Chapter Text
"B. Status." Dick's voice was tense. The building had exploded. Downtown Gotham, a high rise apartment--inside, Bruce had been trying to evacuate citizens.
Joker had escaped Arkham. And in his usual fashion, he'd decided to make it everyone else's problem. Via explosives.
Jason's voice cut through. "Caught Joker. Red Rob has him," he growled. "He isn't responding?"
"No," Barbara said. "Vitals are down. Not--not. They're busted. No readings, not...he isn't dead."
(They weren't sure about that.)
"...Robin was with him," Cass said simply.
"I don't have eyes," Steph agreed.
Typing sounds.
"...Robin is stable. Vitals normal. Heart is slow--I think he's unconscious," Barbara added.
"We're finishing up here--" Tim started, before growling as the Joker could be heard cackling in the background. "Shut UP--" his comm clicked off.
Smoke was rising over downtown. Six buildings destroyed--five businesses, and the high rise. Likely some casualties, but reduced--they’d gotten 98% of the residents evacuated before the building's supports had suddenly failed under the heat of spreading fires.
And under the rubble of the building?
Bruce started with a groan. He couldn't see much. His lenses were malfunctioning, and it was pitch black in the small pocket of space.
Damian was laying unconscious under him, he could feel. A small figure. Too small for any of his other kids, and he could vaguely feel the familiar texture of his cape between his palm and the concrete. His glove was missing.
"Robin."
Bruce's arms shook. Everything felt sluggish, but he was pushing through. Vaguely, he was aware he was holding something up with his back. So he must not have passed out. Just...blacked out. It was heavy.
"Robin," he gritted out again.
Damian twitched under him weakly and coughed, a cloud of dust rising as he shifted beneath Bruce's protective stance. But the sound was beautiful to Bruce. Alive. He was alive, and somewhat awake.
“Report,” Bruce growled out. But Damian just groaned.
A few deep breaths. Calm. He needed to stay calm. If he fell right now, Damian would suffocate. (And himself.)
He needed Damian's comm. Hopefully it was usable. All he could hear was static, on his own. But as he tried to shift the weight off one arm...
A creak above him. More dust fell. Bruce ducked to keep over Damian, shielding his face. His arm bowed under the weight until he pushed it straight again. A few haggard breaths.
Right. So moving wasn't an option.
"Damian. Wake. Up."
The words were louder. The growl in his voice commanding, but also a plea. The boy stirred weakly under him. Disoriented. His gaze flickered, eyelids struggling for a moment before opening again. Despite the obvious disorientation, the usual sharpness returned, focusing on Bruce. "I'm awake," he mumbled, managing to sound annoyed, though the slight slur in his words betrayed how out of it he still was. He tried to look around but quickly stopped as that only seemed to worsen the dizziness.
Damian's lenses were functional. He could make out: rubble. The faint smell of smoke. (A fire nearby, not good.) Dust. Rebar. And Bruce: a clenched jaw, holding up what appeared to be a support beam with his back and shoulders. His left leg was crushed under something, and Damian's foot was too. Damian’s eyes widened as he peered between the beam and his father’s straining face. The cowl was covering the upper half, but he could see his teeth grind.
Bruce was holding up hundreds of pounds with two arms and a leg.
"Your comm," the man grunted. "Put it in my ear and tap it on. Now."
Damian nodded in understanding, the seriousness of the situation sinking in. He fumbled with the commlink in his ear, which thankfully had survived the blast. With a hiss, he extracted it and gingerly placed it in Bruce's ear, pressing it on with a click.
The voices of the others flooded in. Jason’s frustrated growl crackled through first. "—no sign of them yet, but I swear to god, if that bastard tries to steal my bit—"
Steph’s voice, tight with forced calm, interrupted. "Oracle, can you ping their last heat signatures?"
Barbara responded instantly. "Working on it. Reb Robin? Where are you with the structural scan?"
Tim sounded breathless, like he was running while typing furiously. "Almost there—the east wing’s compromised but I’ve got a thermal trace near section four."
And then Bruce's voice cut through like iron. "East. We were...the 12th floor. By the stairwell."
His voice was strained. Lower than normal. Words not quite fluid.
But alive.
"Robin is injured." He gave no information on himself.
The chatter died for a moment as the gravity of the situation settled in. Then came a rush of questions.
Tim: "How bad?"
Jason: "What kind of injuries?"
Dick: "Bruce, your status? What about you?"
Bruce closed his eyes a moment. Not that he could see, anyways. But it helped him take stock. His suit was busted. He could feel armor dented and pressing into his skin. He wasn't registering much pain--just his arms and leg shaking. "...I don't have visual. Robin is disoriented. Slurring. Concussed, more than likely. I'm in shock. Holding up something heavy. Left leg isn't...hn. Moving. Think it's pinned."
The comms erupted into frantic coordination—voices overlapping as plans snapped into motion. Dick’s voice, sharp with command: “Jason—east stairwell. Go. I’m right behind you.”
Jason didn’t even argue for once—just a grunt of confirmation and the sound of boots hitting rubble at a sprint.
Barbara, cool but urgent, directed, "Red Robin, reroute schematics to their lenses if you can reboot signal—Bruce needs visuals now."
Tim was already typing furiously. "Trying—his systems are fried but some functions might still..." A pause. "...Got it! Sending thermal overlay!"
A burst of static later, dim outlines flickered across Bruce's damaged lenses—blurry heat signatures marking Dick and Jason closing in fast from above when he strained to look up, while Tim circled the wreckage outside to stabilize weak points before extraction.
And then Steph’s voice cut through, oddly quiet amidst the chaos. "...Bruce." A beat too long before she continued carefully, "Your suit’s stats just showed on Oracle's feed. You're not just pinned. That beam is crushing your leg. We see it now."
Bruce could hardly even focus on the news. Just on his breathing, on Damian's breathing below him. "...Hn," he managed to grunt in reply. "Robin, report." His eyes scanned the boy's heat signature as best he could without moving too much.
Damian coughed weakly, breath shallow and quick. "Non-fatal injuries," he managed, one hand gingerly pressing under his chest. Likely a cracked rib, or worse. But despite the obvious pain, his voice held steady as he reported his injuries. "Cracked rib, maybe two. Disoriented from concussion. Foot might be broken, too." His gaze lingered on his father for a beat, concern in his eyes—more for Bruce's state than his own.
Bruce didn't respond, but his heart untwisted in his chest, just a fraction, at the fact nothing was critical. (Other than the imminent death he was holding up.) "Robin has a concussion, rib and foot injury," he managed into the comms. "I..." An audible creak on the comms. Bruce couldn't help the slight groan as one of his arms buckled--the weight shifting chaotically.
Not today. He wasn't losing a son today. Not today. Not again.
He grit his teeth as he essentially did half a push up, the beam slowly raising back up into something resembling stability.
The comms went quiet for a moment, the gravity of Bruce's struggle palpable even through the static. He was holding up a significant amount of weight, clearly past human limits.
Dick's voice finally broke through, tight with concern. "Bruce, hold on. We're almost there. Don't lift that whole thing again. You're in shock; your system can't take the strain."
The others voiced similar sentiments, with Jason grumbling, "Old man's stubborn as ever," under his breath.
Bruce cleared his throat. Squeezed his eyes shut. He was grateful for the cowl--at least Damian couldn't see it. "If I let go, we're both gone."
A beat of silence followed, tense with understanding. Then Tim's voice, uncharacteristically solemn, came through. "How long can you hold it, B?"
A silence. Bruce controlled his breathing. Ultimately, he didn't respond. "Robin. Take the...comm." He needed to focus.
With effort, Damian reached up and took the comm from Bruce's ear, fitting it into his own with a shaky hand. "Tt. Fine. I'll handle them." His voice was weaker than usual but carried its usual bite as he snapped into the comms. "Robin reporting in. Estimated structural integrity of our position? Time until extraction?"
Barbara responded instantly, relief threading her tone despite the urgency. "ETA under two minutes—Hood and Wing are breaching from above with reinforced support beams to stabilize before pulling you both out."
Dick’s voice cut in next—breathless like he was mid-leap over debris. "Dami—tell me neither of you are bleeding out down there."
Damian rolled his eyes, before answering dryly. "Yes, Nightwing. We are not dead yet. Now hurry up.” A glance down at Bruce’s grinding jaw.
“Father is playing Atlas."
Bruce wasn't entirely sure what was happening at this point. His heart was thudding unevenly in his chest, but he tried to control it. Deep, rhythmic breathing. Focusing on his core muscles. Avoiding locking his elbows. The body below him took up most of his senses. His sight--the thermal scanner showing warmth. Alive. The sound of his voice as he spoke. Motion as he shifted and his shoulder bumped Bruce's chest. The smell of sword polish and too much cologne–the kid was just a teen, still used an excessive amount, the others always teased him. They still would. He was still alive, and Bruce wouldn’t fail him, not again.
Images were flashing in his mind. Blurring. Broken Robins. The Joker's face.
His arm buckled again. He couldn't bring it back up this time--crumpling onto his forearm with a shout as something audibly snapped.
The sound reverberated in the small space.
Damian's eyes widened as Bruce's arm gave out—his father collapsing forward with a pained shout, the sickening crack of bone making his stomach twist. "Father!" He barely managed to wedge his arms up in time to brace against Bruce's shoulders before the full weight could crush them both, teeth gritted from the strain against his own injuries.
Over the comms, Dick’s voice turned razor-sharp. "Status. NOW."
But Damian couldn’t respond—not when he saw Bruce’s lenses flicker dark again, not when he felt warm blood seeping through cracked armor where bone had torn through skin. "...Gra-yson," he hissed instead—the closest thing to desperation anyone would ever hear from him.
And suddenly?
There was light.
A large slab of concrete pushed aside by both Dick and Jason's combined strength revealed it.
Bruce, a support beam across his back, down the length of his spine. It was solid steel, and if he had fully collapsed? Both of them would have succumbed to pressure suffocation in minutes.
But he hadn't. One arm up, one forearm down, a crushed left leg, a struggling right. His right forearm was snapped, the bone pushing through, but he was still using it for leverage--refusing to let the beam fall on Damian, who he was shielding desperately even as the teen helped him hold it up via hands pressing against Bruce’s chestplate.
Jason vaulted over debris, shoving past Dick to brace his shoulder under the beam first, muscles straining as he took on half the weight with a grunt. "Fucking hell, old man, how are you holding this shit up?!"
Dick was right behind him, slotting into place on Bruce’s other side to redistribute pressure before it got unbalanced. His voice shook despite his steady hands. "We got it, B. We got you."
Tim scrambled in next—dropping to their level in an instant to assess injuries while Steph radioed for immediate medevac extraction from above them all.
The beam was heavy. And as the boys moved to try and shift it out of the way?
Bruce let out a punched out sound at the same time Damian hissed.
The beam had shifted the concrete smashing Bruce's leg, and Damian's foot--wedged under Bruce’s shin. They couldn't move it fully without more clear out--not without further injury.
Dick’s jaw clenched. "Oracle—scan the load distribution. We can’t lift this blind without making it worse."
“On it. Red Robin?”
Tim was already typing one-handed, his other bracing against rubble as he analyzed the structural overlay flickering on his wrist display, Barbara sending schematics in real time from their body cameras. "...Right. Hood, Wing, keep it steady but don’t move. Spoiler, I need you to wedge support struts under the beam before we move anything else."
Steph moved instantly, sliding reinforced alloy rods from her belt with practiced efficiency while Jason adjusted his hold with a grunt of effort.
Damian, still pinned but now with breathing room thanks to their efforts, glared at Bruce’s bleeding forearm like it was a personal offense. "Father is bleeding out."
There was a pool quickly gathering. Bruce didn't have the weight on him anymore, but the after effects were catching up. His vision pulsed. His head swam. He was vaguely aware he was still, somehow, holding himself up.
It didn't last.
He collapsed against Damian soundlessly--sort of burying the kid under his weight (but, at least without the beam there to kill them.)
Damian barely managed to catch a lung full of air before the full force of his father’s unconscious body pinned him. The impact jostled his cracked ribs, but he barely reacted, more focused on his stupid father. The others were moving around his prone form, barking orders, pulling away rubble for more extraction room, but Damian wasn't hearing any of it. There was only that dull throb where the bones in his chest were rubbing together and the coppery scent of blood—all but overwhelming the familiar leather and Kevlar of his father's uniform.
"...Damian," Bruce mumbled. It was hoarse. Slurred. "Son?"
Damian’s eyes, burning green behind the lenses with frustration, flicked up to Bruce’s face. "Tt. I’m fine, Father," he snapped, but his voice wavered just enough to betray him. His fingers twitched like he wanted to shove Bruce off, or pull him closer, but settled for gripping the edge of his cape instead. His knuckles were white against the bloodstained fabric.
The others were still shouting around them, (“Medevac ETA 30 seconds—” “Someone stabilize that leg!”) but Damian was zeroed in on one thing only. "You are not allowed to die here." It wasn’t a plea; it was an order from Robin to Batman.
"Hn," came the garbled grunt. But Bruce stayed awake.
Then, the last of the debris was free.
Dick crouched, bracing one hand on Bruce’s shoulder and the other under his good leg while Jason mirrored him.
"We need to pull him out now," he instructed, his voice edged by barely-contained panic. "On three, Hood."
A distant thrumming of helicopter blades beat against the air, drawing near.
"One—"
GCPD was arriving in the background. Sirens.
“Two–”
The smell of smoke and dust.
“THREE–”
The three men shifted in unison, hauling the beam up carefully. Damian kept Bruce steady, his lips in a thin line.
And then Steph and Tim were scrambling to pull them out of harms way. The support beam fell into the rubble with a loud RATTLE as it was released.
Bruce was transferred onto a stretcher Cass had been preparing nearby--back and neck brace already at the ready. Because Bruce holding up that beam with his spine? Couldn't have been kind to his old injury: a broken back from Bane. He twitched slightly as he was stabilized. "...Get--...Robin. Stretcher."
Damian, standing now, was about to protest, but Steph cut in, her voice sharp. "No way in hell, Robin. You need medical too. Now. Come on, you stubborn ass."
Damian was going to argue. He was going to. But Steph shoved him unceremoniously towards his own stretcher and his cracked ribs protested loud enough to drown out his ego. He collapsed unceremoniously onto the canvas with a grunt, glaring at the sky.
The helicopter landed. It was Alfred to exit first--domino mask on. The first thing he saw was the mangled mess of Bruce being carried on the stretcher towards the helicopter. Jason and Dick bearing half the weight each, arms tight with tension. "Careful with him, Alf. Left leg is crushed. And a snapped forearm. Plus no way this idiot didn't re-break his back holding up half that building. He's in shock. And Robin's got broken ribs. Concussion,” Jason reported.
Alfred was all business. Sharp, efficient efficiency as he helped load Bruce into the helicopter, eyes raking over every bruise and bone and pool of red blood like it was a sin. As the helicopter took off, and Alfred got to work on pre-surgical prep, Bruce turned his head. At least as best as he could with the neck brace.
"...saved him. Didn't lose him," he mumbled. "Didn't...didn't lose another one..."
Alfred paused in his careful movements, hands steady even as his throat tightened. He exhaled through his nose, adjusting an IV line with practiced ease before responding softly, voice laced with decades of unspoken grief and understanding. "No, Master Bruce. You did not." He fastened a tourniquet around Bruce’s arm, the corner of his mouth twitching down when Bruce grunted in pain. "Now kindly stop speaking before you make your injuries worse."
Bruce did stop speaking. A soft mumble that trailed off as his head tipped back...
And his vitals plummeted, the machine flatlining with a sudden blare.
Cardiac arrest from the strain.
Alfred moved before the monitor even finished its first warning beep—muscle memory and decades of battlefield triage overriding the resounding shock the others experienced. His hands were already on Bruce’s chest, hand over hand, and performing CPR. "Crash cart! Prepare his airway—now!"
Jason lunged for the emergency kit while Dick braced Bruce’s head back, tilting his jaw to open passage. Steph slapped paddles into Alfred’s waiting palm—no time for hesitation as he charged them with a sharp whine of electricity building.
Damian shot upright from his stretcher despite Tim's restraining hand, voice razor-edged. "FATHER—"
And then? The crack of defibrillators discharging.
SSHHHK!
....beep...be-beep. Beep. Beep.
Bruce's heart started back up. Weak. And he wasn't breathing--his body had given up, meaning that they'd be doing the breathing for him manually for a bit.
But alive.
He was alive.
Damian sank back onto the stretcher with a sharp exhale, ribs protesting but his expression tightly controlled save for the way his fingers clenched white-knuckled around the edges of it.
Alfred didn’t pause; he swapped paddles for an IV line, while Dick monitored vitals like a hawk.
Jason muttered something under his breath that might have been “fucking dramatic bastard”—but his grip on Bruce’s shoulder was gentle as he steadied him through each forced breath.
Tim exhaled shakily, running a hand through sweat-damp hair before turning to Damian with an attempt at levity. "...He really doesn’t do anything halfway, huh?"
Damian didn’t dignify that with words, just flipped him off tersely. But when Tim nudged their shoulders together lightly?
He didn't pull away, either.