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Alfred was never allowed to leave them again.
First, Jason had come down with flu and strep while Bruce had been gone on a Justice League mission. Dick had handled it beautifully, but then Tim had woken up the next morning with a fever and sore throat. A fever and sore throat the boy had tried to hide, might he add. It had taken an act of Congress to actually get Tim to admit that he didn’t feel well. And when Bruce had swabbed his throat and confirmed that he had, indeed, caught strep from his brother, Tim had burst into tears and apologized.
So now, Bruce had two sick, traumatized boys, one prone to seizures and both prone to panic attacks. But even then, things had still been fine. The Dark Knight could more than handle simple illnesses. And Batwoman and Nightwing were taking care of Gotham, so everything was perfectly under control.
But then, Dick had gotten shot.
Bruce had just tucked Jason and Tim into bed when Kate radioed in saying that she was headed back to the Cave with Dick. A bullet had grazed his chest during a fight between two rival gangs. She assured him that his eldest was alert and conscious, but he was bleeding a lot and in immense pain.
Bruce immediately rushed down to the Cave to meet them.
They arrived on Batwoman’s motorcycle a few minutes later. Dick looked white as a sheet as he clung to Kate’s back. Bruce’s eyes immediately went to the field dressings wrapped around his eldest’s chest. They were already soaked with bright red blood.
“H-hey, B,” he greeted shakily.
Bruce pushed a wheelchair forward. “Get in.”
Dick wrinkled his nose. “I can walk.”
“No, you can’t,” Kate rolled her eyes. “Get your ass in the chair.”
“Fine.”
They got Dick into the med bay and onto the cot. From there, Bruce cut the bandages and the top of Nightwing’s uniform off to fully expose his chest.
The wound itself was about six inches long, cutting about an inch deep across the vigilante’s mid-chest. The bleeding had slowed significantly (thank God), but it was still seeping sluggishly. The skin surrounding the gash was already starting to bloom an ugly purple. It was going to look horrible in the morning.
“Looks worse than it is,” Dick waved off. He’d taken his mask off, which only further showed how pale he was.
“It looks like it needs stitches,” Bruce observed with a sigh. “We’ll need a chest X-ray as well to see if any ribs are broken.”
His eldest wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, I hate stitches.”
“And I hate when my family members get shot, so I guess we’re both going to be unhappy.”
The X-ray showed that two of Dick’s ribs were cracked, but thankfully, nothing beyond that.
Kate dipped out before Bruce started with Dick’s stitches. She promised to follow up on the gang members they’d arrested before quickly leaving so she wouldn’t have to witness the train wreck that was about to take place.
“All right, Chum, let’s get you something for the pain, and then I’ll get started with the lidocaine.”
His eldest didn’t argue, which only showed Bruce how uncomfortable he had to be. Any bravado he’d had left had seemingly faded alongside the adrenaline.
It took over an hour plus thirty stitches to get Dick sewn up. Bruce worked as efficiently as possible, but his skills were far from the likes of Alfred or Leslie. When he was finished dressing the wound, he gave Dick a tetanus booster and some oral antibiotics before helping him get cleaned up and dressed in a pair of sweats.
By the time they took the elevator up to the Manor, it was 2:00 in the morning.
“Alright, Chum, let’s get you up to bed,” Bruce said.
Dick sagged against his father, having trouble staying upright. The pain medication was definitely still affecting him. “I wanna go to your room. Your bed’s nicer.”
Bruce cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”
“Mmhmm.”
Well, Bruce wasn’t going to argue. He’d been planning on staying close to Dick anyway so he could continue to monitor him. His eldest had lost a decent amount of blood, and he was still at risk for complications such as a pneumothorax. So really, his room was the safest option. At least, that’s what he told himself as they headed for the elevator up to the second floor.
“Thanks for patching me up, B,” his eldest murmured over a yawn as Bruce tucked him in.
Bruce reached over and carded his hand through his son’s hair. “Of course, Chum. I’m just glad you’re home safe. Get some rest, now.”
As Bruce got in bed on the other side, he let out a breath. Dick was fine. Everyone was fine. It was all fine.
Things were no longer fine.
Bruce was woken up less than an hour later by Jason’s medical alert bracelet going off.
He ran down the hall and burst into his son’s room to find him having a seizure in his bed. Jason’s service dog, Elinor, was lying next to him, ensuring he didn’t fall over the edge.
“It’s alright, Jay,” Bruce soothed as he made sure his son was on his side. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Thankfully, the seizure was relatively short, lasting just over a minute. When it ended, Bruce checked Jason’s pulse and breathing to make sure he came out of the episode okay. Only after he knew his son was stable was Bruce able to somewhat relax.
“Good girl,” he praised Elinor, petting her between the ears. Getting Jason a service dog had been one of the best decisions they’d ever made.
It took Jason a few minutes to wake up. When he finally opened his eyes, they were glazed over and confused.
“You’re okay, Jason,” Bruce promised, attempting to orient the boy. Jason was often very confused immediately after a seizure. “You had a seizure, but it’s over now.”
His son blinked a couple of times, his eyes trying to focus. “…D-Dad?”
Bruce smiled gently. “Yes, Jay, it’s your dad. I’m right here.”
“Dad…hurss.”
“I know, bud. It’ll get better soon. You’re doing so well.”
“D-Don’t leave me…”
“I’m not going to leave you,” Bruce promised.
“M’kay.”
Jason closed his eyes soon after that, unable to stay awake in his postictal state. Bruce remained still for way longer than was necessary, watching his son’s breathing level out as he fell deeper into slumber. They’d been dealing with Jason’s seizures for a while now, but they never got any less terrifying.
Now, Bruce found himself in a pickle. He didn’t want to leave Jason (especially since he’d promised the boy not to do so), but he also didn’t want to be away from Dick for too long.
Clearly, the most logical choice was to take Jason with him.
He gently gathered his son in his arms and lifted him out of the bed. The boy moaned a bit but never fully opened his eyes. Without needing to be told, Elinor hopped down and accompanied them.
Bruce tucked Jason into his bed next to Dick. Elinor followed suit, curling up at her charge’s feet. Finally, both of his sons were settled.
Okay.
That was stressful, Bruce acknowledged as he headed for his side of the bed once again, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Jason was fine. The seizure was over. Everything was–
THUD.
The sound came from Tim’s room. Steeling himself for yet another crisis, Bruce headed down the hallway. When he opened the door, Tim was on the floor, tangled in a mess of blankets and covered in vomit.
Bruce kneeled down beside him. “Tim, what happened? Are you alright?”
The boy looked up at him, his eyes bright with tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I woke up from a…bad dream and felt sick. I was trying to get to the bathroom but fell and didn’t make it. I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up, I promise.”
“Hey, it’s okay, kiddo,” Bruce assured, keeping his voice gentle. “I’m not mad you threw up. Are you hurt anywhere?”
Tim’s face was flushed, though from fever or general embarrassment, Bruce couldn’t tell. “Just my pride.”
He let out a breath. “Thank goodness. I’ve given enough stitches for one night.”
“Who else needed stitches?” Tim demanded.
Great. Nice work, Wayne.
“Dick got clipped by a bullet during patrol,” Bruce admitted, mentally kicking himself. Tim was already anxious at baseline. The last thing Bruce needed to do was freak him out while he was sick. “It was just a graze, but it required stitches. He’ll be alright, though. I’ve got him and Jason settled in my bed.”
“What happened to Jason?!”
So much for not freaking him out.
“He had a seizure a little while ago. It was only a minute long, and he woke up for a bit before falling back asleep. He’s okay, I promise. I have everything under control.”
Some of the fear that has taken over Tim’s face finally faded. “Right. You’re Batman, so of course everything’s fine.”
The blind faith in the cowl never ceased to amaze Bruce. He only hoped he never gave his son a reason to doubt it. “Yes, Tim. Everything is fine. Now, let’s talk about you for a minute. Would you like to tell me about your dream?”
Tim grimaced. “I’d rather not.”
Bruce didn’t blame him. The usual subjects of Tim’s nightmares were quite unpleasant. “Alright, how about we get you cleaned up, then?”
“I can do it myself,” Tim assured. “I know how.”
“While I have no doubt that’s true, this is one of those things parents are supposed to help you deal with. So you can hop in the shower, and I’ll change your sheets. I promise I don’t mind.”
The boy seemed to debate himself internally for a moment. Finally, the exhaustion seemed to win out. “Okay,” he relented, his shoulders slumping forward. “I can do that. Thank you.”
Bruce offered him a gentle smile. “Of course, bud.”
Thankfully, the mess was fairly self-contained. Bruce wadded up the soiled bedsheets and placed them in Tim’s laundry bin—he’d worry about washing them later, when it wasn’t 3:30 in the morning. Then, he retrieved some supplies and fresh linens from the hallway closet and cleaned up all of the remaining sickness (contrary to what his older sons seemed to believe, he did know how).
When Tim emerged from his bathroom, he looked dead on his feet. Poor kid had to be miserable.
“Are you ready to go back to bed?” Bruce asked. “I just finished putting new sheets on your mattress.
His youngest bit his lip. “Thank you very much for doing that, but I’m, um, not sure I can fall back asleep.”
Bruce doubted that—the boy looked ready to drop at any moment. Still, even despite that, the answer didn’t surprise him. Tim often had problems falling and staying asleep, especially after a nightmare. “I understand. What if you came back to bed with me and your brothers? There’s plenty of room.”
Tim hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. It’s a custom-made frame from Switzerland.”
Relief bloomed across his youngest’s face. “Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”
And so Bruce ended the night (or, rather, early morning) with all three of his boys plus the family service dog in his bed. He’d faced many obstacles—gunshot wounds, seizures, vomit—but finally, everyone was safe and sound and sleeping peacefully. Everything was officially fine.
Alfred couldn’t get home soon enough.