Dark circles were more obvious than usual under Bruce's eyes as he sat by Dick's bedside. He was grateful that his young charge had stabilized enough to be transferred into the cave's medical wing, but it was difficult to see anything but death on the sleeping boy's face. His skin was so pale, and his chapped lips looked frail and dry despite the cool wet air of the cave. It had been so close… Too close.
Alfred hovered silently into the room carrying an engraved silver platter covered in medical supplies. The bandages and gauze looked nauseatingly out of place with the finely polished piece and the irony of its juxtaposition with the medical supplies and how terribly "Alfred" the entire scene was did not escape Bruce as he watched the man over his shoulder. Alfred approached the bedside, setting the tray down before pulling back the covers. The white sheets highlighted the sickly purple of the bruises which seemed to cover every inch of the young form. Bruce cringed despite himself.
Beneath the bandages lie expertly stitched gashes and surgical cuts. It was clear to see which lines had been carefully opened to piece together the boy's ribs and which had been blown into him by shrapnel and the searing sand. Alfred gently unwrapped the bandages around the boy's torso and arms, applying disinfectant to the wounds which were starting to discolor.
"Sir," he addressed his master as he worked. Bruce only ran a hand through the silky black hair which shone now that he had pulled down his cowl.
"Not now," he replied impatiently, irritation grating in his voice.
"Perhaps you should get some rest? Dick's starting to look a little better while you, quite frankly, are looking much worse." Alfred's cool voice made him nearly impossible to read as he stood with his back to Bruce.
"There's no excuse," he muttered, giving up on trying to understand Alfred's seeming levity in the situation and facing his own grave thoughts. Alfred, however, kept at work.
"Pardon?" Alfred asked.
"He should have predicted that guerilla. It was Bane's men. He should have been on guard." His long black cape fluttered only slightly as he paced. Alfred stopped what he was doing to face him.
"I know. I just wanted to hear you say it. Master Bruce, Robin may be a superhero, but Dick Grayson is only human. From the way I heard it, he saved the young Flash's life." Alfred grabbed a wet rag and wiped the chemicals from his hands.
"He was distracted… Sloppy…" Bruce is mumbling to himself, agitation written all over his face.
"We should be grateful to whatever powers that be that he is still alive." Alfred opens the container of gauze and starts back to work. "He's only a child…" his voice is soft, almost apologetic as he dabs the wounds. They stand in silence for a while as Alfred works. He can feel Bruce's eyes on his back.
"You're right… He's just a child." Bruce storms out of the medical wing, pulling his cowl back up as he closes the door. Once the door closes, Alfred's lips twitch into a smile.
"So, how are you feeling Dick?" Alfred meets Dick's eye as it peeks open. He grins back, shifting up as best as he can.
"Like a guerilla blew me half to hell." His eyes are playful and vibrant, and the air in the room somehow becomes less heavy. "He's pretty angry, hunh?" Dick shifts a little bit to allow Alfred better access to a cut on his side, wincing as he dabs it.
"I believe he's angry at himself." Alfred quickly and expertly rewraps the bandages, allowing some of the more healed cuts to remain unwrapped so that they may have a chance to breathe. While he does, Dick takes the opportunity to look at the vases of flowers around the room.
Meanwhile, Bruce stands by himself in the main room of the cave in front of his display cases. The tattered remains of Dick's uniform tightly clinched in his fist as he looks at the retired prototypes. It's time, Bruce. With a heavy sigh, he forces his hand to loosen and the material hangs from his fingers. It's time.
He opens one of the unused panels of the display case, sliding the glass back and allowing the stale air to fill his nostrils. The inside is white, each light expertly chosen by Alfred's discerning eye to best display the pieces of Batman's past, and in that panel, Bruce hangs the damaged remains of Dick's costume. The fabric is burned and bloodied and tattered and the sharp lines of surgical scissors are clear where it was cut from Dick's unconscious form so that surgeons could repair the shattered ribs. The sight of it only reaffirms was Bruce already knows. It's time.