The Batcave, despite its brutalism-inspired interior, had always felt as homely as the manor it sat below. It was so rare to stand there and feel as if he was entirely in the wrong place. Dick stood frozen, feeling more so now that his suit was no more than a costume for a child. The colours were too bright, the cape too short and the outfit too simple for a hero he was supposed to be. He tried to pick at his nails, a nervous habit that those around him tried to break, but he couldn't do much through his gloves. He wanted to take them off but he didn't want to figure out whether the wetness at his fingertips was from sweat or the blood soaking through the fabric of his gloves.

Flashes of the night appeared yet every time he felt confused at how it could've possibly ended like this. With him standing uselessly outside of the infirmary whilst Alfred worked in silence over an unconscious Bruce. He wasn't sure how much blood a person could lose before the situation turned dire but he knew that Bruce was certainly close to it if not succeeding it. 

He wasn't allowed inside. Alfred had been stern in that instruction and he knew better than to argue with the man. The butler may be thrice his age but he knew he didn't stand a chance trying to thrash his way in there. It would also be doing a disservice to Bruce having the only person that could save him preoccupied with a hysteric protege.

Alfred had left the room briefly and walked straight to the phone, punching in a number before briskly telling whoever it was to get here quickly with a number of supplies. A few medical terms were thrown in there that went over Dick's head but he was sure it wasn't good with the flat tone they were being said in. He went to say something, ask something or simply beg for information but his mouth remained firmly closed. He would just be a distraction.

"Get cleaned up," Alfred told him before disappearing back inside the medbay. He looked down at himself and although the red of his shirt could hide a few blood splatters, it did nothing to conceal the now dried and crusted stains.

He waited for a moment, hoping that if he did he'd be rewarded with Bruce's miraculous recovery but nothing changed. The Batcave was still quiet and the doors remained closed. He hesitated to leave yet forced himself to do so anyway. There were showers here so if anything happened, he'd be quick on the scene to say his final goodbyes. He hoped he got that chance this time if it came to it.

The halls were imposing as he walked through them, the sound of his footsteps echoing so loud that it seemed to ring in his ears. There was usually a hum of a computer or the distant sound of clicking keyboard keys. At the very least, there would be the small sound of a bat squeaking somewhere in the dark. Not tonight though. The bats appeared to also hold their breaths waiting on the next piece of news to leave the infirmary.

Dick crept into the changing room although he had no real reason to. There was no one to sneak around for. He shook his head and turned on the shower before stripping off. He gathered his stained clothes in the laundry basket, almost gagging at the metallic scent wafting off them. It was strange that he'd only noticed it now and not when he'd been standing in them minutes ago. He supposed the adrenaline must've worn off. He went back to the shower, stretching out his hand to test the temperature and stepped inside.

The hot water felt good against his aching shoulders from having to heave a man three times his size to the car. He quickly found whatever had been keeping him standing was receding so he carefully lowered himself to the floor to sit underneath the stream. 

There were very few things he didn't miss about the circus and that was the showers. The water pressure was awful and he could never get the right temperature. It was either freezing or boiling. It was a small shower too. He was small at the time, small now depending on who you asked, but he knew if he were still in the circus the showerhead would be positioned awkwardly so it'd only hit the small of his back. He knew it was cramped when he was nine and he had no idea how the strong men managed to fit into the space.

Numbly, he reached over to the small basket where he kept various shampoos, conditioners and body washes. He knew from the pink water swirling the drain that the blood had seeped through the clothes and found a home on his skin. He reached for the shampoo first, lathering his hair and trying his best to resist the urge to tug on his hair as he passed his fingers through. If he tugged particularly hard on a few knots his fingers snagged, nobody would know.

Dick remembered the first time he'd been presented with his own bathroom and all the luxury toiletries inside. He also remembered being appalled at the prices when he happened to come across them in stores. He always used them sparingly, trying to make the most of it even if he hadn't personally paid for it. Bruce may get a bad reputation for his parenting, a reputation he couldn't completely disprove, but when he noticed the shampoo and conditioners change to those more suited for his hair type, he knew Bruce cared. He didn't always say it but he did his best to show it. Dick hoped he got more chances to say that he cared.

Moving onto the conditioner, he dipped his head out of the water to apply it and noticed that the water hadn't come out clear yet. He guessed he didn't realise how covered with blood he was. He shrugged to himself and continued on. Dick thought he could fall asleep in here. He could slump over and nap as the water pattered a gentle rhythm against his back. Then again, with his luck, he'd slump too far and end up drowning. He shook his head and debated making the water a little colder just to keep his eyes open but ultimately decided he didn't want to. For one, it would ruin the nice ambience he had and for two, it would mean moving his arm up to turn the knob and that would be far too much effort.

He let the conditioner sit and grabbed the body wash, lathering his loofah with it. He roughly scrubbed his fingers first but knew he'd had to take a nail brush to get at the blood underneath his nails. Then he scrubbed at his arms and got into the grooves of his elbows where blood had collected. He wondered if Bruce scrubbed his skin this harshly when he found blood not belonging to him clinging to his flesh. Did he also feel sick knowing whoever it belonged to no longer had it? Did he also wish to forget it had ever touched him in the first place?

Dick was suddenly drawn out of his thoughts by a sharp sting on his thigh like getting lemon juice in a paper cut. He raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced down. He hadn't gone through his usual checks after the patrol. Adrenaline was one hell of a hormone and he often didn't realise he'd gotten scraped up in a fight until well after it was done. 

Alfred usually gave him the once-over before sending him to bed. The times he didn't were because the injury was noticeable from a glance or he was actively in need of immediate medical intervention or someone else needed his attention more. In the latter cases, Dick would do his checks himself. That only began when he hit his early teens and could be trusted to do a good job of it, this time he'd forgotten, too caught up with having to scrap his mentor off the floor and racing back home then waiting for any sort of news.

On his thigh was a hole. He slowly put down his loofah as though he was trying not to startle a rabid animal, and gently pressed around the area. Blood lazily oozed out and a shock of pain ran through him. Dick sucked in a deep breath, a whine escaping him before he could wrestle it back down. He supposed there was no reason to as, although Alfred seemed to have superhuman hearing, he didn't actually. The sound of the water hitting the floor would be enough to drown him out even if the butler was lurking by the changing room entrance.

He poked around further, trying to figure out if the hole was made by debris, a gunshot or something else entirely. A lump underneath his skin told him it was likely a gunshot wound and the fat of his thigh had stopped the bullet.

"Shit," he muttered. A gunshot wound was bad enough but a gunshot wound with a bullet still in it was worse. A gunshot wound with the bullet still in there from god knows when that was evidently still bleeding with Alfred having his hands full already was the worst. He stared at the wound then belatedly clamping his hand over it to stem the flow. 

The water remained tainted though. His gaze lazily travelled upwards where he was greeted by another would. Not a gunshot wound at least. Instead, it was a long cut from his belly button to his rib on the other side. It wasn't deep and he guessed it had been covered by the thick layer of someone else's blood. 

"Shit," he repeated, his voice more urgent now.

He leaned back against the shower wall, both his hands now busy trying to keep as much blood inside of him as he could. He swallowed thickly and then ran through the symptoms of blood loss.

Tiredness. That was a big check. He didn't know how he was keeping himself awake but he'd place his bets on not knowing whether his mentor would make it through the night or not. The shock of finding himself injured also helped. He'd disregarded the symptom when it first arose since the last few hours had been taxing to put it lightly.

Weakness. He could check that off too. Again, it'd been pushed to the side since there were number of factors causing it. Fear, having to lift someone so heavy and the natural wind down of his body realising it was no longer in immediate danger.

Nausea. He hadn't vomited yet but he could feel his stomach was unsettled and he'd had a lump in his throat for a while. Fear also caused nausea and he had plenty to feel sick about.

Dizziness. Not there yet but certainly close to it. He wouldn't have much longer until it hit, especially when he was sat in a hot shower and likely dehydrated.

Dick could've gone on but there would be no point in it. He was bleeding and he'd been bleeding for a while. He needed to get up, get out and get patched up. There were only a handful of times where he'd stitched himself up, all of those being on the field when medical attention was too far or too busy with him. That sounded like a lot of effort that required energy that he didn't currently have. He doubted he would have more any time soon.

Alfred wouldn't notice him if he passed out in the shower, not through deliberate negligence but through priority. Bruce was in a bad way and required his full attention. If he ever wondered where Dick was, he could reason the shower was taking longer because he needed time to work through his emotions or because he was stalling what was to come.

There was an emergency call button in the shower. Apparently in Bruce's early years, he'd been a brat when it came to getting proper medical attention in the middle of the night so after passing out here twice, he was ordered to install one. The problem with the emergency call button in the shower was you usually didn't have clothes on in the shower unless you were covered in some chemical or other. He didn't fancy being seen in his birthday suit even if he was bleeding out.

There was a spare set of clothes not far from the laundry basket. It was about five steps from the showers. It wouldn't take more than a few seconds. Then it would be five steps back to hit the call button. He'd made amends with the fact he wouldn't be able to get back to the infirmary on his own and he didn't fancy his chances at treating himself well enough not to cause an infection or pass out halfway through. He could consider putting off the inevitable but Alfred would kill him.

"C'mon Grayson," he muttered through clenched teeth. He knew now that he'd noticed the wounds and his body was able to register he was injured, it was going to be a hell of a lot more painful now. He would regret slipping to sit on the floor if it hadn't been such a relief to get off his aching feet. The night could only get better, right?