Time Will Tell

by DC Luder

First in the Series of Three storyline. After a tragic injury, Bruce must make the long road to recovery with the help of family and friends. 2010 DFA Winner for Best Multipart, Best Depiction of the Dynamic Duo and the Dannell Lites Memorial Award.

2. Time Will Tell: I

Title: Time Will Tell: I

Author: DC Luder

Summary: First story in the Series of Three. After a tragic injury, Bruce must make the long road to recovery with the help of family and friends.

Rating: T for violence, language and adult themes

Infringements: All recognizable characters belong to DC Comics, not DC Luder.

Author's Note: Revised chapter posted 2/5/10

^V^

Daylight was less than two hours away as I stumbled through the bedroom window of my apartment.

With my eyes half closed, my hands obediently removed my mask and tugged at my gloves, letting them fall victim to gravity as they fell to the carpet. My sore, fatigued legs slowly led me in the general direction of the bed, pausing to kick off boots. Yawning, I removed the black and blue tunic that stank of sweat and gunpowder. After fumbling at the body armor's hooks and snaps, I let the vest and shoulder pads drop before then undoing the utility belt that was in desperate need of a refill.

At the sight of the comforter and feather pillows, I collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering with my leggings

Although it had been my day off, I had barely found more than ten consecutive minutes to just sit and relax. I had been relatively awake by ten in the morning, ended up going for a run before the May mugginess surfaced followed by desperate attempt at cleaning my apartment before heading to Gotham. From there it had been a long day of catching up with Alfred, sparring with my favorite little bro and then an awkward Family dinner.

That and a night of Gotham patrols followed by an early morning touring Bludhaven.

.

Although it would have been nice to take Bruce up on his offer to help, I had declined. It was one thing for me to return to my roots but it was an entirely different matter for him to spread his reach to the Haven. Just as it was his city, this was mine.

Sleep came almost instantly, with soft snores escaping my lips. I had a shift from eight until six and was already dreading the amount of coffee it was going to take to survive it. Even after mastering power naps and mini-comas, I still found myself craving for the full night's sleep that everyone else endured…

Then the phone rang.

"Can't a guy get a break around here," I growled as my hand fumbled for the offensive device. On the fifth ring I muttered a weak, "Hello?"

"Dick?!" a young man's voice asked. Had I been conscious, I would have recognized the fear in his voice.

"Tim. It's five in the morning…"

"Sorry… I need your help."

"Nightwing and his counterpart are unavailable right now. Please call back at a later time. Thank you---."

"He's hurt, Dick."

"Who's hurt?" I asked, slowly sitting up.

"Bruce. Alfred's in with Leslie now… They're still operating," Tim's voice softened with emotion.

My heart started to pump faster with concern, "Slow down, now. What happened?"

Tim took a deep breath, "We were helping the police. Drug raid in the French Quarter. He---Gordon was in the line of fire. Pasqualle… took a semi-automatic from a SWAT member… Armor piercing--- He just--- He dove in front of the shooter. Thought he was dead," sniffles began to interrupt Tim's words, "Dick, he was hit three times. Barely alive when we brought him here…"

It took a moment for his words settle. I then thought to myself that Bruce had been shot dozens of times, not a new occurrence. He'd dance with death more times then I cared to remember. But for Tim...

"What's his condition?"

Tim remained silent.

"Tim, where was he shot?"

"It was bad, point blank," he paused, "Once in the abdomen, in the chest and--- And in the head."

"The bullet grazed his head?"

"No, it… went inside."

My heart leapt into my throat, "Tim. I'll be there in thirty minutes, okay? Sit tight."

"…We're at Leslie's."

"Okay, I'm on my way."

I threw on clothes quickly as my concern was consumed with straight out fear. The pieces of my Nightwing suit that were strewn about the floor were still warm to the touch as I donned them once more. As I raced out the window, my pulse was throbbing in my temples.

This was a fear we had never faced before; a bullet to the head meant serious business. I had known people to survive such injuries, but recovery had been far from complete. Would he ever wake up? Would he ever be normal again? Would he d---?

Opting for the motorcycle, I maneuvered the empty streets of Bludhaven onto the highway. I put her in top gear going over a hundred and twenty-five miles per an hour with nothing on my mind but the future of the man I considered to be my father. Once I had entered the city limits of Gotham, I slowed to a manageable seventy-three and took the third exit off of the main drag. Ten minutes later, I pulled up to the rear entrance of Leslie's clinic where I had visited more times than I have cared for. Either unconscious in the arms of Batman, or even worse, trying to carry his bleeding form to Leslie's aide.

After locking up, I raced through the door and towards the surgery bay of the clinic. Given the early hour, the halls were deathly silent. Too silent. In the waiting area, Robin sat motionless next to Batgirl, her head low with defeat. Across from them, sat Jim Gordon and his daughter, Barbara, both red-eyed and agitated.

They looked up at me and if possible, their faces grew more solemn. Gordon looked puzzled momentarily then the recognition sank in, and he nodded before getting to his feet.

Just then, a rough voice announced, "No more coffee, Commish, but there was some Coke in the fridge..."

I turned to see the disgruntled form of Detective Harvey Bullock, carrying a six-pack of cola. His hair was in disarray and his trousers and striped shirt were blood stained. I searched for any sign of injury and upon finding none; I concluded it had been someone else's blood.

Behind him was the slim figure of Renee Montoya, her face painfully sad. She had been a one of the few closely trusted police officers of the Batman. Completely opposite of her partner, they worked together flawlessly in the fight for justice.

"Who the hell are you? Smokey or the Bandit?" Bullock snapped and grabbed my coat collar as he pulled my face to a mere inch from his. His breath was foul with cigar smoke and his eyes were dark with anger.

"Easy, Bullock," Gordon said as he stood, "He's friend, not foe."

He glanced at the Commissioner before locking his eyes back on to mine, "You that freak from the 'Haven?"

Silently, I nodded in return. I had never been one of fond feelings for Bullock, and certainly wasn't at the moment. His disorder and temper however made him the cop that he was. Bullock stared at me for few seconds more and then released my jacket. He grunted something that might have been an apology before sitting down next the commissioner. Montoya remained standing next to the wall as silence filled the waiting room.

I was about to ask what the progress had been when I spotted motion out of the corner of my eye. The others looked with me towards the surgical bay at the sight through the glass doors. Leslie and Alfred were dressed in surgical gowns and masks. Both had a large amount of blood splattered all over them. Leslie removed her mask and spoke with Alfred briefly, and he nodded, turned and directed several nurses that had helped the surgery. As Leslie opened the doors in order to approach us, we caught a glimpse of a stretcher being pushed down the hall.

The being that rested on it was wrapped in gauze and had tubes running over him from every direction.

Leslie removed her soiled apparel and put them in a hamper as she proceeded towards the group, radiographs in her left hand. Her face was solemn, but then again whenever we were injured, no matter how slight, she was reminded of the cost of Bruce's war.

I feared what price Bruce was about to pay.

^V^

The group stood in unison as Leslie stopped in front of us, "Don't stand up for me, it's been a long night and it's not over yet."

I sat back down next to Batgirl, even though I wanted nothing more than to race through the doors and down the hall into recovery. I had to see him, I had to feel his pulse…

After Pasqualle had been taken down, for the second and final time, I had wasted no time in running to Batman's side. At first, I had thought that he had been able to take the hits to the chest, and that even with armor-piercing rounds he wouldn't have been in to bad of shape. Far better than the commissioner would have faired.

It was I reached out for him that I had realized I had been far too optimistic.

We had applied compresses, from our first aid kits in the belts, then moving on to staunching blood with material ripped from Harvey Bullock's own trench coat. For the first few minutes, he had seemed alert, looking to each of our faces, even nodding at Jim when he had grasped his gloved hand. However, he had been unable to respond to anything I had said, and showed no response to painful stimuli.

I was a teenaged kid, with limited first aid training and even I knew how bad it was…

Leslie put the films onto a light box and then illuminated it, letting us look them over before explaining them. I found myself getting back up to my feet in order to get a coser look, being sure to stay out of the others' view. A skull was ont eh first one, the bullet wound I had been the most concerned by, the brain mass was translucent with the occasional folds outlined. Located in the front of the skull, a bullet's silhouette was clearly defined in contrast with the light shades of the cranial tissue.

The next film was of the chest, ribs overlaying the outlines of organs. The bullet had shattered two of the ribs and had lodged itself near the spine rather than launch out his back. The body armor had failed to prevent it from entering but had eaten its momentum to keep it from exiting.

The third film was of the abdomen, evident from the faded outlines of the intestines and digestive organs. A portion of the liver was intensely white and the bullet could be barely seen in the center of color.

"My lord," Montoya muttered from the rear.

"My words exactly. We were able to remove the bullet from the liver and stopped the blood flow. He threw a clot half way through the procedure, blocked the hepatic artery and the flow of oxygen to this lobe of the liver. Unfortunately we had to remove it. For the second bullet, he was lucky it didn't penetrate the spine. It was an inch from the cord itself. Easily removed however. Mimal damage the chest cavity, considering the splinters of the rib cage…"

"What about the third one," I asked.

"There is pressure building up in the cranial sac. I feared an aneurysm, but we relieved the pressure by drawing excess blood out and it hasn't returned… yet. At this point, if the bullet were removed, it would cause more harm than good. In fact, it probably would kill him. Maybe later when he's stable, but even then, the invasive nature of the procedure would most likely do more harm than good."

Gordon asked weakly, "Is he stable?"

"Almost, Commissioner. His vitals are still low, which from the blood loss is expected. we've been pumping in blood and plasma through a central line for the last three hours and I've started him on some steroids to help maintain the pressure on his brain... Right now, his EEG readings are hopeful, but he is comatose."

Trying to fight back memories of my father, crippled and on his deathbed after being held captive in Haiti, I inquired, "Is he on a respirator?"

Leslie nodded, "As a precaution. He had fairly good breath sounds and autonomic responses coming in but if he takes a turn for the worst, I'd prefer to be safe rather than sorry."

Turn for the worse…

"Can we see him?" I continued.

"Not yet. I'd like to wait and get his blood pressure and his pulse up a bit. If you want, you can look through the window of the recovery room, but that's all until he is less critical."

The Gordon rose to his feet and joined Nigthwing as they followed Leslie back down the hall. Bullock and Montoya stayed behind and I didn't realize I had as well until I felt atgirl's hand on my forearm.

Five minutes earlier, I wanted to barge into recovery, to make sure he was alive.

I could barely move my feet.

After nodding at her, I followed Batgirl down the hall towards the recovery area. As we passed the surgery room, several glanced in, myself included, and saw a horrific site. The floor was bathed in bright red blood. Wadded and saturated gauze pads were everywhere, as well as bloodied instruments. In a metal bowl that rested on the counter next to the door sat a clump of bloody liver tissue that peeked through the blue strile draping.

I felt my stomach churn.

He was alive.

They had raised the dead.

Gordon's face quivered when he passed the surgery room and I noticed that Barbara had reached over and squeezed his hand.

At the end of the hall there was a large room with numerous beds available for post-operation patients. The lights were dimmed and the glows of heart monitors could easily be seen. From my rear location of the group, I couldn't see very well and was thankful for it.

Nightwing was the first to look though the massive window and I was surprised to see his lower lip trembling. If anything, Dick always remained optimistic, light-hearted, holding back his emotion nearly as well as Bruce. Leaving Batgirl, I stepped forward slowly and stood at his side, absorbing the sight before us.

The hero, the man they all looked up to, was bandaged like a mummy. His entire skull was wrapped in white gauze except his nose, mouth and right eye. The site of the wound was already bleeding through the material. His chest was bare and was also wrapped from his collarbone to his hips. His limp arms were attached to several IV lines and pulse recording devices.

We had all forced ourselves for a majority of our lives to become emotionally detached to intense situations. Those in disguise, even more so. However, among those that stood before the picture window, not a single soul wasn't affected. Not a single eye was dry.

^V^

Three days passed.

Seventy-two hours and not so much of a finger twitch.

The only sign of improvement was that the subdural swelling had responded to the steroids and Leslie had felt comfortable taking him off of the ventilator. With Bruce breathing on his own, we all had found a small surge of hope amidst the ever-growing fear of the inevitable. His temperature had been alarmingly high after the first twenty-four hours, but after high-powered IV antibiotics, his system had calmed and his vitals had returned to normal. An infection was the last thing he needed to fight off.

Bruce never gave up, I kept reminding myself, no matter how high the odds were stacked against him, he never surrendered.

Between sitting at Bruce's bedside and working at the Clocktower, the first three days after Pasqualle had flown by. Thankfully, the shootout had occurred late at night and had not been attended by some of the more notorious thrill seeking investigative reporters. Nevertheless, words had traveled throughout Gotham's underbelly that the Bat was down, possibly even dead. Needless to say, the criminals had waited a day, testing the waters before hitting the streets with a fury. A welcome distraction, Dick, Tim and Cass had been fighting back as best they could, fighting for Gotham, fighting for Bruce…

After signing off early from the Clocktower, a little after two-thirty in the morning, I made the twenty-minute drive to free clinic. Even though my bed had been calling my name, I wouldn't have been able to get any meaningful sleep. In fact, the only sleep I had managed in three days had been slumped in the padded chair next to Bruce's gurney.

Before heading through the back entrance, I took a moment to myself, hands still on the steering wheel of the idle SUV. Each visit had become harder than the last in spite of the marginal improvements. The day before, I had dropped by to bring lunch, for the staff and for Dick who had been at Bruce's bedside all day.

Entering the back "storage room" where each us had been treated over the years, I found him just sitting there, staring at Bruce's bandaged face.

He hadn't acknowledged me until I had taken his free hand into mine.

Since the shooting, he had either been hitting the streets of Gotham, at the free clinic or at the Clocktower for much needed meals and showers. Given that he rarely used his time off form the force, he had been able to take seven consecutive personal days, leaving seven days left for the year.

Hopefully, he wouldn't need to break into his sick days or vacation time.

My father had been by every night, without fail. According to Leslie, he always called a head and never stayed more than five or ten minutes, all of which was spent just staring down at his fallen friend.

The day after it had happened, he had called me first, wondering if I would go with him.

I had seen my father recover from being tortured, watch his city befall tragedy and tragedy… and I had seen him bury the love of his life.

And yet the look on his face as he watched Bruce breath in and out…

"Okay," I lied to myself before opening the car door.

After a curt nod on the secluded room's door, I heard a muted response before opening and pushing it in. Shutting it, I looked to the rear of the room to see Leslie bent over, swathing a small flashlight over Bruce's exposed eyes. She had removed the encasing head bandage, with only white gauze covering him from the forehead up.

Without being prompted, she replied, "Pupils are increasingly reactive… Left is still a fraction sluggish."

Moving to the other side of the gurney, I looked up to Bruce's still face, "Good to see that mug of yours, Bruce."

"Hairy mug," Leslie smirked as she pocketed the penlight, "Well, now that the bandages are off, no doubt Alfred will be here in the next minute or so with a straight razor."

I smiled as well before taking a cold, rough hand into mine, "Where is Alfred?"

"I gently persuaded him to get to some sleep… Although, he refused to go to the Manor, so we compromised on my house."

Knowing Leslie had also been up around the clock over the last three days, I offered, "I'll stay with him… if you'd like to rest yourself."

She blinked slowly, before replying, setting a hand on Bruce's forearm, "I actually managed a bit of a nap this afternoon… it was pretty quiet today…"

I watched on as she checked the IV antibiotic and fluid bags hanging from the stand to her right. Taking advantage of her distraction, I scanned my eyes over the medical readout displays on the EKG and EEG. His vitals were well within range, his low pulse being the exception but being that physically fit it was understandable. Although where his heart was beating away, his brain activity showed only small waves and dips.

"There was a spike earlier in the temporal, frontal and parietal electrodes."

My eyes lit up, "Really, when was this?"

"Around ten or so… Dick had dropped by for a quick visit. Called me back in when the EEG started fluctuating."

He hadn't told me during the night, probably as a way of not giving me false hope.

I'd have to smack him for it later.

"That's a good sign… He's making his way back to us.," Leslie had offered before excusing herself. No doubt she had a number of other patients waiting for her.

Alone, I found my eyes returning to Bruce's face and my thoughts drifting to dark places.

With all of his strength, all that he had overcome in his life, would he be able to defeat a coma? Even when Bane nearly killed him, he woke after a few hours...

It was the ultimate battle, because the strong will and tenacity had once thrived on were useless against the enemy he was currently fighting.

All because of a fraction of a second.

A wrong turn down an alley…

The night he had been shot had started like any other, routine patrols followed by a visit to the GCPD. My father had asked for masked backup in the capture of Henri Pasqualle and his fellow drug dealing understudies at one of the cover businesses,

La Belle Fleur.

The beautiful flower.

The police had barricaded the two-story brick building as SWAT members prepared to barge in. The men inside were taken by surprise, disabled and rendered useless with the help of extra-strength gas pellets. The plan was a standard, one that had always ended with the bad guys coughing and puking their guts out, the worst of said bad guys even sporting bruises and bumps. Weeks of investigation ending in a firefight with minimal loss and injury, paddy wagons filled to capacity, all thanks to the caped crusaders.

That time had been different.

Robin and Batgirl had stayed outside, taking out thugs as they fled the smoke filled building. They had worked far more efficiently than the SWAT members who were too busy pointing their guns and shouting orders. Two of the three men remaining in the building had flown out of the central ground floor window, followed quickly by the goateed ringleader.

Seemingly, a job well done, a front page story for the Gazette and another success for the caped crusaders.

That as until Pasqualle staggered to his feet, ripped a semi-automatic from a SWAT officer.

In a matter of seconds, Pasqualle had pulled the trigger, my father's life had flashed before his eyes and a dark figure leapt in the path of three armor-piercing bullets.

Given that he was needed for the conviction, SWAT had simply beaten Pasqualle, pummeling him rather than shooting him. My father had closed his eyes before diving to the pavement, hoping to find shelter behind a squad car. Bullock had grabbed him by the arm, ripping him back to his feet before taking off towards Pasqualle, leaving my father confused.

But not for long.

While we had waited for Bruce to get out of surgery that first night, he had confided in me, telling me the events through his eyes. The fear that had raced through him at the sight of a very large, very still body lying in a a very large pool of blood.

And there his savior lies, and may never rise again.

I have pondered since that night the odds of him waking up. Leslie had given him at least forty-sixty, although her numbers were still optimistic. Ever being able to function on a somewhat normal level: thirty-seventy. And ever being able to be up to standard again: twenty-eighty.

And the chances of him ever being able to take on his nocturnal counterpart ever again: ten-ninety.

Not very good odds, even for Batman.

Even upon waking, the aftermath suffered could range from simply have a scar on his brow to being riddled with brain damage. I had read several texts that Leslie had on brain injuries and the possibilities had my guts in knots. Since the bullet was in the left frontal lobe of the brain, his right side motor skills would be the most likely to suffer. Fine motor skills, walking and balance would be off, if possible at all. Vision and hearing were also likely to suffer, as well as speech and critical thinking and reasoning skills.

All of the things he thrived on…

And lastly, memory. Leslie consulted with a neurologist in Boston and had sent him the radiographs, MRI scans and pertinent medical data. Apparently, he specialized in unique brain injuries, including gun shot wounds. He concluded that another possibility would be complete amnesia. Not just memories of friends and family, but of language, math and social behaviors. If this was the case, it would require complete rehabilitation, from infancy up.

Thankfully, the door opened, revealing Alfred and Leslie. They were swiftly followed by Dick who had changed out of his Nightwing suit and into a pair of dirty jeans and a wrinkled tee-shirt, both fitting his exhausted face and chaotic hair.

After he offered me a tired smile, he walked up behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders before leaning over to look down at Bruce.

Leslie had a lightness to her face that hadn't been there when she had left a few minutes earlier and Alfred looked positively cheerful.

Feeling out of the loop, I had looked up at Dick's stubbled chin, "Well?"

Dick smirked down at me before glancing to Leslie, "It's all yours, Doc."

Leslie had returned to her post at Bruce's bedside before she announced, "He's been stable for twenty-four hours… I think… he's ready to go home. He already has all of the equipment he needs. Besides, this dank, dark room isn't the best when it comes to warm, healing environments…"

Dick added after letting go of my shoulders, "Yeah, he'll kill us if he wakes up here."

I squeezed Bruce's cold hand, "You wouldn't, would you, Bruce?"

Passing, I heard Leslie ask Dick to bring around one of the medical transport vehicles that Leslie used on the rare occasion she needed to transfer a patient to another hospital. He was quick to head back into the hall. Still keeping Bruce's hand in mine, I watched as Leslie unplugged the EKG and EEG electrodes from the machines rather than removing them from under the bandages. She then proceeded to remove the oxygen cannula from under his nose before setting an mask over his face, the clear tube leading to a portable tank.

Once ready for transport, I exited the small room to make way for the stretcher. I watched on as Leslie, Alfred and Dick moved him from the gurney and then strapped him in for the ride.

Home, sweet home.

With Leslie and Alfred riding up in the town car, I opted to ride beside Dick in the unmarked ambulance. We were silent until hitting a red light before the St. James North exit. When the light turned green and Dick hadn't accelerated, I finally looked over to see his death grip on the steering wheel.

I reached out and gently touched his tense forearm, "He's going to be okay. He always pulls through."

Pressing gently on the gas, he nodded, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

^V^

For the duration of the ride, Leslie had not uttered a single word.

Where my eyes had been staring intently on the ambulance before us, hers had been directed to her hands as they rested in her lap.

We arrived at the manor moments after Master Dick and Ms. Barbara, and I carefully followed Master Dick as he pulled around behind the garage to the rear service entrance. Aside from rare guests and events hosted at the Manor, the front door remained locked and unused. It was where Master Dick tried sneaking into the manor on his intermittent visits, hoping to gain access tot eh kitchen before being discovered. Following a rigorous day of academics, it was where Master Tim entered the Manor before quickly making his way down into the Cave, more often than not with Miss Cassandra following after him.

And lastly, each weekday evening between five and six, depending on traffic, Master Bruce quietly opened the service door, sighed before hanging his jacket and---.

"Alfred?"

I felt Leslie's hand on my arm, shaking me from painful reverie. I had automatically pulled into the garage and had cut the ignition. Judging by the pained look on her face, we had been parked for some time.

"Are you all right, old man?" she asked, forcing a smile.

Nodding curtly, I returned the fake smile and lied, "But of course, my dear."

"But of course," she leaned over and gently kissed my cheek before stepping out of the car.

I followed suit, straightening my wool coat before locking the car, pocketing the keys and stepping out of the garage and into the cool, dark pre-dawn air. With sunrise still an hour and a half away, the birds had just begun to wake, ready for a warm, May day.

Master Bruce would have just been returning from patrols.

I reached the ambulance just as Master Dick had opened the back doors. Given that he had endured a number of challenges in his relationship with mentor, his devotion for Master Bruce had been unyielding in the last few days. Whether it was as his masked alter ego, trying to bring order to a city shaken to its core, or helping turn him so that Leslie was able to change bandages.

It had taken nearly losing him to bring them closer then they had been in years.

Leslie chose to stay behind while I excused myself to the third floor in order to prepare the master bedroom. I reasoned that demand of time lead me to take the elevator, not that I was exhausted. Regrettably, I had only been back to the Manor for fresh clothing and to receive a delivery of groceries. With Master Bruce in his rightful place, I would finally be able to return some of my attention on keeping the great house in order.

After stepping off onto the third floor, I retrieved fresh linens and proceeded to the master bedroom. Opening both of the double doors to accommodate for moving the stretcher into the room, I moved towards the bed, pausing as I noticed the comforter was rumpled and pillows were displaced.

Stepping forward, I set the fresh sheets and blankets on the bed before taking a seat, my lower lip trembling as I thought back to the Thursday evening prior to the shooting. Master Bruce had returned from the city mid-afternoon, and I had expected him to endure a hearty workout, a shower and an hour or two at the computer prior to heading back into Gotham.

Instead, he had met me in the kitchen, accepted a glass of ice water before saying, "I'm going upstairs, wake me by six."

I had forgotten to fix the bed afterwards.

Regaining my composure, I promptly stood and began removing the bedding and pillows, letting them fall to the floor rather than being partially folded and set neatly over the back of the chaise. As I began fitting the fresh sheets over the mattress, I heard the door creak softly from behind me. Rather than look back, I had offered, "Don't you make and excellent door stop, Master Dick."

He approached, quietly observing as I deftly tucked in the sheets and recovered the pillows. Master Dick offered a hand laying out the down covers but when I reached across to correct a rumple he left, he smirked, "Alfred, he's going to mess it up in five seconds..."

"Your point, sir?"

He smiled and tilted his head, "Never mind. Where's Tim? I'll have him help me move Bruce into the bed."

Thinking back to the late-night message on Leslie's answering machine from the young man, I answered, "Resting his eyes on the couch in the den I believe."

"I'll go grab him," he looked to the door, "Leslie and Barbara are coming up in the elevator… Want me to leave Bruce in the hall or---?"

I shook my head, "No, let's bring the stretcher in."

Following him into the corridor, I sighed at the sight of the loaded stretcher, waiting just outside of the elevator. I had intended on returning downstairs to aide Master Dick in unloading and maneuvering the gurney but apparently he had given way to his anxiousness. As he took the head, I gripped the cold steel bars by the foot and gently directed while Master Dick provided the momentum.

Once parallel with the king sized bed, Master Dick excused himself, adding that he would also head down to the Cave to retrieve the monitoring equipment.

He squeezed Master Bruce's arm before departing, "Be right back, Bruce."

"Master Bruce, I believe the first order of business is a good shave."

The portable EKG blipped and he exhaled quietly.

"Very well, sir…"

Being with him at Leslie's had been a horrid experience, notably because of the dreary, sterile atmosphere. Sitting at his bedside, for so many years should have made the experience moderately sustainable but every minute spent in the small treatment room had been nearly as unbearable as every second spent aiding in surgery.

IT was impossible not to think back over every major injury he had endured, namely when Bane had nearly killed him not three years earlier. The fear, the anxiety from watching him lay there, comatose, paralyzed… barely alive… For years I had been the one they had looked to for support and guidance and somehow I had managed to hold strong until Master Bruce opened his eyes..

When he had woken, he had believed himself to be a failure, broken physically and mentally.

I couldn't help but wonder what he would think after this latest hurdle.

When Master Dick and Master Tim arrived, I aided them in setting up the monitors, medical supply stand in addition to the ventilator and resuscitation cart. Just in case.

Hanging a temporary metal hook over the top of the headboard, I moved the IV bags, hoping to make moving Master Bruce less difficult. Stepping back, the young men moved forward, carefully undoing the sheet of the stretcher in order to cradle the limp body. On the count of three, they hefted together, lifting their mentor and setting him on the turned down bed. As Master Dick carefully pulled the spare sheet out from under Master Bruce, I noticed a twitch of a hand that hadn't moved in three days.

Sensory perception or simply autonomic reaction?

I heard muted voices approach form behind and I had turned to see Leslie and Ms. Barbara passing through the open doorway. Glancing back to the bed, I noticed Master Tim's eyes had begun to water, his face painfully emotional. As I stepped forward, in hopes comfort him, the young man suddenly turned and raced towards the door.

Thankfully, he was intercepted by Leslie's warm embrace.

She began to lead him out of the room, rubbing his back as she offered soothing words in his ear. Even though he had been a part of the Family for such a short time, the young lad had endured far too much tragedy, all with the bravery of a much older and wiser man.

It was then my attention was brought back the bed as Master Dick gasped, "Leslie, he's waking up!"

Looking over Master Bruce's face, I was just as shocked to see eyes fluttering, lips starting to come to life and his fingers slowly fluttering.

Thank you…

Being the closest, I retrieved a flashlight from the top drawer of the medical stand, dilating his eyes and speaking slowly in his soft voice. As I began asking if he knew where he was and if he felt any pain, Master Bruce began purposeful blinking, but not in the code we h ad long since agreed on: once for yes, twice for no.

His lids fluttered in confusion and fear.

Master Dick stepped forward, calling out Master Bruce's name as he touched his hands. Master Bruce witched in response, as if frightened by the gesture. Having released Master Tim, Leslie had stepped forward and began taking note of physiology and vitals, all the while trying to communicate with him.

As the panic in his eyes increased, I noted Leslie's face was growing with concern. I stepped forward, encouraging Master Dick to step back, doing my best to lock eyes with Master Bruce. Blue eyes once so decisive and bold were glancing about the room like a wild animal cornered.

"Alfred, what's---?" Master Dick had started.

I turned to face him, ordering rather than asking him to accompany Master Tim and Ms. Barbara out of the room. When he began to protest, I snapped, "Now, Richard!"

The young man looked to the figure on the bed once more before nodding, crossing the room quickly before guiding a teary-eyed Master Tim out of the room. Before he shut the door, they looked back at Master Bruce one last time only to see him hyperventilating in fear.

^V^