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The glow from Bruce’s phone screen was so bright he had to blink several times for any of the shapeless blobs to form actual words.
So I know that I’m probably overreacting, but-
While there was a wall of text that came after, Bruce was already vaulting up out of his bed, damn near slamming into his dresser in the rush to get to Tim.
Tim had texted him. Tim had texted him and it wasn’t some meme that Bruce needed to use entire decades worth of experience in investigation to try to decipher, it was a genuine text with only words, and those very same words had sent a Batarang through his heart because if Tim was thinking he was overreacting to something then it was surely the opposite.
He could be suffocating or in agony or coated in blood and maybe this time there wouldn’t be a way for Tim to bounce back from it and Tim needed to bounce back from everything, he needed to be okay.
Tim could be dying, he could be dead, and Bruce had been wasting the last precious moments he would ever have with his son just laying in bed doing nothing.
He had wasted time. He had wasted so much time. With Tim. With Jason. With his parents. Bruce knew that, even with all the magic in the universe, nothing could ever truely reverse a regret like that.
Bruce staggered in the hall, barely even registering the cat that had come between his feet before he was already surging onwards.
He needed to get to Tim, he needed to get to his boy, his sweet boy, and he needed to hold him and love him and cherish him and it still wasn’t going to be enough, nothing would ever be enough.
Bruce’s hand gripped onto the door handle before he’d really even processed reaching Tim’s room, forcing the door open knowing that even the time it would take to close the distance between himself and Tim’s bed it would already be too late.
The empty bed.
Tim was gone.
Tim was dead and he was gone and Bruce had failed him, he had failed all of them.
“Uh, B? You… good?”
The voice sounded so much like his son but it was an echo, a hallucination, it was anything except Tim’s real voice because Tim was gone and he was gone and he was gone.
“Bruce?”
There was no body on the bed, not even draped in a white sheet, there was no body anywhere because he was too late, he will always be too late.
“Bruce.”
A hand ghosted Bruce’s elbow and instinct demanded that he whirl towards the sensation even though nothing was there and no one was there and-
And Tim had taken a quick step back, his head tilted the way it did when he was concerned about something.
Tim.
Tim.
But he wasn’t real, it was a ghost, a mirage, a hallucination, it was anything except his real life son because Bruce had read the text and Tim would have never sent those words unless he was long since passed death.
“Bruce.” Tim’s voice had changed, become less worried and more authoritative. “You’re safe. It’s just me. Do you think you can try to take a breath for me?”
Bruce didn’t dare blink, not wanting the hallucination to disappear.
He didn’t breathe either, just in case the ghost of Tim would be blown away. It was a foolish thought, ghosts with a form corporeal enough to have touched his elbow like that couldn’t be so easily dismissed with just a blink or a breath.
“I’m going to step forward again,” The hallucination warned. “I would really appreciate it if you don’t take a swipe at me this time.”
A swipe?
Bruce thought back, to the hand that had been on his arm, to his own arm snapping outwards to defend himself.
He thought back further, trying to remember how Tim had died.
Bruce’s hand was touched and he fought against every instinct that screamed for him to lash out. The hand was tugged, gently, until it was pulled up a little, until it was pressed flush against something warm.
Against something that shifted, slowly, up, and down, up and down.
There was another sensation too, a steady thump thump thump. A heartbeat. Tim’s heartbeat. Tim still had a heartbeat. His son still had a heartbeat.
Bruce still had a heartbeat too, though when it had begun racing like that he didn’t know.
“See? I’m okay.”
“You’re okay.” Bruce ground out.
It was a command, one that Bruce needed Tim to follow. Tim needed to be okay. His kids all needed to be okay.
“Yeah,” Tim said.
The real Tim.
Tim was alive.
Tim was alive.
“Is something going on? You kinda freaked out just now.”
“I did not freak out.” Bruce said firmly.
Tim just blinked up at him. Tim, Tim, he was alright, he was alive, he was alright. There was no blood, there was no difficulty in each breath he took, no fluttering within his heart, he was okay.
“Okay,” Tim drawled, clearly not believing Bruce even though it was the truth. “Sure, let’s go with that. Why exactly are you in my room, then?”
As if Tim didn’t already know, as if Tim hadn’t sent Bruce a wall of text that no doubt described every single horrific symptom he was experiencing, every single fucking symptom that Tim had not mentioned until it was too late and it was always too late and Bruce was always too late.
“Bruce.”
Bruce’s hand was pressed a little harder to Tim’s chest. Tim was still looking up at him, those intelligent eyes seeing far deeper than Bruce should be allowing.
But then Tim was blinking. He stepped back quickly, the heartbeat disappearing and Tim was going to disappear and all of them were going to disappear and Bruce will be left alone, Bruce will always be alone.
Tim shot off to his desk, picking up his phone and unlocking it.
“Shit.” Tim forced out. “Shit. Give me your phone.”
Tim was alive.
He was breathing, though his breathing had become quicker for some reason. Bruce should check his pulse, should make sure he doesn’t have a fever.
“Bruce. Give me your phone.”
Tim was alive.
He was alive.
He was going to stay alive.
He needed to stay alive.
Tim’s breathing really had changed because he let out a exhale that was far to pronounced and maybe he had pneumonia, maybe he had double pneumonia, maybe he-
Bruce’s hand shot out, keeping Tim from fully taking the phone out from Bruce’s pocket.
“That text.” Bruce said.
“You didn’t read it, right? Fuck, please tell me you didn’t read it.”
“If you’re injured, you need to tell me right now, Tim.”
“Bruce give me the phone.”
“Timothy.”
“Don’t Timothy me, just give me the damn phone.”
“Tell me you’re not hurt. That you’re not…”
Bruce swallowed the acid burning at the back of his throat.
The hand trying to reach the phone fell away. Tim stepped back, his shoulders dipped low.
“I’m not hurt, Dad.” Tim said.
“But that text, you said that you were overthinking your symptoms and-”
“Symptoms? No, I was overthinking about, uh, never mind what it was about. All that you need to know was that that text was not meant for you. Like, at all. I’m okay. I’m not dying. I’m just super super embarrassed right now so can you just let me delete it? Please?”
“Embarrassed.”
The word turned slowly in Bruce’s head.
“Who was the text for?”
“Not important.” Tim rushed out.
“Tim,”
“Absolutely not important. Give me the phone. I’ll delete it. You’ll forget you ever saw it. We’ll both forget that any of this ever happened. Cool? Cool.”
Jason’s body was cold.
It was so cold.
But here Tim was, breathing, talking, face flushed with genuine embarrassment over something so mundane as a text sent to the wrong person. A text that, even now, Bruce’s brain was already trying to process the rest of, knowing that there was always a part of him taking in every stimulus around him just in case it would be important for a case.
“Nope.” Tim snapped. “Nope nope nope, stop that.”
Bruce chuckled, if only to remind his own body that there really wasn’t any danger.
He took his phone out from his pocket, gave it to his son, chuckled again as Tim not only deleted the message but ensured that there was no back up to it, or a back up to the back up, before finally slipping the phone away again.
There was still a brightness to Tim’s face.
A brightness that could indicate fever. Tim had a fever. He was sick and he was going to become sicker and he would need to be put on oxygen and Tim never handled being put on supplementary oxygen well and-
And Tim was looking up at him again, with those sharp eyes.
“Bruce.” Tim said. “I really am okay.”
“Of course you are.” Bruce said.
When Bruce reached out to ruffle Tim’s hair, Tim’s face flushed again but the boy made no attempt to step away from it.
The adrenaline ebbing away from his system, Bruce found himself yawning.
Tim, though he scowled halfway through it, yawned too.
“We should both get some sleep.” Bruce said.
Before Tim could even think of arguing, Bruce quirked a brow. Tim huffed, crossing his arms and muttering something under his breath.
“No you weren’t working on an important investigation,” Bruce said. “You were texting your-”
Tim pushed hard at Bruce’s chest, no doubt towards the door, but Bruce had readied his stance for the blow, not moving even an inch.
“You. Are.” Tim grunted, pushing harder. “The. Worst.”
“Goodnight, Son.”
Bruce turned, enjoying Tim’s annoyance far too much as he slowly, slowly, walked back towards the bedroom door. When he finally reached it, his hand back on the handle, he glanced back to the teenager.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
Tim went to bite out a reply but then his shoulders dipped, the smallest of smiles playing on his face.
“I’m glad you, y’know…”
Care enough to ask.
Bruce did care, even if that care, that concern, sometimes made it feel as though he was suffocating.
He was slow in returning to his own room, taking his time in to stroll down the hall.
His youngest son snapped awake the moment Bruce had opened Damian’s door door, but in seeing it was only Bruce, the boy laid back down without hesitation, curling closer to Titus.
Damian was okay.
Damian was alive.
Duke was half off his own bed, snoring deeply even as his weight threatened to dip over the edge. Bruce went to him silently, coaxing Duke into a more comfortable position, pressing a kiss to his temple as he slept on.
Bruce found Duke’s Signal gear littered across the room. He gathered each piece, returning them to a hidden compartment within Duke’s closet, if only to save Duke from Alfred’s teasing about it in the morning.
Duke was okay.
Duke was alive.
He went next to his daughters room. Like Damian, Cass awoke with the door opening. She met his eye in an instant, but instead of laying down again as Damian had, Cass waved him in.
Bruce went to shake his head, knowing Cassandra needed her rest, but his feet dragged him onwards all the same. He knelt carefully at the side of Cass’s bed, her small hand reaching out and cupping his cheek.
“Okay.” Cass said simply.
Bruce nodded his thanks, lingering for a moment longer. Before he stood, he helped tuck Cass’ blanket around her once more, running a hand through her soft hair.
Cass was okay.
Cass was alive.
Bruce found himself unable to open Jason’s door; unable to see the empty bed.
Jason had been cold.
His boy had been so cold, his eyes so empty.
Bruce’s hand trembled as he reached for the phone in his pocket, his heart aching as he saw the family photo on the lock screen. It was one of all of them, a candid one to match the much more stiff formal one taken on the same night.
While Tim had long since closed the text log between the two of them, Bruce opened a different contact entirely.
His finger hovered just over Jason’s name, unable to press it, unable to pull away from it.
The phone toned, the message appearing without his command.
It was from Jason, as were the two others sent in quick succession.
im alive
quit angsting
c u tmmw
Tim must have contacted him, Bruce realised. Why Tim felt as though he would need to do as much, Bruce didn’t know. Jason was well within his rights to spend his nights anywhere, even if Bruce often felt his skin itched when he was unable to check in to confirm that Jason was okay himself.
Jason was okay.
Jason was alive, too.
He came last to Dick’s room. His eldest. His first child, in the life where he had thought he would always remain childless.
It was dark in Dick’s bedroom, even as some light from the hallway spilled in.
There had been a shirt thrown over his nightlight, its glow barely visible.
Bruce’s blood ran cold, but then he forced himself to breathe. Like the others, Dick will be okay. He needed to be okay.
They all needed to be okay.
But Dick wasn’t okay, he couldn’t be okay, if he’d covered the light then he could be having a migraine and if he was having a migraine then there would be nothing Bruce could do to lessen his agony and he didn’t want Dick to be in agony, he didn’t want his boy to be in agony.
No. No, Dick was fine. He’d just gotten too warm, tossed the shirt in his sleep, it had just happened to land on the nightlight.
Dick needed to be fine.
They all needed to be fine.
There was a curled form on the bed, all but covered by a comforter. If he’d gotten so warm as to have thrown of his shirt and then he’d gotten so cold as to curl desperately into his comforter then Dick, not Tim, could be the one with a fever. Fevers could exacerbate Dick’s headaches, or his chronic pain, or his depression even though Dick had been doing so well these past months.
Dick must be sick and if he was sick then he must be severely sick and Bruce hadn’t noticed and he never noticed enough and he was going to be too late, he will always be too late.
The form shifted on the bed, writhing in pain, in betrayal, Bruce was meant to have protected him, Bruce had sworn to protect him.
But then that form was sitting up, a hand rubbing against a still closed eye.
It was a migraine, it had to be a migraine, a migraine and a fever and most likely broken bones and collapsed lungs and-
“B?”
The voice was rough from sleep.
No, not from sleep, from illness.
Dick was sick and he was going to die and he might be older now but he’ll always be that scared little boy knelt by his parents sides and Bruce too will always be that scared little boy.
The comforter flew off because Dick had a fever and he was just going to get sicker and sicker and sicker and there was nothing Bruce could do, there was never anything Bruce could do.
“Guys!”
It was a shout, one that echoed in Bruce’s head.
Bruce had shouted at Dick, knowing that Dick had been shot in the shoulder, knowing that he should instead be checking his son over, should be holding his son close to his chest, never to let him go.
Bruce had shouted at Jason too, had told him directly not to go investigating into his birth mother, not because it might put Jason in danger but because it might mean that Bruce would lose him. But then Bruce did lose him, he had lost him and he could still feel Jason’s broken body in his arms, he could still feel his boy’s cold body in his arms.
There was a hand on his shoulder, a stinging in his knees.
He’d crumpled, Bruce realised distantly. He’d crumpled to the ground, Jason’s unmoving body tucked against his chest.
Bruce had failed.
He will always fail.
There were voices, all echoing over each other, all tearing him apart piece by piece by piece because he had failed them. He had promised them safety, he had promised them protection, and then he had led them to their deaths.
One voice rose above the rest, Dick’s voice. It was steady and it was firm and it was all just a auditory hallucination because Dick was gone and Jason was gone and all his kids were gone.
Warmth pressed against Bruce’s right side, his arm tugged up and over someone’s shoulder.
Duke, his brain supplied uselessly. Duke was holding him up, an arm wrapping around Bruce’s back as though it was Bruce, not Duke, that needed to be held and cherished.
On his left was a smaller body, one that was more familiar as it held up his other side.
Tim.
Tim’s face had been flushed earlier. A fever. A deadly illness, one that this time was going to be too much for Tim to overcome.
There had been other bodies too, even smaller forms with dark hair and knowing eyes. Damian and Cass had disappeared just as quickly as they’d come into his vision. No, not disappeared; stolen away. They’d been abducted, by monsters that claimed that blood gave them the right to choose to hurt children.
Children.
Cassandra and Damian had been children that had been hurt, that had been sharpened into weapons and nothing more, children that should have instead been kept safe, been raised up to see the good in the world.
Dick had been a child too, when Bruce had taught him how to hurt.
His legs struggled to hold him as he was forced to take a step, and then another.
The world felt both distant and too real as he was guided out from the darkness and back into the light.
There were still voices in his ear, voices that gave him assurances he did not deserve.
Bruce’s weight shifted outright when the ground dropped beneath his feet, Duke and Tim all at once grunting from effort to keep him upright.
He’d caused them pain, he’d caused them all pain and they will die. They will all die because he will never be able to protect them enough.
They went down another step, this time Bruce’s fuzzy feet somehow accepting his weight.
He listened closely to Tim’s breathing beside him, listened and waited for it to stop entirely.
“Easy, Bruce,” Tim said instead. “We’ll all good, let’s just worry about you for a sec.”
They were all good.
They were such good kids, such good people.
Bruce did not deserve any of them.
Stepping downwards with each stagger had become so natural that Bruce had nearly fallen again when the ground levelled out entirely. Duke’s hold shifted around him, a third set of hands all at once pressed against his chest.
“We’ve got you, B,” Dick said. “Just hold on.”
Even before they reached the cot of the infirmary, Bruce was already shifting his weight again so that he could coax Tim onto it.
Tim resisted it, he always resisted treatment no matter how badly he needed it, but Bruce would not allow Tim to go on suffering if there was something that could ease his pain.
“Seriously, Bruce, I’m fine,”
But Tim wasn’t fine, he wasn’t okay, none of Bruce’s kids ever stayed okay.
There was always something wrong, some disaster. Some injury or illness that threatened to take them away from him.
Bruce needed to do right by Tim this time, he needed to make sure that Tim accepted the treatments faster so the damage done to his body was reduced as much as possible but it wasn’t going to be enough, Tim was still going to die and it was still Bruce’s fault and he should have never allowed himself to take in another child after he’d let one die in his arms.
“Bruce,” Tim huffed.
“Tim, let him do it,” Dick said.
“No way,” Tim said. “I’m not just some kind of therapy animal you can use to just get him onto the bed.”
Tim was hurting, he was dying, he was always dying.
“Grayson.”
Damian’s voice cut through all the rest, the boy in the edge of Bruce’s vision. He was small, he was so small, holding out a vial to Dick. Dick had been small too, he’d been so small when he had first donned the suit, he had been so small the first time he’d laid on this bed covered in blood.
“Tim.” Dick barked.
“Fine, fine! Hey, B, look I’m so scared, look at me I just some fragile little Victorian child in need of-”
“Tim.”
Tim’s shoulders dipped, letting out a hot breath. Tim’s breathing was wrong. It was wrong and he was hurting and Bruce needed to help him, needed to save him, needed to hold him if only to prove once and for all that he was loved.
That he was wanted.
Tim’s hand cupped Bruce’s cheek.
“Dad,” Tim said softly. “I know you’re trying to help me. So can you help me? Please? I’m scared and I don’t want to be here.”
Bruce’s body moved on instinct, barely registering he’d left the ground before he was already up on the bed, Tim’s warm body tucked against him.
It took only for a moment for Tim to relax against him, his breathing steadying even without supplementary oxygen. But he was still pale, he’d always been so pale.
Dick was coming towards the bed, towards Tim, the vial Damian had given him slotted into an auto-injector.
Bruce shifted his weight, refusing to let Tim be injected by whatever it was that the Joker had mixed into that vial.
Not the Joker. Cassandra and Damian. Cassandra and Damian had gone on before the others, they had deducted what treatment Tim had required from the moment they saw his symptoms and they had worked as one to make a cure.
He was so proud of them, of all of them.
Bruce forced himself to breathe, to shift, if only a little, guarding Tim from seeing the auto-injector while also making sure that Dick would have an appropriate injection site.
As Tim’s breath hitched, Bruce soothed him, pressing a kiss to his temple, running fingers through his hair.
Bruce heard Dick’s bare feet move against the ground.
He shouldn’t have bare feet, no one should have bare feet within the cave unless they were explicitly on the sparring mats. There were too many dangers, too many ways for his loves to be hurt.
But bare feet did not matter right now; all that mattered was tending to Tim, was making sure that Tim was as comfortable as he could possibly be even surrounded by medical equipment and siblings.
Dick came closer still but Bruce held Tim close, knowing that at any moment Tim might outright panic and fight like hell to get out of the med-bay, no matter how much he needed to be here right now.
“Easy, easy,” Bruce cooed. “I’ve got you.”
Something dug into Bruce’s arm. His own breath caught, realising at once that the cure that Cassandra and Damian had worked so hard on procuring had just been wasted on him and not on the boy who so desperately needed it.
“Oh, oops,” Dick said. “Sorry, you must have moved, B.”
“Get another.” Bruce demanded. “Tim, he needs it, he- get another!”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Tim hissed.
Tim was going to die.
He was going to die and he was going to grow cold and while Bruce will hold him through it, he will always hold them through it, he couldn’t lose another child, he couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Bruce will not allow any of his kids to ever be put in danger again, even if it made them hate him, he needed to keep them safe.
Needed to keep them whole.
Bruce blinked slowly, the world growing distant.
“There we go,” Dick murmured. “Don’t fight against it.”
Fight against it.
Bruce had to fight against it.
He would fight against all evil in the world if that was what it took to keep them alive.
Keep them okay.
“Dami,”
Dick’s voice was swirling, all of it was swirling.
Bruce had to fight against it, he had to stay awake, he had to make certain that Tim was given the cure right the fuck now.
“Oh,” Dick said. “Thanks. Okay, Timmy, I’m going to come closer to him again, can you try to focus him just long enough for me to get an IV in?”
Bruce couldn’t lose focus, he couldn’t.
He couldn’t lose them.
He couldn’t.
“Dad,” Tim said, a hand curling into Bruce’s shirt. “Can you show me how to do it again? It feels like I can’t breathe.”
Tim needed to be on oxygen.
He needed to be on oxygen but he needs to be calmed down first, he needs to be the one to give his assent for the mask to be used or he’ll just breathe worse in his panic.
“We’ll do it together,” Bruce promised. “Breathe in, one… Two… Three… Four…”
Something scratched at Bruce’s arm but Tim’s hand was all at once scrambling up onto his shoulder and his boy was scared, his boy was so fucking scared and Bruce had to keep him steady, had to keep him okay.
When Bruce told Tim to hold onto the breath, Tim coughed, tears glistening in his eyes, but Bruce soothed him through it.
“I’ve got you, Son.”
Dick was moving as quickly as he could, tying off the bandage on Tim’s arm to stop Tim from pulling the IV.
Nothing was running through the tubing, Bruce’s brain supplied. No… No, there were two sets of tubing for some reason, one was tracing down until it was tucked beneath the bandage on Tim’s arm while the other led into Bruce’s own.
Bruce went to thrash against the poison but Tim’s head knocked against his collarbone and Bruce needed to keep him calm, needed to keep him safe.
“Hey, B,” Dick said. “Tim’ll probably hate the sensors, do you think it might help if you have some too so he doesn’t feel so vulnerable?”
The logic turned weirdly in Bruce’s head.
“Bruce, please…” Tim croaked.
He was trembling. It was slight, as though Tim was trying to hold himself together, but he was trembling all the same.
“Of course.” Bruce said.
Even with Bruce’s permission, there was something wrong about allowing Dick to place electrodes on his chest first when it should be Tim that needed them more, Tim that needed the IV’s and the leads connected to the heart monitor and the pulse ox that was clipped onto Bruce’s finger.
But this was for Tim.
To show him that it was okay to accept care, it was okay to accept treatment.
They had tried so many other things to keep Tim calm when he was unwell, perhaps this technique really was a viable way to help Tim settle.
Bruce did not, could not, flinch at the sudden beeping that echoed against the walls, against the crowd of people that surrounded him. The gathering of children that were near him, all concerned about their sibling’s health.
There were two distinct patterns amongst the beeps; one just a little elevated and one that was far too fast.
Tim’s heart was beating too fast and it was going to fail and his skin will grow cold and Bruce could not bury another, he couldn’t.
Bruce’s hand pressed against Tim’s chest, willing his heart to slow, to stabilise, to-
He blinked hard, and again, feeling nothing but a steady thumping against his hand. It didn’t make any sense, the heart monitor was clearly showing that Tim’s vitals were reaching dangerous levels and yet when Bruce shifted his hand up to Tim’s pulse point, the pulse mirrored that of what the monitor connected to Bruce was announcing.
The world swirled, nothing at all making sense.
Tim was the sick one.
Tim was always the sick one because Bruce had not been there when son had needed him the most. He was never there for when his son’s needed him.
“Bruce,” Tim’s voice was quiet, those too-intelligent eyes once again looking up at him. “Just let the meds work. You’ll be okay.”
“Drake is right, Father,”
Damian’s words were fading into the darkness.
“Let us tend to you this time.”
Bruce should fight it, he needed to fight it, but he was just so tired.
There should have been anger that bubbled in his chest when he realised that Dick had administered a sedative to go alongside the antidote, but all that filled him was pride.
Bruce woke slowly, put at ease by the familiar warmth pressed up against his side.
He simply listened for a little while, not because he was searching for a threat but because he wanted to be reassured that each of his children were still nearby.
It must still be Tim that shared the cot with him, the teenager sleeping soundly against the crook of Bruce’s arm. Bruce’s other arm, the one that still had an IV, had draped itself over Tim’s small body.
No, it wasn’t only Tim that was on the bed, Damian was now curled against Bruce’s back. The boy’s breathing was steady, and while Damian would always claim that no one would ever be able to detect the difference, Bruce could tell that he was genuinely asleep and not simply pretending.
There had been a blanket draped over all three of them, no doubt by Dick. The very same Dick who judging by the creaking of the chair was close to tumbling from it outright, his legs kicked up onto the bed.
Without opening his eyes, Bruce recognised that his daughter was sitting at the entrance to the med-bay, as if to protect its occupants from intrusion. She was breathing loudly enough that she must be aware that Bruce had stirred; she only breathed like that when she knew he was listening out for her.
Duke.
Bruce couldn’t hear Duke.
No, no, Duke was okay too. There was a deeper inhale of breath off to Bruce’s side, as though Duke had chosen the other gurney as his bed for the night. He, and all the others, surely would have been more comfortable on their own beds upstairs and yet Bruce was grateful to have them close all the same.
They were all okay.
Jason would be okay too, Bruce told himself. Without the remnants of Fear Toxin coursing through his veins, Bruce could almost believe it too. While the toxin had finally been flushed fully from his system, part of Bruce’s overwhelming worry did not slip away.
There will always be that worry, buried deep within his chest.
He was a parent, after all, and to be a parent was to have a piece of your soul intertwined with each of theirs.
A rumble of metal had Damian jolting upright, though he was quick to soothe himself as he heard the motorbike engine just as Bruce had. Damian muttered something, pressing once more against Bruce’s back while Tim stirred within his arms.
It took only moments for the engine to cut off, then moments longer for heavy boots to scuff against the floor, coming straight for the med-bay.
The others were all waking now, though Dick was still snoring away.
Bruce moved slowly, not wanting Tim or Damian to pull fully away from him yet needing to sit up a little all the same if only to see the figure come in through the door.
There he was; Jason was home once more.
There he was; the final piece of Bruce’s soul, home once more.
“Hey Timbo,” Jason said. “Why the fuck did you send me a wall of text about shit I wanted to know nothing about? And I mean nothing.”
Tim scrambled up to his feet in an instant, the mock IV’s line slipping easily out from beneath the bandage.
“No.” Tim rushed out. “No, no, no, don’t you dare tell me I sent it to everyone!”
“Sent what?” Duke asked groggily.
“Phones! All of your phones, now!”