Thanks to Knottaclue, I'll try!

I'm making a few guesses here on random details, let me know if I'm wrong on any of them.

"Terry. Terry." Bruce hadn't stopped saying it for the full five minutes between Terry's fall and a sudden ring from the handset, making him jump. He snatched it, furious. He knew who it was.

"What the fffuck took you," he growled.

"Scoping out, didn't want to meet anyone. Where do you want me to bring him?" On-screen, two men, one thin and one pale, working over the Bat's body feverishly. The pale one turned to Gordon, and Bruce heard his ensuing question on the speakers and the phone, making it seem to echo. "Sir? I… we need to get the suit off him to treat him properly."

There was a pause. Bruce sighed.

"Do it."

The pale man's face was distorted slightly through the camera. He reached eagerly, reverently, to the mask on Terry's face. The camera skewed, spun, settled at an upside-down angle, facing Terry's side. Bruce turned his head, though – he'd see the damage soon enough.

He heard a faint gasp, the microphone muffled. "Jesus. That's Batman."

"Yeah, fucking duh, Calais. Hand me…"

"Take him here," Bruce said.

Gordon's voice was flat. "No."

"What?"

She sighed. "I know you're protective, of the suit, of the kid, everything, but he probably has internal bleeding. That can't be handled at home with a rent-a-nurse."

Bruce was silent for a moment. Then, "Take him to Mary Lee."

Gordon nodded her approval. Mary Lee was a private (and hellishly expensive) hospital, known to treat the rich and famous for anything – simple broken wrists, to drug addiction, there were even rumors that they cleaned up people who had… other people's blood on them, and asked no questions. If they got the suit off before handing him over (one can set expectations of privacy only so high), Mary Lee was the perfect place.

"I'll meet you there," Bruce intoned, and hung up. He immediately picked up the phone again, already forming a story in his mind – an errand, a late night, a shortcut through an alley… the phone stopped ringing and a woman picked up. "Hello?"

"Yes, Mrs. McGuiness…"

Sulaweyo and Dario left after Terry was hustled into the van by Younger and Calais. Gordon thanked them and sent them home, then scooted to drive the van to Mary Lee. Younger and Calais were in the back of the van, which had become a makeshift ambulance as Gordon slammed a portable siren on the top. She dialed her phone. "Mary Lee, I have one incoming…"

Wade Calais's hands were busy, but his mind was frozen by one thought; This is Batman. This is Batman. Can't be the original, but an excellent replacement. His eyes traveled down the length of Terry's now suitless body, a small towel strategically placed by Younger out of courtesy. Oh, very excellent…

Gordon called over her shoulder, snapping Calais back to reality. "How is he?"

"Not as bad as it looks, which doesn't mean much because it's still pretty bad," Younger replied, his timidity taking a backseat to his instincts and skill. "Several fractured ribs, internal bruising and bleeding, left tibia fractured, right kneecap possibly fractured, left shoulder dislocated, mild scrapes… everywhere, main problem right now is his head. He hit it damn hard, could be a fractured skull, and he'll have some brain swelling for sure."

Gordon was silent.

Calais absently set the left leg, staring at Batman's face and privately taking inventory. Deeply set eyes (blue – he took a peek while Younger checked his dilation), thin, straight nose, strong jaw, thick lips – and, of course, that imperial forehead with points of dark hair swept off his face. Irish and Russian, he decided. It's the only way for those blue eyes and narrow nose to ally with the set jaw and lush lips. Italian, maybe?

The siren whined as Gordon squealed to a stop outside Mary Lee. Four attendants, in stylized ivory and forest green scrubs, were waiting. Bruce's car was already there.

Locusts? In the middle of Gotham? It's true that the population explodes as the summer wanes, but the noisy (his mother called them 'soothing') insects didn't usually brave the metal and concrete long enough for their songs to reach the windows of the McGuiness's downtown apartment. Once, Terry had found one on the windowsill, outside the screen and nestled safely between the pigeon spikes, humming bravely. It hummed for two full nights before it died.

He wanted to look out the window to see if there really were any locusts, but his intuition told him that the grenade in his head was probably light-triggered, so opening his eyes would be a terrible idea. One of his worst.

After another couple hours of fitful napping, Terry cracked one eye open. Thankfully, someone had anticipated his light sensitivity and drawn the blinds over the surprisingly massive window. In fact, the entire room looked expensive… light wooden paneling on the walls, with ivory-colored trim; his bedding was forest green and plush; and there was a massive spray of flowers on a table that stood by the door. Pretty nice, for a hospital.

And Terry knew that it was a hospital. You can decorate the rooms and put real sheets on the bed, but you could never get rid of the smell of medicine, the smell of oxygen and clean, of huge whirring machines and the laser knitters that the doctors use to quickly heal minor abrasions.

He jumped when a gravelly voice came from somewhere to his right. "You'll need more training hours."

"God Bruce, I'm only starting to heal. You want to scare me to death?" Terry reached up to his temple, which itched annoyingly – he had to slide his fingers under a bandage slightly to rub the complaining spot. Bruce's eyes followed Terry's motion. "I see they've stopped using silk to dress wounds."

Terry stopped. "What?"

"Of course, they've added the flowers…"

"Where am I?"

Bruce's gaze, that had been on the flowers, returned to Terry. "You're at Mary Lee Private Institute of Health."

Terry blinked. Mary Lee. Well, they did buy up some surrounding land and planted a bunch of trees ("for tranquility in the city", the newscaster had said, adding that the general public was forbidden) – that would explain the locusts.

But – wait – "Mary Lee! How am I supposed to afford… I don't know, Bruce…"

"Calm down," Bruce interrupted. "You're not the one footing the bill."

Terry shook his head, then reminded himself not to shake his head for a while. "These injuries are my fault – I mean, if I could just go to Gotham Public…"

"Think of it this way: imagine that I am a racecar driver on the underground circuit." Terry choked back a sarcastic comment. Bruce continued, oblivious. "I'm in a race, and I underestimated a turn. The car can't handle it, wasn't built to handle it, and I crash. I take it to the best repair center… because I need it to be fast and capable. And it'll take a while, but then we… we'll race together again."

Terry was silent. Bruce got up to leave. Just as he was closing the door, he heard Terry call, "Yeah, whatever, old man, but if they try to install a carburetor, they won't know what hit 'em."

Bruce smiled.

"Brain swelling?" Terry's mother looked horrified. "And broken ribs?"

"Ma, it's not as bad as all that, I'm only out of commission for like, three weeks."

She sank into the overstuffed armchair that rested by Terry's bed. "We're lucky that Mr. Wayne is paying for all this."

Terry blew out a breath. "Yeah, no kidding."

The door opened, and Gordon stepped in. She stopped once she saw Mrs. McGuiness, paused for one uncomprehending moment, then inclined her head. "I'm so sorry to interrupt. Bruce asked me to take Terry's report, so… I'm sorry, it never even crossed my mind that…"

"Oh, no, it's fine." Mary rose. "I'm sure that I'm driving my son wild with maternal instincts anyway." They smiled at each other. Mrs. McGuiness turned to Terry and pressed a kiss to his forehead. She smiled again and left, while Terry rubbed his forehead, flustered. He took a sidelong glance at Barbara.

"Taking my report, huh."

She gave him a level stare, then said, "Those bandages look great."

He flushed.

She continued, with the barest of smiles, "No, I brought a couple people with me… who I thought appropriate for you to meet."

She stepped into the hallway, waved two men into the room – one pale and tall, one meek and thin. "Terry, this is Wade Calais and Kyle Younger. They mopped you up after your… accident."

Terry was a little surprised. He'd figured that, if Bruce could have just kept him in the Manor with a hired nurse, he would have, but never really stopped to think about how he'd gotten to Mary Lee in the first place.

He looked at both of them. They looked like little kids trying to hide how excited they were on Christmas Eve.

Terry smiled at them, genuinely happy to meet the two men. "Kyle, Wade… Obviously I owe you dinner sometime."