If the private jet had surprised Sam, the car waiting for them at Gotham Airport floored him.

"G," he said, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. "Do you know what that is?"

"Pretty sure it's a car, Sam."

Sam didn't even notice that G had fallen into their usual banter. "Calling that a car is like calling a diamond a rock. That, my friend, is a 1960 Rolls Royce Phantom."

"Indeed it is, sir," the silver-haired man standing beside the car agreed, and amusement tinged his British-accented voice. "Are you a connoisseur of cars?"

"Only the good ones," Sam said, eyeing the vehicle's classic lines and impeccable finish. "She's a beauty."

"That she is," G agreed, his voice yanking Sam back from his study of the car. "Good to see you again, Alfred."

"And you, Master D-"

Sam caught G's minute shake of his head, but only because he was looking for it.

"G's good, Alfred. This is my partner, Sam Hanna."

The man's - Alfred's - eyes widened ever so slightly. "Master Hanna."

Sam grinned. "Partner as in cop. My wife would object to the other kind."

Alfred took that news without blinking. "Indeed. Have you any other luggage, Master G?"

"We're good." G opened the trunk of the Phantom, tossed his go-bag inside, then held out a hand for Sam's.

Then Sam was blinking as Alfred opened the rear door for them. With a grimace, G climbed in. Sam hesitated, looking from G to Alfred and back.

"If you will, Master Hanna?"

"Yeah," Sam muttered. "Right."

The interior of the car was as well-kept as the exterior, and even G seemed to sit a little straighter than usual in it.

"How is he?" G asked when Alfred slid into the driver's seat.

"In a coma," Alfred answered, and Sam winced at the matter-of-fact nature of the response. He knew the British had a reputation for having stiff upper lips, for keeping calm and carrying on, but this man seemed to be going out of his way to cement the reputation for all eternity.

"How long?" G asked.

"Four days." Which meant the message had been overnighted to G on the third day. Sam filed the information away, even if he had no idea whether it might be significant.

"How'd it happen?"

Sam caught Alfred's frown in the rear-view mirror.

"It's okay," G said. "Sam knows how to keep secrets."

"A bullet grazed his skull," Alfred said, though his expression showed his disagreement with G's assessment. "And then he hit his head when he fell."

"Double trauma," Sam murmured. "That's not good."

"His prognosis is guarded," Alfred continued. "But you know as well as anyone how stubborn he is."

"Yeah," G agreed. "So why send for me?"

"Protocols."

Sam guessed that made some kind of sense, given G's nod, but what kind of person has protocols for being in a coma?

"Anyone with him?" G asked.

"He is not seeing anyone, if that's what you're asking," Alfred replied. "Miss Gordon, Commissioner Gordon, Doctor Thompkins and I have been taking turns sitting with him. He has had a few other visitors, of course."

"Of course," G agreed, then lapsed into silence.

Sam let the silence linger, surprised that it wasn't more uncomfortable than it was. But then, G obviously knew this Alfred person very well, and he'd always been able to be silent with people he knew.

Then they were pulling into a parking lot, and Sam craned his neck to see where they were. Ah, of course - the sign he found read Gotham Mercy General Hospital.

"Mercy General?" G sounded surprised. "Not the clinic?"

"The clinic is very well equipped for what it is," Alfred said. "But it is not equipped for a comatose patient. Nor is Doctor Thompkins qualified to care for one."

"I suppose." G stared at the building - or maybe at something else only he could see.

"Will you be coming home tonight, Master G?" Alfred asked.

"You know as well as I do that it hasn't been home for a long time."

Before Sam could even begin to parse whatever layers of meaning were in that statement, he felt G's gaze on him.

"How about it, Sam? You up for seeing my childhood haunts?"

It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to agree, but years of working with G Callen had taught him to double check his instincts where his partner was concerned, so he took a moment to examine G's expression.

But G had worked with him just as long, and managed a smile, or at least the start of one. "It's okay, Sam - whatever you decide is fine."

"Then, sure," Sam said. "Save me the cost of a hotel room."

"If you think I'd make you pay for a room when you're only here because of me …" G shook his head before looking up at Alfred. "Guess you have two houseguests tonight."

"I'll make up the room across from yours," Alfred said. "And I'll arrange for a car to be brought here."

"You're the best, Alfred." G's smile was more genuine this time, and he reached forward to clap the older man on the shoulder.

Then G was out of the car and Sam was scrambling to catch up to him. G might not have wanted to make this trip, but now that he was here, he was a man on a mission.

Whatever that mission was.

G strode through the doors of Gotham Mercy General Hospital. It had been a long time since he'd been here, but he knew the route to take as well as if he walked it every day. Sam followed a step behind him, a solid, comforting presence.

He'd have to tell Sam the truth - or at least part of it, he amended. He tried not to think that telling Sam would be practice for telling Hetty, but he knew it was.

Still, that was for later. Now was for getting into the private ward and seeing the man he'd once thought could be his second father.

There was a security guard at the door to the private wing, and a no-nonsense matronly type at the information desk outside it. She looked up at him with a forbidding expression.

"Authorized visitors only," she said, her brown eyes almost black with purpose.

She would, G mused, have made a hell of an agent, once upon a time.

"Pretty sure my name's on the list." He pulled an ID that he hadn't used in years from his wallet and offered it to her.

He'd expected the widening of her eyes, but her open-mouthed, "Oh," made him revise his earlier assessment of her potential as an agent.

"Discretion," he reminded her before she could say his name aloud. He'd tell Sam later, but the rent-a-cop had no need to know.

"Of course," she said, and turned to nod at the guard. The guard stepped aside and punched in a combination on the keypad beside the door.

"Last room on the right," the matron added.

"Thanks," G said to her and nodded to the guard as he stepped through the door.

"I've seen luxury hotels that weren't as nice as this," Sam observed quietly. "You come from money, G?"

"No," G replied, equally quietly. "Not even almost."

"There's a story there."

"Tonight, over a bottle of the good stuff," G said. He had to commit, or he'd find a way to avoid talking about a past he'd left far behind him.

There were six rooms in the private wing, three to each side. Closed doors indicated that four of the rooms were occupied, though there were no names listed on either the doors or at the nurses' station in the center of the wing to tell him who else might be patients here.

Not that he cared who might be in those other rooms. Not when his attention was focused on the last room on the right. He rested his hand on the doorknob and took a slow breath to steady himself.

Sam's hand on his shoulder was more reassuring than he wanted to admit. With a last glance at his partner, G turned the handle on the door and pushed it open.

He'd thought he was ready, thought he was prepared to see his mentor, his soi disant father figure, lying motionless in a bed, his life maintained more by machines than by his own stubborn will.

"Bruce." The word was an exhale, a breath more than a name. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?"

G crossed the few steps to Bruce's bedside, took the other man's hand in his, even as he noted the vital signs on the monitor and the array of IV bags hanging beside the bed.

"Do you really want to know?"

G turned more at the acid in the voice than the voice itself and found himself looking down at a redheaded woman in a wheelchair.

"Babs," he said by way of greeting, keeping his tone respectful. She deserved the respect and more, and he could only hope she still read him like she'd done when they were both younger and more idealistic.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone only a little softer.

"Protocols," he said, rolling his eyes for good measure.

She laughed, and then seemed surprised that she had. "Yeah. He has lots of those. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

G heard the accusation in her tone - the how dare you bring an outsider here now? - but Sam spoke before G could and offered his hand. "Sam Hanna. We work together."

"Do you?" Her too-knowing gaze darted between the two of them before settling on Sam again as she took his hand. "Barbara Gordon. We used to work together."

"Five years and change," G told her by way of at least a partial explanation why Sam was here.

"Doing what?" Babs still looked skeptical.

"NCIS," Sam said. "Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"Huh."

G had to smile at Babs' tone. "I only ever disagreed with his methods, never his goals."

She eyed him dubiously. "If you say so."

G sighed. "You don't have to believe me, Babs - but could we not fight about it? Not while he's … like this."

For a long moment, she held his gaze, her own belligerent, but then she sank back into her chair. "You're right - this is about him, not us. It's been a long few days."

"Take a break," G suggested. A glance at his watch made him add, "Get something to eat. You too, Sam - I know you haven't had anything since breakfast. I'll stay with him."

He met Sam's gaze, and was thankful for his partner's easy acceptance of the situation.

"I could eat," Sam said before turning to Babs. "Know anyplace good? I'll buy."

"I'd take him up on that," G said. "Sam doesn't buy unless he's lost a bet."

"Very funny, G," Sam shot back, his tone one of mortal offense. Babs laughed, and G felt something inside him unclench at the sound. She might never be easy with him again, but for now, they were in this together.

"C'mon," Babs said. "My van's parked around back."

Then they were gone and G was alone with Bruce. He hooked a toe around one of the visitors' chairs and tugged it closer before sprawling into it.

Now that he had the time to study the other man's features, G saw how worn the man looked, even when he should have been relaxed thanks to the drugs no doubt pumping through his system.

The price of his chosen lifestyle, a voice in the back of G's mind whispered. Could've been yours, too, but you got out before it came to this.

Whatever this was, G amended silently. Alfred's explanation had been bare bones, and he wouldn't get any more information until he was alone with either Alfred or Barbara, but what little he knew of the facts, and what all he knew of Bruce, suggested that Bruce had flung himself into a situation without doing a full reconnaissance of the area.

He'd done that many times before without serious consequences, but now it seemed that Fate was done favoring him.

"If you survive this," G told the man on the bed, "we are having a serious talk about your priorities."