Chapter Text
When Sam woke up, he found it unexpected. He was supposed to be dead, but the constant beeping of the heart monitor proved otherwise. He tore off the oxygen mask with a weak hand, his back of the palm covered in an IV drip. The instant inability to breath free on his own forces him to put the mask back on.
Sam shuts his eyes and goes limp when someone pries the door open. The person—judged by his footsteps—could be tall, lean, and a skilled fighter. The person sets a wide plate-like object on the bedside table.
"I know you are awake." The man says. "I do not understand the need for pretence of slumber."
Busted. Well, not like he had intended to live for long. But if this guy tries to jail him in that stupid asylum...he peers his eyes open, looking at the blurred man uninterested.
"It was about time you woke up." He picks up the scissors from the tray he has set down. "We need to change your dressings. So please be cooperative."
The man sounds oddly similar to the butler of Bruce Wayne. But it couldn't possibly be him. He is not in their manor, is he? Unless that man has seriously lost it while wearing that costume.
The man gently makes him sit up, cutting off the bandage from his throat with precision. "The doctor has said to not strain your throat until healed. Unless you want to lose your voice forever. Then go ahead."
The man talks more, which confirms that he is indeed the butler of Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth. And they are in the Wayne manor.
"The doctor has also said to be on bed rest for at least a month. Only twenty-five days more to go." The butler combs his bangs out of his eyes.
The butler soon leaves with his tray after changing the dressings on his neck, forehead and abdomen.
Like hell he's staying here. He attempts to get up, pain instantly shooting everywhere, especially the waist. Sam supposes it would not have worked either way, seeing his left hand cuffed to the bed. Touché.
Alfred must have changed clothes, so possibility of spare pin on him to unlock the cuff is nil. Then his gaze falls on the cannula injected into his veins.
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By the time he climbed down the tree, he was already out of breath, softly choking on air out of biological desperation.
A cough for attention jolts his instincts. He turns around while reaching for his hip for a gun, which was not there, obviously. Sam rolls his eyes at his own stupidity.
"You should be at rest." The small kid snarks. Damian, he remembers.
Sam wants to tell him off, really, really does, but losing his voice is not worth the risk. And his dizzy head is not really cooperating either.
From behind the kid, a dog appears, although he can't tell the breed with his weak vision. "Go back or Ace will have to drag you back to your assigned room." Damian snarks.
Sam rolls his eyes again. Even though blurred—he can distinguish the dog's tail wagging in joy. This Ace is not doing crap to him.
"Did you not hear the devil spawn?" A new voice emerges from beside him—Jason Todd. The man grabs him by his wrist. He examines the dried blood that once poured out of the cannula's hole.
"Seriously, after all Alfred did for you?" He lets his hand flop down. Grabbing him by his arm now, Jason drags him to the entrance of the manor. Despite Sam's best attempts to break free, he results fruitless, now heaving and vision whitening.
"Aw, come on. I am not dragging his guy up in his room." Are the last words he hears before he goes down.
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We wakes up again with that same forsaken heart monitor beeping in the room, this time his hand tied with a rope in a complex knot, and Bruce Wayne sitting beside his bed, looking at him with disapproval.
"That was reckless. You could have died from lack of oxygen."
Is he expecting an apology?
"Either way, don't do that again. Ever. You are still a suspect for a murder." He stands up with a grunt. "From now on, Tim will be keeping eyes on you."
Sam's gaze darts to the distant corner of the room, Tim standing awkward, most likely wishing to be anywhere but here.
He looks back at the rope, unbeknownst to the residence of the manor, he recognises the knot. Dad had taught him how to undo it with one hand, and even teeth.