When Sorry Must be Said

From where Tim was standing, they were probably screwed.

They, being him, Dick and Damian, had been on their way home from the movies. They'd been chatting about the cool fight scenes and the fantastic plot, the part when she lifted the tank, and how amazing and wonderful the No Man's Land scene had been. And then they'd been surrounded by twenty three thugs and it had all gone downhill from there.

Because while they were armed (assorted batarangs, smoke bombs, Tim's staff), there was no way to use them without having to explain why Bruce Wayne's three sheltered sons knew how to use them so skillfully. Well, they could maybe use the smoke bombs, but those wouldn't be much good when they were surrounded on all sides.

"Give us everything you've got!" The leader had a grill installed in his teeth, and was more tattoo than skin. "Phones, wallets, cash, valuables!" As if they'd needed an explanation as to what "everything" was.

With a sigh, Tim had tossed over his wallet, phone and watch. Dick did the same with his stuff, then gestured for Damian to do the same. The kid looked incredulous, and furious, but did as Dick asked.

With a grin, one of the thugs stepped forward and grabbed up the pile. He went back to his place in the circle, his tall and green mohawk quivering with excitement. Which quickly turned to rage when he opened the wallets. "What are you trying to pull? There's barely twenty bucks in here!"

"We used a gift card at the movies," Dick said unhelpfully.

Mohawk snarled. "That's a load of bunk! I know how you rich types work, where's the rest of it?!"

"Maybe if your mother hadn't procreated with a swine, you would be able to see that we're telling the truth."

There was a long beat of silence. Mohawk Thug looked confused, trying to figure out what Damian had said. Dick facepalmed, and Tim swore internally. Dick had said that Damian had been getting better about not provoking people who would gladly stab him, but apparently that only applied when in costume.

Finally, one of the other thugs, one wearing a red shirt and a vest, finally took pity on Mohawk ad whispered in his ear. It was actually kind of funny watching Mohawk's face go from confused to furious. "You said what about my mother?!"

It happened fast after that. Mohawk drew his gun. Dick moved, and the gun went off. Then several more gunshots sounded and Mohawk went down with four slugs in his chest. The rest of the thugs ran for cover.

If the bullet had hit Damian, it would have hit him smack in the middle of his chest. But it hadn't. Instead, Dick fell, bleeding from the stomach.

Tim pulled off his sweater, balling it up and pressing against Dick's wound, his attention torn between keeping a decent amount of pressure and finding out where the other four shots came from. Damian was standing where he had been before Mohawk had tried to shoot him, the smirk that had been on his face at a particularly good insult now shriveled and gone, making way for a stunned horror.

Red Hood landed on the pavement in front of them, one gun still pointed at Mohawk. The other tossed a phone at Damian, who caught it on reflex. "Call an ambulance!" He pulled his other gun and took a few pot shots at the few thugs who weren't three blocks away already.

Shakily, Damian did as he was told. Once the call was placed, he fell to his knees beside Dick, one hand fisting in his jeans, the other extending towards Dick. "Grayson, I-"

Tim smacked his hand away quickly, then went back to applying the pressure that could save Dick's life. "No, you don't get to touch him. It's your fault he's hurt!"

Damian sat stiffly and still, unmoving except for the hand that Tim had smacked. That hand was shaking, the streak of red blood – Dick's blood, transferred from Tim's hand to Damian's – running down his hand and dripping onto his jeans.

"N-no." Dick's face was screwed up in pain, but he still attempted a comforting smile. "Dami'n, n't..."

"Shut up Dick, you need to conserve your strength." Tim's sweater was thoroughly soaked by this point, and the cool evening breeze turned freezing with just his t shirt.

Jason was still shooting at the thugs, dodging when they shot back at him but not leaving his post in front of the other three. Right up until some crappy shot (or really good shot, depending on what he was aiming for) sent a bullet straight at Tim. Jason stepped in front of that one, catching it in the leg and sending a few rounds of his own at the guy. Tim didn't see if they hit, but considering no other shots were fired after that, Jason hadn't missed.

Jason swore, clutching at his thigh. If Tim wasn't busy trying to keep Dick's intestines inside his abdomen, he would be over there giving Jason first aid. But he was, so he couldn't. And Damian was more than a little useless right now.

A fragile sort of quiet settled on the brothers. Dick was still groaning in pain, as was Jason. While getting shot was nothing new, it still hurt a lot. Jason was trying to wrap a bandage around his leg, to stem the bleeding, and Dick was trying to grab Damian's hand. He kept missing, but didn't give up until he brushed past Damian's hand and Damian flinched violently. Dick's hand flopped onto the concrete, Damian's landing in his lap.

Mohawk groaned in pain, and Jason responded by shooting him in the head. "Jason!" Tim snapped, "What did you do that for?"

"What do you think?" Jason snapped back.

Tim would reply, say something, anything, but Dick groaned again, and he had to go back to focusing on not pressing too hard.

Finally, the distant sound of sirens became much less distant. "Took their sweet time," Jason muttered. "I'm out. Good luck explaining this to the cops." And then, despite the gaping hole in his leg, Jason grappled off.

The next half hour was a whirlwind of medics and questions and more questions. The paramedics loaded Dick into the ambulance, tucked Damian into the front seat and kept Tim in the back so they could ask him what Dick's name was, how old he was, if he had any allergies, what had happened, how long ago he'd gotten shot. Tim answered as much as he was able, as concisely as he was able, and if it wasn't even close to on par with what he would normally put into a report, it was still better than most civilians would be able to do.

When they got to the hospital, Dick was rushed to surgery. The doctor in charge asked him all the same sorts of questions the paramedics did before heading in. Then the questions were repeated by the trauma ward consultant, a nurse, and the police, when they finally showed up. By the time everyone was done asking Tim questions, he's tired, thirsty, and more than a little panicked. Sure, Dick had survived worse injuries. One time Killer Croc had gouged him really deeply in the chest, punctured a lung and nearly his heart. But after hours in surgery with Leslie and a few months recovery, he had been back hopping rooftops.

But, of course, it had been Nightwing who had survived that. And while Dick and Nightwing were the same, Tim still couldn't help but worry about the man in ways he had never worried about Nightwing.

Weary from the millions of questions he'd answered over and over, from trying to keep Dick from bleeding out, Tim collapsed in a chair, not noticing until he'd let out a deep sigh that he'd sat right across from Damian.

The kid looked... his age, for once. Like any other kid whose loved one was injured or sick. His feet were up on the seat, knees tucked to his chest. As soon as he noticed Tim staring, he unwrapped his arms from his legs and dropped them back to the floor, giving Tim a glare. "What, Drake?"

Tim scowled and looked away. He didn't want to deal with Damian today. Any day, really. And he supposed the brat had been alright earlier, when they'd been at the movies. He'd even shared his Skittles with Tim, even though he'd claimed it was because he didn't enjoy the flavour. But now? Now they were sitting in a hospital, waiting for Dick to get out of surgery to repair a hole in his stomach because Damian just had to provoke the gun wielding thugs.

As if reading his mind, Damian spoke up for the first time in at least ten minutes. "It's not my fault."

"I'm sorry, what? This could be nothing but your fault." Tim didn't care that he was being insensitive. He wanted Damian to feel horrible, guilty, because maybe it would teach him a lesson.

And if a tiny, vindictive part of him relished it, he didn't have to acknowledge that part.

"No!" Damian said loudly, just loud enough for the nurse at the desk to glare at him. Quieter, barely, Damian said, "If you hadn't been so pathetic, Grayson wouldn't have felt the need to take you to the movies to cheer you up."

Had that been why? Dick had been distant since he'd taken Robin away, but Tim had thought that he'd been too busy with Gotham and Damian to notice Tim. For the argument though it didn't matter. "Dick only got shot because he was trying to protect you, because you had to go and mouth off to the thugs." Tim said all of this calmly, grabbing a magazine about gardening from the pile and flipping through it. "In fact, if the trip to the movies had been about cheering me up, then why did you feel the need to butt in?"

Damian's mouth opened and closed a few times, clearly at a loss for words.

Tim thought back to earlier that day when they'd all been at the manor. Dick had dragged him away from a case file to take him to the movies. They'd just about been out the door when Damian had appeared at the top of the steps, demanding to be taken along. "Face it Damian. You were jealous because Dick wanted to spend time with me." As if Damian hadn't taken enough from Tim. He couldn't even let Tim spend a few hours alone with his brother. "If you hadn't come, Dick could have diffused the situation. If you hadn't spoken up, Dick could have diffused the situation. If Red Hood hadn't shown up, all of us would probably be dead now. There's nothing about this situation that's not your fault." Tim stood up. He didn't want to sit here anymore, not across from Damian, not faced with that expression Damian wore.

He walked to the other end of the waiting room and sat facing the wall. The anatomy poster on the wall kept his attention for the next two hours, until the doctor had come out telling them that Dick was out of danger and that he would be up for visitors when he woke up tomorrow.

Considering how late it was, Tim called Alfred for pickup, just realizing then that they'd forgotten to tell him about the situation.

"It's quite alright Master Tim," Alfred said after Tim apologized. "I understand it's been a stressful few hours. Besides, Master Jason informed me of what he knew and I am on my way."

"Oh jeez, Jason." Tim rubbed a hand over his face. "I forgot about him. How did he look? How was his leg?"

There was a pause, then, "His leg? Was Master Jason injured?"

"He didn't have you look at it?"

Alfred made that one noise, somewhere between a sigh of exhaustion and a groan of annoyance, but subtle enough that he could pretend he hadn't said anything at all. He used it a lot when one of them got injured and didn't do anything about it. "No, unfortunately. He phoned me about Master Dick. I haven't the slightest idea where he is currently."

"Right. I'll go check on him after we get back." Another thing to worry about.

"Very well Master Tim. As long as you get home in time for a full night's sleep. I'll be there in five minutes."

Tim said goodbye and hung up. Then, taking a deep breath, he walked back to where Damian was sitting. The brat looked like he hadn't moved since Tim had left. He did flinch violently when Tim touched his shoulder, enough that Tim felt a little guilty. If what he had said had shaken Damian enough for him not to notice Tim's approach, then maybe he should apologize.

He'd apologize when Damian apologized for trying to kill him three times. "Alfred's on his way. The doctor's say Dick will be fine, barring complications, and we can see him tomorrow."

Damian nodded stiffly and stood, heading for the exit. After a moment, Tim followed. Alfred was waiting in the parking lot, and the ride home was a silent one. When they got back to the manor, Damian headed straight for his room. Tim made for the cave, putting on his Red Robin suit and pulling the trackers he had on Jason up onto the monitor.

Yes, he had trackers on Jason. The man had tried to kill him, twice. The only reason Damian didn't get the same treatment was because as Robin, he was already covered in trackers. That and Dick normally kept a close eye on him.

Of course, planting the trackers didn't mean that Jason wouldn't be able to find them. But he had been making an effort to try and be family again, so he'd left half of them alone. Tim knew that Jason knew they were there. One time, he'd taken them and used them to spell out fun words. Like, "Fuck," and, "Off," and, "Tim." Tim had added surveillance cameras after that, all of which had stickers on the lenses.

But four of the five trackers Jason had had on him today were in his Chinatown safehouse. The fifth was on a rooftop near the theater. So, chances were, Jason was in Chinatown.

He pulled his cowl over his face and headed out, motorcycle roaring across the pavement. Along the way, he stopped a mugging and two car jackings, but things in Gotham seemed quiet tonight. Which was good. With Batman down and Robin not allowed on patrol without him, quiet was exactly what Tim needed.

He heard the familiar engine blocks before it pulled up beside him. Batgirl smiled from her motorcycle, one hand coming up to her ear. "Hey Red Wonder. Going my way?"

Tim crooked a smile at her. "No, probably not. I'm just going to check and make sure Hood's ok. He got shot earlier. Do you want to come with? I have some stuff I have to fill you in on anyways."

"Sure." Steph gestured at the city in general. "Not like there's anything better to do tonight."

By the time they got to the fire escape outside Red Hood's apartment, Batgirl was all caught up. "Damn. A city with no Batman, huh? The crooks are going to go haywire."

"Yeah." Tim squinted at a particularly tricky bit of security. "Once the wound closes up a bit, I'm going to see if Alfred will let him stand on buildings and be intimidating. That should keep everyone settled enough until he fully heals."

"True. Bats did that a few times when I was Robin. Just stood up there and let me break up fights. He said it was because he knew I could handle myself, but I think he was just testing me."

"Probably. But don't worry, he did that with me too. Aha!" With a snap, Tim deactivated the last trap Jason had on his window. "It should be clear."

"Right." Steph glanced at the now-open window. "You should go first, just in case."

Tim just rolled his eyes and climbed it. "According to the trackers, he's in the bedroom." He lead the way, avoiding the center of the room. Jason had pressure sensors there. Steph followed close behind. The door to the bedroom had a trip wire on it, which was easy enough to deactivate. That done, Tim opened the door.

The bedroom was fastidiously clean, as was usual for Jason, except for the drops of blood on the ground leading to the other side of the bed. Tim followed them and there, crushed between the wall and the bedside table, was Jason. He still had his uniform on, but most of the pant leg was cut off, showing the messy stitches he'd tried to put in. He was also far too pale to be healthy.

Tim stuck his hand at the pulse point in Jason's neck. Weak and thready. "Crap. He's lost too much blood." Carefully, he grabbed Jason's ankles and pulled him out from behind the bed. "Steph, give me a hand. We need to get him to the cave."

"We should probably wrap the stitches first. Unless you want road dust getting in it."

"Um. Good point." Tim grabbed the first aid kit from under the bed and pulled out a roll of bandages. Once that was done, Steph ducked under one of Jason's arms, Tim under the other. They were too short to carry Jason properly, so his feet dragged really badly. "Alfred, could you send us the Batmobile? It'll be easier to transport him with that than the bikes."

"Oh dear. Shall I prepare anything else?"

Alfred was far too used to their night life. "Yeah. The stitches he put in aren't great. From the blood spatter in the room, he was probably very low on blood by the time he got here. I'm not sure he cleaned out the wound properly."

While they were talking, Steph rigged up a rudimentary pulley system on the fire escape. Tim put Jason on the coffee table and wrapped their grapple cords around the legs. Carefully, they lowered him to the ground, makeshift stretcher keeping any undue pressure off of Jason.

The Batmobile came to a screeching halt just as they were unloading Jason. They got him settled in the backseat and then let Alfred pilot him home. Tim hopped on his bike, Steph doing the same with hers. "Wanna head back to the cave with me?"

Steph shook her head. "It sounds like drama central in there. I'll visit the hospital tomorrow, but I'm not going to the cave until you boys sort out your boy problems."

Tim thought back to his last conversation with Damian, and about Jason's probable reaction to being back in the cave. "Can't blame you there. See you later Batgirl."

"Catch you later nerd."

Tim followed the Batmobile back to the cave. It was going much slower than normal, taking turns with care rather than drifting it to keep from jostling Jason. Alfred didn't really need to worry. Jason just had a leg wound. It wasn't like a bumpy ride was going to make it worse. But of course, it was Alfred. He would always worry.

Once they got Jason loaded onto a stretcher, Alfred unwound the bandages, sterilized the area and then inspected the stitches. "These are no good. You were right Master Tim, I'll have to redo them. He'll need a blood transfusion as well."

Tim winced. Redoing stitches was always risky, as it added even more holes in the flesh. "I'll give you a hand Alfred."

When they were done tending to Jason, they stuck him in one of the guest rooms. More exhausted than he had any right to be, considering he'd only been up since noon yesterday, Tim dropped into bed immediately and fell asleep.

Damian sat in his room, wrapped in his quilt, petting Titus. He berated himself for being weak, for hiding like a coward, but he couldn't stop. And so he huddled. Titus was a warm, grounding presence by his side, which made it almost worse. He didn't deserve comfort. He didn't deserve anything.

Drake's words swirled in his head. Drake was an ignoramus on his best day, but Damian couldn't push the words away. Your fault. Your fault. If you hadn't been there, Dick could have diffused the situation. Your fault.

He burrowed his face deeper in the blankets. When he emerged slightly, just enough to see the clock sitting on his nightstand, hours had passed. He could hear Drake and Pennyworth in the hallway, talking about putting up Todd in one of the guest rooms. So the simpleton had survived. His lip curled, but it was purely habitual. A weight lifted off his shoulders. The bullet that Todd had stepped in front of had been meant for Drake, but it had only been fired because of Damian. He wasn't responsible for the deaths of any of Father's children.

But it was his fault that Grayson and Todd were injured. No matter that he'd tried to pin the blame on Drake. Drake's words had been truthful, it was Damian's fault. His fault, his fault, his fau-

"Master Damian, it's time to wake up." His door clicked open, Pennyworth coming in with another tray of food. Another few hours had passed, and Damian wasn't entirely sure when he'd gone to sleep. He didn't feel like he'd had any. "Master Tim and myself are heading out to visit Master Dick shortly. If you're feeling up to it, I'm sure he would love to see you."

Damian sat up. At the motion, Titus raised his head and gave a particular woof. "I have to go let Titus out." He grabbed the tray as he passed Pennyworth, following Titus' excited bounding. "I'll eat on the back porch."

"Of course Master Damian." Pennyworth closed Damian's bedroom door behind them, then headed for Drake's room. "I shall inform you when we are ready to go."

Damian watched Titus run around the back yard, sniffing at the flowers and lifting his leg on the topiaries. He picked at his food, cutting the pancake into pieces and shifting the fruit around on the plate. He did not want to see Grayson. He did not want to face him. But he couldn't hide from this. He owed it to Grayson to own up to his mistakes.

By the time Titus was ready to go back inside, he had eaten two of the strawberries and one piece of pancake. He dropped the tray on the kitchen counter on the way back in. Titus whined at him when he paused in the doorway. Damian gave him a reassuring pat on the head.

Titus was still trailing him worriedly when he went to the entrance hall. Drake and Pennyworth were already there. Pennyworth looked vaguely annoyed, and Drake looked chastised, his face smoothing out when Damian arrived. "Good. You're here. Let's go."

"Master Tim." The words were neutral, but the tone was chastising.

Drake froze. Shoulders stiff, he turned back to Damian. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it was your fault that Dick got hurt. It wasn't." And then he flung open the door behind him, fleeing to the car.

Pennyworth put a gentle hand on Damian's shoulder, dropping it quickly. "Come along Master Damian. We should get going if we want to get there before the media circus arrives."

The car ride was less silent than the one last night, due solely to Pennyworth's efforts. He chattered on about how Todd had been put into a drugged sleep to allow him time to heal, and to prevent him from fleeing before Pennyworth returned home. Due to that, it would either be a short visit, or Pennyworth could drop him and Drake off and come back to pick them up later.

Damian would probably return with Pennyworth. He would apologize to Grayson for his error, but he had no illusions that Grayson would want him to stick around.

The hospital was just as dreary and white and pristine as it had been yesterday. The only difference was the slight increase in people, due to the daytime hours. It was still early though, so Damian was sure it would get worse as the day went on. Yet another reason to leave with Pennyworth.

After signing in with reception, Drake and Pennyworth headed for Grayson's room. Damian dragged his feet behind them. Grayson's room was a private one, reserved by the hospital for when VIPs were admitted. Father had donated quite a bit to the hospital in return for the private room, but Damian knew that many did not bother.

Grayson was awake when they entered, eagerly eating from a cup of green gelatin. "Hey guys!" The bed had been raised so that he was sitting up, a few pillows propped up behind him for added comfort.

Drake smiled at the greeting. "Hey Dick. Glad to see you're awake."

"Oh yeah, the docs here fixed me up good." He gave his injury a gentle pat. "All stitched up and ready to go!"

"When the doctors release you Master Dick, and not a second sooner." Alfred stepped towards the end of the bed, going through the medical charts. "And no work for another month, according to this."

"Aw, but Alfred!" With one raised eyebrow from Pennyworth, Grayson silenced himself, grabbing another sporkful of gelatin and sticking it in his mouth. "How are you two? Any injuries? I think I remember Jay getting shot?"

Drake nodded. "In the leg. He went all the way to his Chinatown safehouse to put his stitches in and nearly bled out. He's currently drugged up at the manor and with a few new pints of blood in him. Besides him and you, no other injuries."

Grayson turned to Damian then. "How about you Damian? Are you feeling ok?"

"I..." Damian glanced up at Grayson, then focused on where Grayson's feet were under the blanket. "I am uninjured Grayson. I would like to apologize however. It was my fau-"

"Hang on a second Damian." Grayson cut him off. Grayson almost never cut him off. "Alfred, Tim, could we have a minute?"

Grayson was merciful as usual. He didn't want to chastise Damian in front of the help. And Pennyworth. Drake simply nodded. "Sure Dick. We'll grab you something from the vending machine."

"We will do no such thing young sir," Pennyworth said as he opened the door. "That 'food' has no nutritional content whatsoever."

The door closed behind them with an air of finality. Damian kept his eyes locked on Grayson's feet. "Damian? Could you look at me please?"

"Technically, I am looking at you." Grayson's feet were a part of him after all.

Grayson chuckled. "At my face Damian."

Reluctantly, Damian lifted his eyes. Grayson didn't... didn't look angry. He looked... Damian didn't understand the expression on his face.

"Damian. It's not your fault I got shot. It was that Mohawk guy's fault."

"But it is!" Damian stepped forward slightly. How could Grayson think that? "It was my fault that brainless incompetent got angry enough to shoot! If I hadn't been there, you would have been able to walk away without a scratch!" If you hadn't been there. If you hadn't been there.

"Damian, could you step a bit closer please?"

"Why?" Would Grayson strike him for his mistake? Damian would not blame him if he wished to do so, although it didn't seem like something Grayson would do.

"Because you're just slightly out of arm's reach, and I can't sit up anymore than this." He shot a pointed look in the general direction of his injury.

So it would be physical punishment then. Damian took a step forward, then another when Grayson grabbed his wrist and tugged him. The drugs still lingering in his system meant that there was almost no strength to the pull, or at least not enough to move Damian if he didn't want to move, but he didn't resist.

And then Grayson's arms circled around Damian, hands resting solidly on his back. "Dami." And Damian felt the blood rush to his face at the word. For Grayson, it was probably just a shortening of his name. But 'dami' meant 'my blood' in Arabic, an incredibly affectionate endearment, equating Damian himself with Grayson's blood, a precious resource required for life. "Dami, I don't blame you for this. It's not your fault."

"How can you say that," Damian said into Grayson's shoulder, voice tighter than he wanted it to be. "If I hadn't taunted that goon-"

"Yeah, maybe you shouldn't have said that." Damian froze at Grayson's words. "And next time, you won't. But Damian, you didn't pull the trigger. You didn't force me to jump in front of the bullet. Heck, if I had been thinking, I could have just pulled you out of the way." Grayson's hand started making slow lazy circles between Damian's shoulder blades. "Dami, it's not your fault I got hurt. And you heard Alfred. I'll be fine in a month."

"But it was-"

"Not your fault," Grayson said firmly. "And I will do everything I can to convince you of that. It wasn't your fault we got jumped after the movies, it wasn't your fault we didn't have what those thugs were expecting, it wasn't your fault I got shot. It was the thugs' fault for having high expectations and thin skins. Because it can't have been the first time someone has implied that guy looks like a pig."

Damian let out a tiny chuckle. "He did. His nose was all flat and everything."

"Yeah, he did." Grayson pulled on Damian until he got the hint, climbing onto the medical bed beside him, being careful not to jostle any tubes or wires. Once Damian was fully settled, Grayson stuck his arms around Damian again, and Damian settled in for what he knew would be a long hug. Grayson had thought he had been subtle, all those months ago. When Batman and Robin had first flew, Grayson had given him quick shoulder pats. Those quick shoulder pats lengthened, until Grayson could sling an entire arm around Damian's shoulders unexpectedly, and Damian wouldn't react as if attacked. Those had become one armed hugs, then quick full hugs. Now, Damian could endure long stretches of affection from Grayson without panicking.

"Dami," and there was that nickname again, "I just want you to know that I'll always love you. You're my brother, like Tim and Jason are, and nothing can change that."

"I know Grayson." Deep inside, that voice still swirled. Your fault. Your fault. But Damian chose to ignore it. He never listened to a word Drake said before, he wasn't going to start now.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it was your fault that Dick got hurt. It wasn't.

Maybe he'd listen to one thing Drake said.

Alfred was unsurprised when he returned to Dick's room and the oldest and youngest of his charges were curled up on the bed together. Damian had been morose this morning, and Alfred had known he could have done little to cheer the boy up. However, five minutes in Dick's company had done wonders.

Damian flinched slightly when he and Tim entered, looking like he was ready to jump out of the bed. Dick simply tightened his arms. Alfred smiled. "So I can see that Master Damian is not returning with me to the manor. Master Tim?"

"Oh, I'll come with you Alfred." Tim eyed the two on the bed, a hint of loneliness in his eyes. "I've got some cases to work on anyways."

"Oh, no Tim, stay!" One of Dick's arms uncurled from Damian, reaching towards Tim. He didn't even come close to grabbing him, but for Dick, it was often the intention that mattered. "There's plenty of room on the bed, and I know you've got your laptop with you. Don't leave me here to be bored!"

Tim looked at his bag, where his laptop with the hundreds of hours of shows downloaded onto it was. "Fine. I can stay I suppose." He walked around to the other side of the bed, climbing up beside Dick.

Alfred smiled at the three of them. He pulled a camera from his pocket and snapped a picture, camera disappearing before any of them noticed it was there. "I shall return later to pick you up Masters Damian and Tim. If you want me to bring anything Master Dick, let me know."

"Will do Alfred!"

Alfred stopped by the nursing station on his way out, to thank the nurses for taking care of his charges, and to apologize in advance for any trouble they might cause. Then he returned to the car and drove himself home.

Jason was still out when he got there, the blood transfusion nearly complete. Alfred sat with him until the bag was empty, then pinched the tube and removed the needle. It had taken two pints, but Jason was finally starting to look his normal colour again. He left to go make tea. By the time he returned, Jason was starting to stir.

"Wha... Alfie?"

"Indeed Master Jason. You gave us quite a scare." He grabbed the glass of water he had brought up with the tea, holding the straw to Jason's lips. "Here, drink this." Once Jason had drained half the glass, Alfred fixed him with a stern look. "Master Jason, why did you not come to the manor for treatment? Your stitches were horrendous, and you left bits of trouser leg in the wound."

"Can't. Not... part'f th' fam'ly yet." Jason was not at all awake yet, but Alfred had to ask his questions now, before his walls came back up. "Gotta earn th't back."

Alfred ran a hand through Jason's hair. He stared for a moment at the bit just above his forehead, where snow white roots were starting to show under black dye. "Silly boy. You can't earn it back if you never lost it."

"Did though."

How was it that his charges got more stubborn the more injured they were? "Master Jason. As the only fully coherent person in this room, I do hope you'll listen when I say that you have been a part of this family ever since Batman brought you here."

"That w's dumb. Stole his tires. Could've robbed you rich cats blind."

"Indeed, but you didn't." Not for lack of trying however. Alfred had lost count of how much silver flatware he'd found in Jason's bedroom. "Now, no more argument young man. Rest. And perhaps when you're feeling better, I'll allow you to assist me in preparing supper."

Jason smiled a bit, closing his eyes and leaning into the hand Alfred still had in his hair. "M'kay Alfie. See y'in the m'rnin'." It took a minute or two, but Jason's breathing eventually leveled out.

Alfred ran his hands through his hair one more time, then sat back in his chair and grabbed his tea. It was cooler now, closer to lukewarm than hot, but that was fine. He'd had many a hot drink cool in the years he'd worked for the Batman, and while he would always prefer his tea piping hot, he was rather growing fond of the cold variety.

He grabbed the book Tim had dropped on the nightstand for Jason. Sense and Sensibility. Something his family could use more of. With a sigh of contentment, he opened the book to the first page and started reading.

AN: For Gen Batfam Week's prompt Hurt/Comfort.

Based on Arrowcomix's fanart for the same prompt. Check it out on her tumblr!