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The emergency beacon hidden in his wristwatch buzzed, interrupting his typing. Bruce stared at the watchface in disbelief, the case notes he’d been working on abandoned.
The cave fell into silence, save for the slight vibration of metal against the side of his wrist. Behind him, Alfred had paused, a mug of coffee frozen in his grasp.
The vibrations—each coded to an individual—continued, a tattoo of warning in the shape of four heartbeats.
“Where?” was all the butler asked.
Bruce stood, forcing steps on feet he could no longer feel. He reached for the landline, dialing a series of numbers as an icy calm overtook him.
“Metropolis.”
Alfred set down the mug and reached for the remote, flicking on the TV on the far side of the cave. CNN was a flurry of images and shattering buildings, overlaid by static and screams.
“Go, ” he said, fingers straining around the remote. "Now.”
Convincing the helicopter pilot to fly straight into what looked like an active war zone was trickier than predicted. After a few minutes of negotiations, Bruce sat back down in the copilot’s seat, fingers still itching to grab the controls and fly the thing himself.
Outside, he could only see blurred figures as the skyscrapers exploded, shattering into dust and debris without resistance. Even the drone he’d attached to Metropolis General—years ago—couldn’t track them quickly enough. And, god, Metropolis General was at the center of it all.
The helicopter began its descent, wobbling towards the port parking lot. Bruce opened the door latch and stepped onto the skids, wishing he could jump the final dozen feet—dress shoes be damned.
“Are you fucking nuts?” the pilot yelled into the wind, craning his neck over the seat to stare at him. “You’re gonna fall!”
The helicopter lurched suddenly, sending the pilot scrambling as the ground tilted out of focus. Bruce held on as debris flew by them, narrowly missing the blades.
Despite the near-miss, the pilot was struggling to regain control over the helicopter. Bruce stepped back into the cabin, reaching out and overlaying his hands on the controls.
“Down,” he barked into the man’s ear, forcing the controls. The pilot was trembling slightly, a stunned look on his face. “Over, over, down—“
He guided them toward the original landing zone, smoothing out the descent. Once the pilot figured out his plan, Bruce let the controls go, stepping back out into the skids.
“Don’t land all the way,” he shouted into the wind, gesturing to the pilot. “Hover, then get out of here.”
The other man nodded jerkily, pale behind his headset. He waved briefly, a shell-shocked expression on his face.
Bruce stepped off the skid, relishing the pain in the balls of his feet as they hit concrete. The loafers provided meager shock absorption compared to his boots—but he didn’t have time to think about that.
As requested, a Wayne Enterprises car was sitting near the exit. Adrenaline made the short jog over dream-like; above him, the sky exploded again, as the two figures—one in blue, perhaps—grappled through another high rise.
White-knuckling the wheel, he revved the car through the exit gate, dialing on his phone one-handed.
“Jack. What’s happening?”
“Bruce—Bruce I—“
There was a crash in the background, then a wave of screaming. Jack fumbled with the phone, breathing heavily.
“Bruce, we got hit a few minutes ago—“ he gasped as another crash rocked the building. Bruce looked uptown and saw the figures glance off a nearby building, sending a shockwave toward the Wayne skyscraper. “Thirty eighth floor. Nobody can get up or down. We’re evacuating everyone else—“
“Get everyone into the subway tunnels. Tell them to stay away from the windows.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, taking a corner on two wheels as a chunk of concrete bounced down 5th Avenue. It slammed into a parked car behind him, crushing it.
“Okay. Okay, I can do that.” Jack said, voice steadying. “But Bruce—your children—“
Ice sliced through his chest, slowing time. Ten blocks away, now.
“What floor are they on?”
The other man was silent. Another crash sounded down the line—shattering glass this time.
“Thirty-eighth floor,” Jack choked out, voice wavering. “I think—I tried to stop them. They ran up there to help.”
His vision blurred briefly, blood roaring in his ears. Bruce nodded, more for his own benefit than Jack’s.
“Get everyone out,” he repeated. “Subway, like I told you.”
“Yes, Mr. Wayne.”
The lobby was a disaster zone. Shattered glass and blood covered the marble floors, but there were no bodies—a small mercy, for now at least.
Bruce glanced at the elevators, running scenarios in his head. With the help of a piece of rebar lying on the floor, he pried the doors open, looking into the shaft. The crumpled remains of the elevator car sat at the bottom, smoking slightly.
He turned and headed for the stairs, removing his tie as he swung around the first flight.
Three floors up and he encountered the first evacuees. He stood to the side, waving them along.
“Down to the subway tunnels,” he reminded a few passerby.
One woman nodded, clearly holding her composure better than the others. She shouted up the line toward a coworker, pushing the others toward the door. She glanced back in thanks, then froze.
“Mr. Wayne?”
He nodded quickly, reaching out and patting her on the shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Linda,” she said, blinking behind dusty frames. “Linda Harrington, sir.”
“Linda,” he said, “I need you to get everyone into the subway. Take the north tunnel towards downtown. They’ll have stopped the trains by now. Stay below ground until you reach Gotham. Understand?”
“North tunnel to downtown, then Gotham. Stay underground.” She listened carefully, nodding. “Got it.”
Bruce patted her shoulder again. “Good. I’m counting on you.” He grabbed the handrail, swinging himself up and around the stairs, cutting out a half flight.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
Bruce ignored her as he leapt up the next staircase, glancing at the number on the doors. He tapped on the comm he’d snuck into his ear during the flight over, ducking past a piece of rebar embedded in the wall.
“Alfred, I need a visual on the building.”
There was some static, then—thankfully—the familiar cadence of the butler’s voice.
“Some debris hits, closer to the top. The Sears building looks near collapse, however.”
Bruce did some quick mental math, leaping up another flight. His lungs were beginning to burn. “That’s less than a block away. If it falls this direction—“
“It’s leaning south,” Alfred cautioned. “For now.”
“And the combatants?”
There was a pause. “Hard to tell. They impacted the new apartment on Broadway a few seconds ago—“
“Where?”
“Fortieth floor.”
“Casualties?”
Alfred was silent. Bruce grit his teeth, willing his legs to move faster.
Periodically, the windows would shatter, sending chunks of glass swirling into the stairwell. Wincing through most of it, a larger chunk of concrete slammed into his side with explosive force, sending him flying.
“Master Wayne?”
Bruce picked himself off the floor, feeling his breathing stutter as his chest shifted painfully. He lifted up his shirt, watching the skin mottle before his eyes, his ribs in an unnatural position underneath.
“I’m fine,” he said to Alfred, pressing a light finger to the ribs. The pain was eye watering. “A piece of debris flew through the window and knocked into me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I said I’m fine.” Bruce said, reaching for the handrail. He bit down on a shout as something cracked in his chest. Praying it wasn’t a pneumothorax in the making, he pushed himself up the next stair.
On the fifteenth floor, the landing was drenched in blood. He came to a stop, dress shoes sliding in the red. In front of the door, a man in a torn police uniform was slumped against the wall, unmoving.
Bruce knelt painfully in the blood, putting his fingers to the man’s carotid. A puddle of blood ran down his legs—most likely from the breaking glass. A surprisingly strong pulse thudded under his fingertips.
“Not mine.”
“What?” Bruce asked.
The man blinked, pushing away Bruce’s hand. “S’not my blood.”
“You’re injured.”
The man grabbed the wall, stumbling slightly. “It was the woman’s—she was losing so much blood and then the window broke and I...” he put a hand to his temple, wincing. “I got hit on the head by something.”
“Where’s the woman?” Bruce asked.
“I don’t know.” The man squinted at him, rubbing his head. “Do I know you?”
“What’s your name, officer?”
“Dan.”
“Why were you in the building?”
“I saw it got hit up top, thought I should help.” Dan muttered, still frowning. “You sure I don’t know you?”
Bruce steadied him with a hand, pointing down the staircase. “Head to the subway tunnels and walk until you hit Gotham. You’ll be safe there.”
“Hell no, I’m not leaving.” Dan pushed his hand away. “There’s innocent civilians upstairs.” He frowned at Bruce’s dress pants, now smudged in blood. “If anyone should be evacuating, it’s you buddy.”
Bruce felt his face slip into a familiar, icy mask. Underneath his sweater, he could feel his ribs thudding painfully.
“My kids are upstairs.” was all he said, forced out around ground teeth. “I’m finding them.”
Dan rubbed his forehead, smearing blood across his face. Absently, he grabbed for his radio, leaning in.
“3232, I’ve got a civilian on the...15th floor. Possibly injured. Copy?”
Static filled the stairwell. Bruce shook his head, grabbing for the next hand rail. Dan let out a shout, following him up the flight.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Bruce ignored him, jogging up the next three flights as quickly as he could. He was losing time—and it was only a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, before the next hit. Before the building started to collapse—
Don’t think about that, he reminded himself, focusing on the burning pain in his right side. You’ll find them.
Despite his best efforts, Dan kept following him, muttering under his breath as he kept trying his radio. The man was in decent shape—especially for someone with a likely TBI.
A few floors up, they passed another group of civilians evacuating. Bruce gave them the same instructions, tapping one person to guide them down the stairs. He chose a man this time—a younger intern, overdressed for what must have been his first or second week.
“Subway tunnels. Head downtown, don’t stop until you’re in Gotham.” he repeated upon Bruce’s demand. “Yes, sir.”
Dan was looking at him in disbelief from the landing below.
“Hey, we’ve got someone bleeding really bad here!”
They both turned toward the voice, snapping to attention. Bruce leapt over the railing, spotting a woman sprawled unnaturally on the floor, clutching her leg.
“Jesus,” Dan said, over his shoulder, blinking. “That’s a lot of fucking blood.”
Bruce crouched down next to the woman, examining the gash that ran down her thigh. He pried it open gently with his fingers, nodding in sympathy as the woman screamed, blood gushing down her leg. Past the blood, he could see fatty tissue and a hint of bone—more than just a bad gash.
“Arterial bleeding.” He said, turning to Dan. He held out his hand. “I need your tourniquet.”
“My—“
“Your tourniquet, now, or she’s going to die.”
Dan fumbled for the strap in his belt—one that Metropolis had made mandatory to carry a few months ago—and handed it over.
“You some kind of paramedic?”
Bruce slipped the open tourniquet around the woman’s leg, looking up at her companion.
“Hold her hand. This is going to be extremely painful.”
He winched the belt, slowly tightening it around her upper thigh. The woman’s screams cut off into a choking gasp, her hands white as she clung to the other man for dear life.
Dan swore behind him as he pulled it to the last notch, fastening it. Bruce glanced at his watch, then dipped his hand into the woman’s blood. He carefully wrote out the time on her forehead, blowing it slightly to dry.
“Get her to a hospital as quickly as you can.” He told the companion. “Follow the others to Gotham. Tell them she had arterial bleeding, possibly from the femoral. You have four hours before complications set in.”
The companion nodded, looking dazed. Dan shook himself out of his funk, slapping his shoulder.
“Get her out of here. Go.”
He helped them lift the woman onto their shoulders, joining the others, then turned back to Bruce.
“Iraq or Afghanistan?” He asked quietly, hands on his hips. They were trembling slightly, dyed brown-pink from the woman’s blood.
“Neither,” Bruce said, turning toward the stairs. He leapt past another piece of rebar, feeling the building shake under his feet. Or maybe it was the blood loss. “We need to get going before this collapses on top of us.”
“Shit,” Dan said, following him. “You don’t need to tell me twice.”
On the 30th floor, they ran into another group of civilians—these ones far calmer than the first few. Bruce gave the subway instructions quickly, pleased to see focused eyes and nodding heads.
A woman grabbed his arm as they passed, stopping him. He realized after a moment it was Kari—his Metropolis Secretary.
“Bruce,” she said, “your kids, they’re on the top floor. They—“
“They saved us,” another woman cut in. “They hung from the top floor and dropped us down to the 36th floor with a fire hose. I mean, how smart is that?”
“They’re alright?” he asked Kari, more of a statement than a question. She nodded.
“They wouldn’t leave with us. Said there were more people to get out.”
Pride swelled in his chest, quickly tempered by worry. He allowed himself a small smile of relief. “Thank you, Kari.”
Dan was staring at him again. Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“Bruce...as in Bruce Wayne?”
They didn’t have time for this. He put on a blank expression.
“Who?”
Standing on the 36th floor, he finally understood the problem.
“What the fuck,” Dan said, gaping at the missing stairwell. “How the hell did they even get out of there?”
Bruce looked southward, wind whistling into the open floor. He couldn’t see the figures anymore—but the entire city could still undoubtedly hear them.
Military helicopters were circling toward the southern port, spotlights trained on a destroyed building. Bruce breathed a sigh of relief, tapping his comm.
“Alfred? I’m at the top.”
Dan frowned. “Who are you talking to?”
“Copy, Master Wayne. Any sign of the boys?”
“I’ll keep you posted.” Bruce tapped the comm again, turning to Dan. “Come on.”
Across the open floor, he spotted something bright skidding across the floor. Jogging, he came to a stop in front of a long firehouse, dangling from the story above.
“B!”
Bruce broke into a smile as he spotted Tim and Dick on the edge, holding onto the hose. Jason was in between them, helping a civilian cling to the rope. Together, they began hoisting her down toward the floor in fluid, measured movements.
Bruce guided the hose to a safer location, easing the woman onto the floor, away from the glass. She thanked them profusely, running toward the exit.
With a nod from him, the boys descended a second later, jumping off at the bottom. Damian was the last to leave the shattered remains of his office—paler than normal, favoring his right arm as he slid down the hose.
A second later, he was pummeled by four sets of arms, slamming into him and holding on tightly. Bruce knelt, gathering them to his chest as he felt his heart begin to beat again.
“I am so, so proud of you,” he whispered into their hair, rubbing circles into Damian’s back as the younger child shuddered slightly. His ribs were burning, digging into his lung. “Was that everyone?”
Jason broke away first, folding his arms and leaning back. He had a cut across one cheekbone, but it didn’t seem deep. “Everyone we could find, B.” he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
Behind them, Dan coughed awkwardly.
“This is Dan,” Bruce told them, “he followed me up here.”
Dan glared at him, leaning down to try his radio again.
“3232, Wayne Enterprises is almost clear of civilians. I have five on the top floor, do you copy?”
Tim rolled his eyes as the radio fuzzed out again, blaring static. “You know that’s broken, right?”
“I’m just not getting through.” Dan rebutted.
“Yeah, you’re not getting through because your radio is fucked, man.”
“Language,” Bruce said, sharing a glance with Dick. The younger man nodded at him—calm and capable, focused and balanced at every turn. Like this was just another triple flip through a hoop—tricky, but manageable.
As Dan and Tim bickered, Bruce knelt next to Damian, pulling him aside.
“Show me.” he said, voice firm. Damian’s face twisted.
“Show you what, Father?”
Bruce grabbed his shoulder before he could slip away, gently applying pressure. Damian winced, proving his point.
“Damian.”
Damian rolled his eyes, lifting the side of his shirt gently. A cut ran down his arm, bleeding sluggishly into the dark fabric.
Bruce stood.
“Dick?”
The younger man was at his side in an instant.
“I need my first aid kit from the office. And a bottle of whatever vodka Alfred put in there.”
“Sure thing.”
Dick bounded toward the hose, jumping up and grabbing onto the rubber with ease. In a few short seconds, he hauled himself up two stories, disappearing into the rubble.
When Bruce looked behind him, Dan was gaping at the hose again, eyes wide. In his distraction, Tim had managed to slip the radio out of his collar, fiddling with it behind the officer’s back.
Dan turned his awestruck look back to Bruce a moment later, opening his mouth to say something.
“Fuck the police,” Jason said before he could utter a word. “You know, just in case anyone was wondering where I was at.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Dan went bright red in response, brow furrowing.
Dick reappeared a few seconds later. He leapt gracefully off the ledge and caught himself around the hose, swinging around it gently. It was reminiscent of his jumps as Nightwing, minus the grappling line.
Bruce opened the proffered kit quickly, pulling out the suture materials. He tapped his comm again.
“Alfred, can I get an update on the combatants?”
“Metropolis PD and the National Guard are reporting that the scene has been contained, sir.”
Thank god. Bruce accepted the vodka from Dick, catching Damian’s eyes. “This will hurt.”
Damian frowned. “I’m certain it will not.”
“Little D,” Dick said, mussing his hair. “I’m pretty sure it’s rail vodka.”
“And?”
Bruce splashed his arm with the bottle, earning a muffled shout from Damian. Dick giggled, playing with Damian’s hair again as he quickly applied the anesthetic, then the sutures.
Once they were done and bandaged, Bruce nodded at the stairs. “Time to leave,” he said.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Jason said, joking. Dan frowned at the repetition, staring at him.
“How are you so calm?”
Jason shrugged. “How are you not?”
They headed down the stairs, Damian wavering slightly at his side.
“You stumble, and I’m carrying you the rest of the way.” Bruce murmured, “Non-negotiable.”
Dick shot him a look— a familiar, chiding glance from years of patrol together. He’d always been able to tell when Bruce was injured—long before any of the other robins could.
Bruce caught Dick’s eyes again, nodding
if I fail, you’re in charge.
With a wince, he pressed onwards, ignoring how the stairs seemed to sway beneath him.
In the lobby, new trails of blood had marred the marble floor, splattered across the entrance and into the subway tunnel below.
“Head towards Gotham,” he told Dick as they walked down stalled escalator stairs. “I’ll follow behind you.”
“Got it, B.”
Dan was staring at him—perhaps his default setting, or just the concussion—when he turned around.
“You got something against your name?”
Bruce shrugged. “It’s a long story.”
“I got time.”
“Not enough.”
Dan snorted. He refused to let Bruce behind him, dodging all of his attempts to fall back. Weary, he let the officer guide him toward the front.
“Hey, stay up ahead with your kids.” He said, gesturing. “I don’t want nothing happening to ‘em.”
“I don’t want anything happening to you either.”
“Huh,” Dan huffed, almost a laugh. “That’s rich.”
They walked in silence for a while, following the boys. Bruce kept an eye on Damian, finally reaching down and shutting off the beacon alarm around his wrist. The sudden lack of vibration exhausted him, almost like it’d drained the adrenaline from him as well.
He tapped his comm again. “Alfred. Estimates on the subway tunnel to Gotham?”
“Unclear,” the butler replied. “There are reports of several groups of civilians reaching the port now, however.”
“So thirty, maybe forty-five minutes.”
“Approximately.”
Bruce thanked him and shut off the comm, thinking through their next steps.
“You’re not gonna tell me who you’re talking to, are ya?” Dan asked, sounding defeated.
“Sorry.” He wasn’t.
Up ahead, he could see the beginning of the underwater tunnel. They were close to the edge of Metropolis now—almost under the bay.
Before they could reach the entrance, Dan froze in place, cocking his head toward the surface.
“Did you hear that?”
Bruce gestured for the boys to stop, listening. A brief clip of sound reached him, shrill. A scream?
“I have to help,” Dan said, looking up and down the tunnel. He spotted a manhole and leapt for the nearby ladder, waving. “Stay here, and don’t move. It’s not safe for you.”
Tim rolled his eyes. Damian harrumphed, despite the pinch of pain in his face. Bruce waited until Dan was through the man hole and on the street before following, biting down against the pain of his ribs—definitely fractured—shifting.
On the crushed concrete of the port, the screams were clear as a bell, and rising in intensity. Dan had his gun out, pointed at a man standing near the water’s edge.
“I just want her wallet dude,” the man was saying, tightening his hand in what Bruce realized was a woman’s hair. In his other hand was a switchblade. “Just let me take it and l’ll go.”
“Drop the knife!” Dan yelled, using his other hand to cue his radio. “3232, we’ve got an armed robbery in progress down by the port. I’ve got a 5’8 suspect, white male, blonde hair, approximately mid-twenties—“
Dulled by the concussion, Dan didn’t catch the man’s twitchiness. Bruce stepped forward just as the knife went flying at the officer’s heart, snatching it out of the air and lobbing it back at the robber before he could process what he was doing.
The knife slammed into the man’s shoulder, knocking him away from the woman. He went down with a shout, blood blooming across his sweatshirt.
Dan froze, dropping his radio back to his collar. His gaze slid from the knife, to Bruce, then back again.
Bruce swore internally, resisting the urge to dive back down the manhole and disappear.
“You know what,” Dan finally ground out, holstering his gun. “I’m not going to ask any more questions.”
He helped the woman to her feet, guiding her back toward the subway. With one final, baffled look, he picked up his radio again.
“3232, suspect is down at the scene. Requesting medical backup for a non-life threatening injury.”
“ Copy. ”
Back inside the tunnel, it was only a few minutes before they’d crossed to the relative safety of Gotham’s shores. Bruce breathed a sigh of relief, navigating them out of the subway and to the nearest hospital.
Dan lingered by the hospital doors, reluctant to leave them—yet again. Bruce was doing the best to cover his face, but it was only a matter of time before someone recognized the gaggle of kids standing in the alley behind him.
“You saved my life,” the officer said, awkwardly. He rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“By forgetting everything you saw today.” Bruce said, matter of fact, “And getting treated for a concussion.”
Dan frowned. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious.”
The other man made a strange noise, half-smiling. “Have it your way, man.”
“I will. Or I’ll sue you and you’ll sign an NDA.” Bruce said.
Dan narrowed his eyes.
“Craziest man I’ve ever seen,” he said, turning away and shrugging. “Running into a collapsing building to rescue his own goddamned kids. She-iit.”
Bruce watched him trudge into the crowded ER, then turned back to his kids.
“Home?” he asked.
Four weary, dust-streaked faces turned to him.
“Home,” Dick agreed for the group.
It was a quick and uncomplicated ride home, thanks to the private car service Alfred booked that never asked questions. Bruce shooed everyone inside, bracing a hand against the doorway.
Now that he wasn’t moving, the pain was doubly intense. His breath began catching, wheezing slightly as he exhaled.
Pneumothorax, he realized absently, as his lungs began to burn for air. Your lung collapsed.
Ahead, he could hear Alfred greeting the boys in the kitchen. With superhuman effort, he dragged himself in that direction, stumbling.
“Alfred.”
“Master Wayne?” Alfred looked up, then went white. His hands fumbled at the kitchen counter. “Master Richard, my medical bag—quickly.”
The butler maneuvered him into the sitting room, laying him on the couch. Bruce tried to speak, only managing to make a wheezing, gasping sound. Tim, Jason and Damian stood behind Alfred, the first real expression of terror on their faces.
Dick returned lightning fast, handing Alfred the bag. The butler pulled out a stethoscope, lifting up Bruce’s sweater. He hissed at the bruises.
“Pneumothorax,” Alfred suggested, tapping with two fingers between his ribs. “You’re not going to like this.”
A few seconds later, a sharp, hollow needle penetrated past his skin and in between his ribs. Bruce gasped, feeling air rush in through the tube, reinflating his lung.
He took a few cautious breaths, grabbing at Alfred’s arm.
“T-thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” the butler said, expression murderous. He tapped along Bruce’s ribs again, making him wince. “I think you managed to break all of these.”
“How?” Dick asked, worry coloring his voice. “He seemed fine earlier.”
“Concrete,” Bruce coughed, “on the way up.”
Alfred sat back, frowning. “I’m calling Leslie.”
“Alfred.”
“I’m quite certain, Master Wayne.” The butler stood, gathering his supplies. “I’ll be back with some painkillers in a few minutes. Apologize to your traumatized children while I’m gone.”
“You’re an idiot.” Jason said, crossing his arms. “We would have been fine.”
“You don’t know that,” Bruce protested, weakly.
“We would have made it out without you.”
Bruce winced at the accusation in Tim’s voice.
“Not if the building was hit again.”
“If the building was hit again, we would have all died,” Dick cut in, the perpetual voice of reason. “But pushing on after you were injured was stupid, Bruce.”
“You could have died,” Damian said simply, his eyes burning in accusation. “And left us that way instead.”
Bruce swallowed around the knot of emotion in his throat, struggling to find the right words.
“I had to find you,” he forced out, willing his voice to remain steady, “the alarm went off and I couldn’t think. I had to find you. I had to make sure you were safe.”
Silence overtook the room. He saw Tim blink and look away, Jason’s head dipping toward the floor. Dick looked floored, still processing the words.
“I’m sorry,” he continued. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you and that I scared you. I didn’t mean to.”
He paused.
“I don’t...handle the premise of death well. Not for loved ones. I haven’t...for a long time.”
Alfred returned with a syringe and a pressure cuff. He stepped in and swiftly applied the cuff, tightening it as he found a vein.
“Little pinch,” he said, inserting the needle. Bruce felt warmth bloom in his arm, chasing away the pounding ache in his side. “There we go.”
Bruce felt the room soften and blur, settling back into the couch and closing his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he told his children, hoping they were still listening. “I should have listened.”
“You can say that again,” Jason muttered somewhere above him. A slap broke the silence. “Hey! Ow!”
Something nudged past his legs, settling in between them and the couch. He opened his eyes to find Damian crouched above him, head pressed against his knees.
“I’m here to support Father,” he said, mostly to Tim. “He is in pain.”
Jason smirked, joining his brother at the foot of the couch. Tim followed, sending Bruce a sympathetic glance.
“You were worried about us.”
Bruce didn’t respond, watching the way Dick’s lips curled into a reluctant smile. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Thanks, B.”
He’d said that out loud.
“Yeah, you did. Don’t worry about it, Alfred gave you a nice large dose of something quasi-illegal.”
Jason nodded in agreement. “I’m surprised you haven’t shit your pants yet, honestly.”
“ Todd ,” Damian said, outraged. Tim snorted.
“Y’all know opiates back you up, right? Not the other way around?”
Dick frowned. “So you’re saying he’ll just be mega-constipated in a few hours.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Bruce groaned, closing his eyes. “I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” Dick teased, “you just admitted you cared for us.”
“No take backs!” Jason interjected. “Damn, I wish I got that on video.”
“Language,” Bruce murmured, feeling the room spin. “I can’t feel my ribs.”
“They’re still there, B, don’t worry,” Tim said. From the kitchen, he heard Alfred snort.
“Hey, does this mean we get to go on patrol by ourselves tonight?”
Three pairs of hands physically restrained him from trying to sit up.
“Absolutely not,” Bruce half-slurred.
“Awww.” Jason’s voice drifted in and out of focus, “he does care! Hold me, Dick, I’m going to swoon.”
There was a delayed thump, suggesting Dick had not chosen to hold Jason amidst his swoon.
“M’going to sleep,” Bruce murmured, “Someone check Damian’s stitches before he goes to bed.”
“Not it.”
“Not it.”
“Fucking damn it!”
Bruce drifted off to the sound of Damian arguing with Tim about the honor of changing his bandages—the most comforting, familiar background noise he could think of.