A/N: Hey everyone! Finally, the long awaited Lifelines sequel! Or the first lifelines sequel, to be precise, because this is actually just an interlude-like bridge between the original story and the sequel, which will take place some time after (hence the title. It's kind of between the lines of the two big stories, get it? Yes? ...Oh God I HATE making up names, so sorry.). When I planned the sequel, I noticed that I'm missing out too much good stuff.. because really, aren't we all here for the hurt/comfort? And no h/c like hospital h/c.

You should have read Lifelines first, else this will be very confusing. If you don't want to, PM me and I'll send you a synopsis.

This story takes place one week after the end of Lifelines; that's 5 weeks after Dick's bone marrow transplantation all in all. I don't think I'll have to explain any of the medical terms this time, but if you have any questions or demands, just write me and I'll add/edit it! And now, have fun!

DAMIAN

-one week after the epilogue of 'Lifelines'-

Grayson, of course, had to wake up in the one moment Damian didn't want him to.

Drake was asleep when Damian entered Dick's room in Gotham General, slumped in the only chair by the window. The ex-assassin had half a mind to yell at him for worrying him like that; Timothy was supposed to pick him up from school. Damian knew that Drake had visited Dick earlier, and when he didn't show up after school the boy's head had been full of apocalyptic scenarios happening in the hospital.

The bus drive had taken ages, every stop and old granny that needed to buy a ticket straining Damian's nerves. When he finally arrived at the hospital and threw Dick's door open, he had been holding his breath in foreboding.

Grayson had given them enough reason to worry during the last months, even after the bone marrow transplantation. The graft had begun to produce healthy white blood cells quickly and no signs of rejection had come up. The coma inducing drugs were taken off soon after, but Grayson still hadn't woken up as predicted. He needed new vaccinations against hepatitis, polio and whatnot since he had lost all of his acquired immune defences with his old immune system, and the new, inexperienced one reacted to every invasion with exaggerated force. There had been so many fevers and seizures that no one had bothered to count. The medical personal had assured them that everything was normal procedure, but Damian's level of tolerance had sunken with every new emergency call. The chances that something had happened and Drake hadn't been able to leave the hospital were therefore pretty high.

But everything was fine; Dick was sleeping in his bed just as he should be, no strange cumbersome machines attached or beeping irregularly. Drake had fallen asleep while visiting their older brother and had simply missed their appointment.

Last night had ended in a lot of blood and stabbing, and Damian and Drake were both banned from patrol for two weeks. Since Pennyworth had slipped a drug into Father's drink to make him rest, it had been up to Drake and himself to write the reports and do damage control, and neither had gotten much sleep. Just thinking about it made Damian yawn, so he couldn't really blame Drake. The older vigilante had suffered the worst injuries, and would surely cry in pain like a little girl if he were awake.

Damian didn't need that. Instead he decided that he needed a place to sleep, too. Just for a few minutes, and then he'd call Pennyworth to take over their watch.

There wasn't another chair in the room, though. Damian thought about roaming the hospital wing for another one, scratching his itching wound absent-mindedly. Pennyworth's pain medication was wearing off, and Damian had half a mind to go search for Thompkins. She should change their bandages later that day anyway... but he was so tired right now. Drake's light snoring and Grayson's deep breaths were like a lullaby, making his eyelids drop.

But then he noticed that there was enough space on the hospital bed. Father had paid for a large one with a special mattress to save Grayson from bed sores, and the unconscious man had lost so much weight during the months of his illness that more than half of the mattress' width was left unoccupied if he lay on his side like now.

Damian was still not used to seeing Dick like that. No muscles, no energy, attached to way too many tubes. He couldn't match this patient to the image of the hyperactive vigilante in his memory. It had been several weeks now since the chemo had stopped for good; Dick's hair was growing back and the hospital staff was steadily increasing the amount of artificial feeding. Dick wasn't as thin as he had been, Damian knew, but still far away from healthy. It had become easier to look at him when the raven hair had returned, even though it was still short and amusingly had begun to curl. 'Chemo curls', Drake had called them, apparently a normal post-chemo phenomenon.

Grayson was going to be so pissed when he woke up..

When he woke up. He should have a while ago. The doctors said they needed to give him time, that he had been through much... As if they didn't know. As if they hadn't been there all the way. The waiting was killing Damian. He wanted things to go back to normal, to be annoyed by Grayson's cuddles and loud laughter. He missed Dick.

Deep in those thoughts, Damian had made his way to the bed and had slipped out of his sneakers. He climbed onto the mattress, careful not to disturb any of the tubes Dick was attached to. He could feel the blush creeping up his cheeks for no reason at all; it wasn't his damn fault that there wasn't more space to lay down in this stupid hospital room! He just needed to rest for a few minutes, just close his eyes a bit before (Drake woke up and saw him) calling Pennyworth...

Damian had done this a a few times already, when he was alone with Grayson or tired. Pennyworth had told him once that Grayson was a kinesthetic person – he needed touch and movement to communicate, to feel comforted... Gordon was taking advantage of that, shamelessly heaving herself out of her wheelchair and lying down next to Grayson every time she visited, laughing at Damian's indignation.

But it was true, when Dick had still been in critical condition, his heart beat irregular and fast when nobody else was there, but he had calmed down when Damian leaned against Grayson's chest or snuggled his way under his arm. Kinesthetic indeed. Damian had to admit that he might have a kinesthetic streak in himself, too, for it made him feel better as well.

Not that he would tell anyone. Ever.

Damian sighed aloud and scolded himself for being so uselessly emotional again. Dick would wake up soon, there were signs. He had begun to move, to shift around a few weeks ago already. When the docs decided to discontinue the coma medicine, the movements underneath Dick's eyelids started and became stronger with each day – he was sleeping now, dreaming, instead of being unconscious. There wasn't much of a difference in Damian's opinion – he had tried to wake his big brother up a couple of times and it hadn't worked – but admittedly 'sleeping' sounded better than 'unconscious'.

Damian was caught up in trying to ignore any Grayson-induced mushy feelings and taking care about the Hickman's catheter that was still attached to his brother's chest, and only realized what was going on when he took a second look. He had just stuck his feet under the blanket when he noticed a blotch of colour that hadn't been there a second ago.

Dazed, blue eyes were looking back at him, heavy with sleep.

Damian froze in mid-movement.

Holy shit.

"Dick?" Damian swallowed, trying to get some strength into his voice again. "Grayson?"

Dick was blinking two times, brows furrowing slightly in confusion. His pupils were blown, and there was no trace of recognition in them. Damian remembered how to move when those glazed eyes started to drift shut again.

"Drake, wake up! Timothy!" the boy shouted and untangled himself from the blankets in mild panic. The movement seemed to startle Grayson, who began to blink rapidly to stay awake.

Drake was cursing silently when he woke up, probably believing that something dramatic had happened while he had slept. "What's going on, is everything al-... oh my God."

They both stared down at their elder brother who had just then decided to go back to sleep. They were quiet for a second, until hell broke lose.

"Call Bruce!" Drake hissed, shoving Damian out of the way. He was grinning madly, even though there was obvious panic in his eyes. "No, call Alfred at the manor. No, call Leslie!"

"Make up your mind, Drake," Damian mumbled sullenly and grabbed his cell phone.

"Leslie, call Leslie first, and I'll call Bruce. Dick. Dick, wake up..." Contrary to his words, Timothy began to gently shake Grayson's shoulders to coax him back to awareness. He was rewarded with an unhappy grunt and twitching eyelids.

Damian had made his way to the hospital intercom, but thought better of it when a bored nurse answered. He punched Dr. Thompkins' number in as Drake began to melt down. With the phone ringing his ears, he watched how Drake tried to keep Dick awake, get to his phone to call Father and shout orders at him simultaneously. Needless to say, he was failing miserably. When they both stood in the room, waiting for the person on the other line to pick up, Drake was basically vibrating in edginess. He looked at Damian's feet with irritation. Shit, he was still in socks...

"Damian, what were you doing in Dick's bed just now?" he asked, but luckily for Damian Leslie Thompkins' voice chirped up just then.

"Damian? Everything alright with Dick?"

Damian turned away from Drake and headed out onto the floor, hiding the blush on his cheeks and the bright grin on his face.

Father appeared on the far end of the hallway about thirty minutes later and broke into a light jog when he saw his two youngest sons standing in front of the door to Dick's room.

"How is he? Did he say anything? Is Leslie here already?" he breathed out before even greeting them, obviously completely excited and full of adrenaline.

Damian's father must have come straight from a business conference, judged by the way that he was dressed. The current Robin wondered briefly how he had managed to get away that fast, but then again this was Bruce Wayne. He was the business conference.

"Leslie is with him right now, we don't know if he woke up again in the meantime," Drake answered, eyes twinkling. He hadn't stopped smiling this irritating smile all the time, and it was beginning to freak Damian out.

Bruce nodded hurriedly and reached for the door handle.

"She wants to be alone with him," Drake piped up.

Father swore under his breath and gritted his teeth. Damian hadn't seen him that agitated before, as if he was going to explode any minute. Not even when they had to wait for the bone marrow transplant to graft had he been this jittery. "Goddamnnit. Did she say anything yet?"

"Yeah," Drake sighed. "She said we should calm the fuck down before we have a heart attack."

That made Father halt, and a small smile appeared on his lips. He visibly relaxed. "So he really woke up?"

"Just for a few seconds. Damian was just -"

"Fuck off, Drake!"

"Language, young man. Did he say anything?"

"No, he didn't seem as if he understood what was going on." Damian thought back to those glazed, confused eyes.

Father opened his mouth to say something else, but Thompkins opened the door just then. She smiled warmly when she saw that Bruce had arrived in the meantime and then raised a ironic brow at Damian's bare feet.

Damian growled. Shit, she had probably seen his shoes right beside the bed...

"Leslie," Father began, urgently. "How is he?"

"As fine as can be expected." The doctor shrugged. "He woke up when I shook him, but he can't stay awake for more than a few seconds, and I don't think he's been awake enough to grasp where he is."

Father nodded grimly. "When will he wake up properly?"

Leslie shrugged. "I don't know. Soon, probably. Have you decided what to tell him?"

With that one question the whole joyous atmosphere dropped, and they looked at Bruce gloomily. There was a lot to tell Dick – that he was going to live. That he was going to live because Bruce Wayne had completely ignored his living will. That he had done so because they found out that he had become sick because of an crazy genius that had poisoned him with benzene over the course of months. Todd was Nightwing. They had had a family trip over to Europe and beaten a guy unconscious to steal his bone marrow. Alfred had been playing doctor and treated another potential donor for days with drugs. Father had bribed half the hospital to keep Dick alive. A lot to tell him.

They had talked about it a few times, but hadn't come up with anything so far. Of course they needed to tell him the truth, but when? Todd wanted to get it over with as soon as possible, and Damian was inclined to agree with him. Dick wasn't going to be happy when he discovered what they had kept from him so long. But then again he did need to rest, to recover in peace and with their help. He would explode like a volcano as soon as he heard of Father's messing with the living will, but there was just no way he would be able to get back on his feet without Father's help.

"Don't upset him," Leslie warned when she sensed the tension. "He'll be very weak for a while, and he'll need every bit of strength to recover."

Bruce nodded again and looked sharply at his two sons. They nodded mechanically – the matter was decided, apparently. Of course it would be Father who decided what to tell him when. Todd was going to be pissed, but he, too, wouldn't do anything to endanger Grayson further.

"Can we wake him up?" Father asked and grabbed the door handle again.

Thompkins moved out of the way. "You can try, but better let him sleep. He'll wake up when he's ready."

BRUCE

-a few days later-

It took a while for Dick to come to again, and even longer until he was coherent enough to have a real conversation. He was still on heavy medication – the immunosuppressive drugs made sure that the possibilities of a belated Graft-vs-Host reaction and a relapse were diminished, but also kept him weak and susceptible to infections and illnesses.

When he began to wake up sporadically, Bruce had made sure that there was always someone in the room. It wasn't much of an effort, to be honest, since Dick's room would have been crowded anyway if it weren't for the strict hygienic rules Leslie had established to keep as many germs and viruses out as possible. When the news about Dick's recovery had made the round, it had been hard to keep people from climbing in the windows or through the ventilation shafts to see him.

It was too early for him to have a longer conversation, or to concentrate on more than one person at a time. With his memory blurry and his mind perpetually feverish or tired, he couldn't really follow longer explanations and drifted back to sleep after a few minutes. It was strange for Bruce to see his son like that; Dick had always been so attentive and sharp. When the chemo had taken a hold on him, they had easily calmed themselves with blaming the treatment which would end soon. Now, though, Dick's recovery seemed endless.

Bruce knew that was wrong. Steadily, Dick managed to stay awake for longer, to remember more, to think clearer. Yesterday he had begun to ask questions, which was supposedly a huge progress, but made Bruce's insides churn – of course he wouldn't tell his son about Freeze and the manipulated living will, but on the other side he didn't want to lie to him even more. The guilt he felt since he first replicated the will had gnawed a hole through his chest. He had managed to ignore it during the hot phase of treatment and transplantation, but now he knew he had to face it.

Bruce Wayne wasn't good at facing his inner demons. He was much better at dressing as a giant bat and hissing 'I am the night'.

He had to stay focused and careful now, because his eldest son tended to follow the same path, even if he was still a lot more honest with himself than Bruce ever had hope to be. This time, though, Dick wouldn't be able to work his frustration out physically, not for a long while. It was going to be hell for the boy, and Bruce felt guilty and responsible.

"Bruce, hey..."

Dick's raspy voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Bruce had noticed him stirring twenty minutes ago already, but had decided to let him take his time waking up properly. Dick would call if he wanted to talk or needed something, else he would let him have some time for himself. There were people in his room constantly, and surely Dick appreciated a few moments to get his thoughts into order now and then.

Bruce dropped the newspaper he had been staring at unseeingly now and rolled his eyes immediately. Dick was weakly patting down the bed rails in search for the remote control of the hospital bed again.

With a discontented growl, Bruce walked up to the bed and pushed the well-hidden button that automatically elevated the headboard of the bed. Just yesterday Dick had somehow managed to get hold of the device and got into a sitting position, only to become so dizzy that he passed out. Bruce had hoped his pigheaded son had learned a lesson out of that, but apparently he was wrong – Dick was pouting at him sullenly when Bruce stopped the headboard at a reasonable height.

The recovery at home was going to be a blast.

"How are you?" He asked gently, sitting down next to the bed on a chair.

"Marvellous... you?" The tone was ironic, but Bruce had to smile nonetheless. Inquiring about people's wellbeing despite being obviously the one in trouble was just such a Dick thing to do. It felt wonderful to hear.

"Fine. Alfred and the boys are fine, too."

Dick nodded slightly and rubbed a hand across his eyes to fight the incessant tiredness. For a second he stopped the movement and followed the IV-line that was attached to the port in his arm to the infusion bag above his head. He seemed content with what he saw there, but it made Bruce worry – he had observed him doing this a few times now already, ever since he began to wake up and recognize his surroundings.

"What do you keep checking up there?" he asked therefore, a suspicion already in the back of his mind that made the hair on his neck stand up.

Dick was still a bit slow on the uptake, and blinked at him for a second before he got what Bruce was talking about. He smiled sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders weakly. "Checking if I get chemo."

Suspicion affirmed, crap. They had talked about chemo once or twice, but Dick's memory and retentiveness were pretty unstable. Bruce looked at his son scrutinizingly; he seemed fine today, extraordinary so. No glassy eyes, reasonable complexion compared to the ghastly paleness of a few weeks ago. The medication was still having a strong effect on him and made him sluggish and tired, but he hadn't been that aware since he woke up last week. Maybe it was time to try to have a real talk.

"You don't get chemo anymore, Dick," he said gently, reaching out for one of his son's hands after a short internal debate. He had promised to be more attentive after the communicative disasters Dick's leukemia had presented them with, and if he couldn't tell him half of what really happened, he had to make the few truths count.

Dick's gaze dropped to Bruce's hand, face serious. Bruce couldn't help but think that he should be more elated about that fact, now that he surely was able to grasp it. The lack of joy was freaking him out a bit, quite frankly.

"Uhh, yes.. about that," Dick began with a quiet voice, and Bruce leaned closer to hear everything. "The doc probably told you everything by now, right?"

"Yes. What are you getting at?"

Dick pulled away his hand and crossed his arms, averting his face. This was becoming bizarre.

"Listen, I'm.. I should have told you sooner, but.."

Huh? "Told me what? Dick?"

Had he misjudged Dick's condition? He didn't seem to speak coherently. Worriedly, Bruce checked the jags of the silent EKG and the numbers that indicated Dick's blood pressure. They were enhanced, but far from alarming. Bruce furrowed his brow and tried to find our what it was he was missing, until Dick spoke up again and Bruce's insides froze over.

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to learn it from a doctor... but.. I just couldn't.."

And really, he was the biggest idiot ever. The piece he had been missing was so big, he had not seen the forest for the trees. Jesus Christ the fucking trees had better communicative skills than he had. At least now he knew where Dick's memory became spotty.

"Dick," he interrupted his son's choked out confessions therefore with a firm and loud voice. "Wait. That's not it. That's not why you don't get chemo any more."

He had forgotten to tell his son that he wasn't dying, holy shit. Dick looked at him confusedly now, breathing shallower already, and Bruce knew he had to hurry. He had been awake for more than twenty minutes now, pretty long for his standards.

"You were out for a while, and things were touch-and-go. But you're okay now. We fixed it." Dick's eyes widened, surprised but unbelieving. From the corner of his eye, Bruce could see the jags of the EKG fastening. Oh, no. Not happening.

It was a good thing Leslie had brought back the monitor system after Dick woke up – they couldn't risk to upset him too much. Therefore, Bruce reached carefully for the IV-line that was connected to an infusion spiked with medication. Without Dick noticing it, he turned the little cogwheel that controlled the flow and amplified the medication dosage.

"I don't... you fixed what?" Dick was already zoning out again, but Bruce couldn't tell if it was already due to the meds or to tiredness in general.

"We found a bone marrow match, Dick." Bruce shifted from the chair to the bedside. "The transplantation happened while you were unconscious, and it worked out. You'll be fine."

Bright, confused eyes. "Fine?" He repeated.

"You don't have leukemia any more. You survived it," Bruce clarified. The jags on the EKG still were quickening, but the numbers that indicated Dick's blood pressure stayed even. That was good; the medicine was working, then. Dick was blinking now, confused and exhausted.

"But.. how.."

"You're tired, you should sleep," Bruce interrupted firmly. It was painful to watch how Dick tried to digest this new information. He had been sure the illness was terminal, and even though he had never really worked it through, he had accepted it to be the truth. Now suddenly it wasn't. Bruce remembered more than one incident on the streets when he had been sure he was bound to die that night, that minute, and then something had happened. He remembered the incredulity, the many feelings that were rushing towards him. And those were just minutes of being sure to die; Dick's situation must be so much worse.

The drugs hit visibly, suddenly Dick's eyes, a second ago wide and confused, were half-closed. "I don't.. not logical..."

"Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow," Bruce ordered and was relieved to see Dick obeying. His eyelids fell shut and he relaxed immediately, falling asleep on the spot.

Bruce allowed himself to breathe again and groaned silently. That could have gone worse, though also a lot better. He had high hopes that Dick remembered their talk, at least partly, but they would definitely have to talk about it properly. He wasn't looking forward to that; Bruce had been swamped with this short conversation already.

He had to update the others. He couldn't let Damian walk into such a situation without being prepared. Bruce stood up, careful not to disturb Dick, and headed for the door. Come to think about it, Damian probably wasn't the right person for this kind of conversation anyway. Neither was Jason. Tim? Probably. Alfred? Yes. Or even better –

"Barbara?"

The redhead flinched and looked up at him surprised. She had been completely immersed in her laptop, like so often, that she hadn't realized that Bruce had walked out of Dick's room and almost into her wheelchair.

"Bruce. I need to talk to you." Straightforward as usual, but a charming and cheeky smile on her lips as a greeting. "I heard you talking to Dick and decided to wait."

Barbara had wheeled her wheelchair right beside Dick's room. She began typing on her laptop again, furiously.

Bruce nodded solemnly, trying to work out if it was really already Babs's shift. "I just told him he was going to survive. We kind of forgot to mention that yet." God, he felt terrible about it.

One of Babs's eyebrows shot up, but she didn't avert her eyes from the laptop. "How did he take it?"

"He's confused, but wasn't able to stay awake for much longer, so..."

"Hn, that's good." Apparently Babs had found what she had been searching for in the database of her computer. "Last time I talked to him he didn't even remember that he was in the hospital."

It made Bruce feel a bit better. Maybe there really hadn't been an earlier opportunity to break the news. After all, Dick hadn't been aware of his surroundings or coherent until yesterday morning. Maybe Bruce was exaggerating. Maybe he was trying to compensate his lack of helpful interventions from a few months ago.

Maybe he needed to get a grip on himself and figure out how to deal with this mess properly, for Dick's sake.

Babs had turned around the laptop by now and looked with a serious expression at Bruce. "Jason sent those about an hour ago. I came as soon as I could."

There were pictures on the screen, and Bruce needed a moment to see what Barbara was showing him. Big, neon-coloured letters distracted him, spelling out 'Prince of Gotham struggles to survive!', and underneath a picture of Dick, bald, pale, and, most strikingly: unconscious.

Shit. Bruce heavily sat down on one of the ugly plastic chairs next to Barbara.

"Jason found them in Blüdhaven. It's the Blüdhaven's News, the pulpiest of all pulpy magazines in Blüdhaven. It's only page six and seven, that's why it evaded us for so long." Babs typed a short order an another picture appeared, this time with a modicum of text beside it. Bruce had to squint his eyes to read it.

'We promised to keep you informed on Gotham's darling, the striking Richard Grayson, adopted son of Bruce Wayne! Here you can see him fighting the cancer that threatens his life.'

"Is this the only one?" Bruce asked with a calm voice. He was mad. Really, truly mad. Judging by the machinery that surrounded the 'prince of Gotham' and the inhalation tube that breathed for him, the photos had been taken shortly before the transplantation.

"This is the only one we've found so far. Jason is checking the rest of Blüdhaven's boulevard press, and Tim and I will start with Gotham's press today."

Bruce's stomach dropped. This was bad. Someone had taken photos of his sick and helpless son and sold them to a newspaper. Maybe to more. The fact that they hadn't reached Gotham so far was a blessing... or meticulously planned.

Bruce's hands balled to fists. "There won't be any in Gotham. They have been sold to Blüdhaven intentionally, in a city that is related to him but is not on my immediate radar." Dick wasn't really a celebrity in his city; sometimes a few journalists remembered his prestigious upbringing, but most of the time people didn't recognize him as part of the wealthy Wayne family. The photos would have been front page material around here.

"There seems to have been an earlier issue, though," Babs growled unhappily. "It says 'we promised to keep you informed,' so there have to be more pics."

"We need to stop this."

"Agreed. I'm trying to delete them, but you know how the internet works. It may appear time and time again, who knows how often the pictures have been published, saved, and reblogged."

Barbara would be doing her best, Bruce knew. After her incident with the Joker, the boulevard press had had a field day, and the Gordons had been pulled through hell. From the very beginning of Dick's treatment in Gotham, Bruce and Dick had tried to keep the public's curiosity at bay, and Bruce had believed that they had managed to do a fine job... but apparently he was wrong. God, someone had taken photos of Dick when he had been only inches away from dying. It was disgusting, it was vicious, but most of all it was very, very scary.

Only a handful of people were possible suspects. Bruce's mind was already going top gear. The medical staff Bruce had paid to keep Dick alive; maybe one of them had been so bold? Or one of them told someone else.

"I'll find them," Bruce hissed, feeling the anger taking over. This was one too many times that Dick had to take up with this kind of Gothamite crap. One step too far. Maybe he couldn't change what Freeze had done, but he could try to control the damage. He had to.

-tbc-

Next up: Alfred and Dick!