness for the man.
Bruce looks lost in thought, eyes seeing something else and Barry remains quiet, not wanting to disturb him.
Bruce's protectiveness makes more sense to Barry now and Barry feels bad for any memory he unintentionally brought up for him.
"Bruce?" Barry asks, voice hesitant in trying to get his attention.
Bruce blinks, eyes focusing back on him. "Yeah, Barry?"
"Thank you." Barry tells him. He's a bit nervous, but it's important that he does. "For everything. For not getting mad. For helping me with my injury. For trusting me with Jason's story."
Bruce softens, then leans over and pats Barry on the leg. "Of course. We're a team. It's what... teammates do."
"Yeah. Team," Barry says, and he can't help but feel like the smile he puts on is forced.
Bruce looks like he's about to say something, but then Alfred comes into the room, carrying a tray with a variety of tea bags.
"Hello Mister Allen, how are you feeling?"
Barry perks up, trying to sit up straight without tugging at the stitches in his side. "I'm good. Sorry for the mess. I hope it didn't stain the floors."
Alfred waves him off. "Oh, it's nothing I haven't dealt with before. Master Bruce has covered these floors in all sorts of things."
Bruce rolls his eyes, but doesn't deny the accusation.
"Now, what tea would you like to have? I have chamomile, decaf english breakfast, earl gray, ginger peach, or raspberry zinger."
"Can I have chamomile?" Barry asks. He's wanting something more comforting.
Alfred smiles at him. "I figured you'd want that one. Do you want to drink in here or in the media room?"
Barry looks at Bruce questioningly. He'd been expecting to be stuck in the medbay for at least another hour.
Bruce simply shrugs. "You wanted to show me Clue, right?"
Barry's entire being lights up. "Yes! Bruce, oh my god, it's the best mystery movie ever. You'll watch it? You'll seriously watch it?"
The corner of Bruce’s lip quirks up. “I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t mean it, kid.”
Barry looks back to Alfred, who nods at him. “The media room it is, sir.”
Bruce helps Barry get up and out of the room, refusing to let Barry walk on his own. It’s annoying, but a small part of Barry likes the fact that he’s being taken care of.
When they get to the media room, Alfred makes sure they have an overabundance of blankets and pillows and Barry chooses one with an embroidered snail to hold in his arms as they watch the movie.
Bruce, to Barry’s surprise, sits right next to Barry and when Barry ends up leaning on him, he doesn’t pull away.
Bruce ends up being a much comfier pillow than any of the other ones they have, and as the movie goes on, Barry finds that his body is starting to crash again. He’s seen this movie enough times that he doesn’t have to pay attention to it and he ends up drifting in and out.
At one point, Bruce shifts and Barry winces as his stitches get tugged accidentally.
Barry thinks that Bruce doesn’t notice at first, but he’s very quickly proven wrong by Bruce turning towards him.
“C’mon, lay down properly.” Bruce tells Barry, moving one of the pillows onto his lap. He grabs another pillow and instructs Barry to put it in between his legs to help prop him up into a better position.
Barry releases a content sigh as he finally finds a position that doesn’t seem to aggravate his stitches. “Thanks, Bruce.”
Bruce pats Barry’s shoulder gently. “‘Course. Get some rest. I promise, I’ll finish watching the movie.”
Barry leans in deeper, the siren call of sleep beckoning him once again and his eyes flutter shut. He mumbles into the pillow he’s holding in his arms, “You better. I expect an official Batman Review of the entire plot tomorrow morning.”
“You got it, Bare.” Bruce replies and Barry’s hit with a sudden strike of nostalgia.
“My mom used to call me Bare,” Barry whispers. He hasn’t thought of that nickname in… a while. He finds he doesn’t hate it being used again.
Bruce stills, but Barry barely notices with how close to sleep he is.
“I guess we both have had people that we’ve lost,” Barry mumbles, not really processing what he’s saying.
Bruce hums in response, and Barry feels his hand rest gently on his arm. It could almost be defined as a hug.
He feels warm, safe. It’s nice. “I’m glad I have you, Bruce.”
“I'm glad I have you too.”
With that, Barry feels the last bit of his consciousness slip away and dreams for the rest of the night peacefully.