No thoughts, just brain rot

You can accept the allowance money your daddy-dearest sends into your bank account. If not for the argument you had when you decided you were going to live outside of the mansion without anyone spying or breaking in. 

So what if you’re not a vigilante like the rest of the family? You’re an adult! And it’s not as if you’re not aware they place trackers and defense mechanisms on you. They’ll probably set up the best security system at the next place you end up moving to regardless of what you say anyways.

The world’s best detective? The world’s finest? More like the world’s most stubborn man and helicopter dad. The argument the two of you end up having was equivalent to Scheherazade’s 1001 Arabian nights, both sides unwilling to budge. It’s after you agreed to having wellness checks by whomever is available you were given the clear. A decision you continually regret during the past three years you’ve lived alone once said wellness checks become an every other day patient-doctor visit. 

“Listen. I’m not asking what, how, or why.”  You start out slowly, two fingers rubbing your temples. “All I want to know is who. Did. It.” 

“I mean, it’s not that bad. You still have-“

“Steph-“ You try warning the blonde.

“-half of your window intact.” Cue said remaining half of your window falling from the sill to the floor. 

Steph offers an awkward smile. You respond by pinching your nose bridge. 

“At least it’s just the window…?” 

“This is the third time.” You groan, pinching harder, a dull pain pulsing at the back of your head. “The third time this month with a broken window.” 

“…It was Jason, if it makes you feel better.” 

“Excuse you?” Jason leans forward from the couch, an offended expression on his face as he looks at Dick who points at him. “You’re the one that cracked it first!” 

“You’re the one that actually kicked it!” 

“…The window was still intact after Dick kicked it.” Tim grumbles, leading Jason to shift his glare towards him. 

Instantly, the room is thrown into chaos. Fingers are being pointed, “he did”, “she did”, “you were”, tossed here and there. 

“Enough!” Quickly, it goes back to being quiet. “I don’t have a window and I’m pretty sure my neighbors can clearly hear our conversation. So-“ 

Suddenly, you can hear knocks coming from your unit’s front door. 

…There’s no way. There’s no way, right? He couldn’t possibly have found out this soon. 

You slowly turn towards the door then back at them. The group in front of you doesn’t fare any better, pale faces, some whistling, others twiddling their thumbs while avoiding all eye contact. You groan and rub your face with both hands. Well, fuck. You don’t want to deal with this; you don’t have the courage to face him. You’re not the Man of Steel, most definitely Champion of the Gods-!

You look towards the door and make a face. Then, slowly, you drag your feet across the floor and head towards the entrance. Squeezing your eyes shut for a second, a tiny sob leaves your mouth as you take time in unlocking the latch.

“Your window broke?” Towering over you with an impressive height for his age, pit-black hair and sharp, blue-eyes, Bruce Wayne, a.k.a. Batman, a.k.a owner of Wayne Enterprise a.k.a. your father stands on the other side. 

“I mean, more or less.” You grumble, staring down and finding the carpet far more interesting.  

“More like not having a window at all.” 

…Of course, he didn’t come alone.

Standing right next to him, Damian smugly smirks with “I told you” written all over his face. 

Sibling-wise, that little traitor was the one that objected the most about you leaving the Manor. You being a civilian and not knowing proper self-defense, the typical spiel. You gave him a pass for it, initially, considering the two of you were close for half-siblings. Then he ratted you out about you moving into downtown Gotham. Which, to your defense, the apartment you’re currently living in was closer to commute from and to the hospital (you were not about to go back and forth, an hour each, via buses and subway). 

“It’s not the first time my window broke-“ 

“Joker and Bane broke free from Arkham.” 

Well. Crap. 

“As for the rest of you,” you can hear someone curse behind you, most likely Jason, “you’re going to help with packing and moving.” 

That’s how you find yourself standing at the doors to Wayne’s mansion the next day, a box in your hand as a breeze ruffles your hair .

“Think of it this way: you won’t have to worry about paying rent! How great is that?” 

Dick clears his throat when you don’t reply, not even bothering to keep the door open for him once you enter the mansion. 

“Welcome back.” Alfred greets you, formal yet warmly just like he did in the past the second your foot stepped on the floor of the entrance lobby. 

“Three iced and one hot Americano, one apple pie, and one banana pudding all for here?” 

Sure, okay. You always complained you didn’t want to go to work every day. But today was different. You had an urge. A premonition. If only you had listened to it this one time and not care about keeping your “golden star employee” reputation- 

“Oh, come on. Aren’t you being cold? We’re only trying to cheer you on-“ 

“You can pick up your order at the counter at the end when your number is called and your buzzer vibrates. Here is your buzzer, which you can see on top your group is number 69,  and enjoy your stay. Next!” 

You didn’t need to look up to know that he’s smirking behind those orange-tinted glasses while the snort belongs to the just-as-gaudy one in the mask and bucket hat. 

…At least the other two are quiet. 

The whole day it was more than three times you wanted to pull your hair out, rest your head against a wall, dig a hole and lay in it. You planned everything: timing, routes they would least likely take, location. Even if they were to find one of your jobs, they wouldn’t have been able to find out about all three. All. Three! In a span of twelve days! 

The barbecue place you’ll give considering how they’re connoisseurs over their meat and the place you happened to work is one of the best in the local area. The other two though? The fact you saw Wooin, standing in line in a convenience store at seven AM had given you the biggest shock and you had to ask if he didn’t need to go to the hospital once you rang him up. Seems like he didn’t appreciate your concern, terrorizing you by continuing to make you ring him up along with Joker until the end of your shift.  

That was four days ago and now, four days later after that incident, here they are, all four, Vinny, Hyuk, Joker, and Wooin, sitting in the cafe while watching you work.

All you want is to work in peace, get your money without any more stress. Was it really too much to ask? 

Why the-Oh hell, no. Oh. Hell. No. 

As if to stay true to today’s theme of four-four-four i.e., death and great misfortune, you watch in slow motion Hyuk pulling the chair from the table, not diagonally across or distance away, but directly, gobsmack center. Right. In. Front. Of. You. 

It starts with denial. Then anguish. Then-Screw it. You’re not getting paid enough to deal with this. 

“Hey, change with me.”

“Huh? I’m not close to done with that drink-?!”

More like not finished making a mess. Every type of milk carton lies open on the counter, puddles of coffee spilling and creating new puddles on to the floor with one haphazardly covered by the towel meant for wiping the steam wand. 

It’s okay. It’s fine. It’s better than having to see their faces. 

“...Fuc-Fudge. Fudge it all.” You heavily sigh.

Shoving the pang of another regret made aside, your seasoned hands get to work. 

Five minutes, ten. An hour passes and the peak should’ve passed by now but you find yourself constantly bouncing back and forth all because of a certain group.

“Three medium cappuccinos, one being coconut milk, with a slice of strawberry shortcake and vanilla crepe cake!”

“One hot chocolate, iced, small and two large banana milk lattes!”

Your co-workers shuffle away, giving you side glances when you tear the peel off the bananas and chuck it into the blender. 

Your patience is waning, none of this is entertaining. You’re supposed to be hiding, showing a glimpse of yourself when necessary. Instead, for the longest time, your phone wouldn’t stop vibrating against your leg, spam of texts constantly flooding in through messages. The first few, you checked thinking it’s one of the bosses from your other jobs. One screenshot with bolded letters of the word “blocked” later, your phone finally stays silent. 

Except, that wasn’t the end. To whomever posted that team Sabbath was hanging at the cafe today, please eternally stub thine toe into the door because it’s either you or the fan girls occupying both ends of the counter. 

You swear the ordering side had it better, them simply having to receive orders and the whatnot. Then there’s the pick-up area…

“There’s chocolate in my drink.”

“That’s part of the mocha.”

“Well, I ordered a caramel mocha.”

“Yes and a caramel mocha consists of coffee, milk, caramel, and chocolate as stated on the menu.”

You can hear them snicker non-stop in the midst of you talking to the hundredth Karen you’ve dealt so far. The polite expression threatening to break, the supposing bland and monotone voice cracking a few times. Unable to snap at them to quit watching, you quickly shoot a glare and mouth some choice words after catching Joker tilting his head up to get a better view of the scene when the girl glances down at her phone. 

Another repeat on how it’s against the law and cafe policy to take photos of other customers without their consent and deleting said secretly taken photos later (seriously, how dumb can a person get to show their gallery right in front of you), you quickly assemble and place the next order. 

“Number 127!”

Familiar large, pale hands grab the tray. And that’s all it takes for your hands to clamp down and hold him in place. 

“Stop. Make them. Stop.” The brightest smile you can muster, there’s irritation and venom in the hiss you utter under your breath. 

“...Does it look like I can?”  

Does it look like you have a choice??? 

You hold back the urge to yell and shake the red-head in front of you, get him to realize how desperate you are without risking your job-! 

“I don’t care. Get them to stop. Even better, leave.” 

“That’s impossible-” He pauses midway when he notices your expression.

Wide eyes, pursed lips, is your kicked-puppy cute? More like resembling an eye-twitching Chihuahua. But it sure is filled with complete desperation and begging, your pride tossed out the window while you maintain it. 

A second passes. Two. 

“Fine.” He finally grits out, eyes squeezed shut and biting his lips. 

Instantly the smile is back,  this time more genuine. 

“Tsk.” 

“What now-“ Not letting you finish your sentence and he’s already back at the table. 

…Was the face you made really that bad?

“Maybe he’s sick.” You grumble, noticing the back of his neck completely flushed. 

Seriously, men and their attempts at aloofness. Shaking your head, you mentally note to stop by the pharmacy and go back into finishing the rest of the orders. 

Some time passes and Vinny must’ve successfully gotten them to leave when you no longer sense them sitting in front of the counter (yes, sense, to much of your despair, considering how long you’ve known them and dealt with their antics). 

Starting then, life feels okay and tolerable once again. 

Work ends and, contrary to your expectation that they’d be waiting for you, there’s no sign of them.

Is this it? Did the goddess Nike decide to hear your plight and show mercy? Are you finally free-? 

For extra measure, you head towards the barbecue place taking the long, yet more unknown, way. Left, right, a couple times you check behind the dumpsters but nope. Not there, not here. 

“Hehehe.” You can’t believe this. It’s really happening. They’re leaving you alone!

Your steps light, you slip the key into the keyhole and enter through the employee entrance. Repetitive motions of putting things away and pulling your head through the hole of the apron, you head towards the front where the manager is busy ringing up the bill for a customer.

“Oh, good. You’re he-” She raises an eyebrow. “Did you win the lottery or something?” 

You touch your face. Oops. Seems you got too excited. 

“Guess I enjoyed my walk to work.” You shrug, quickly schooling yourself back to your usual. 

“I…see.” She clears her throat. “Well, be careful manning the right side tonight and let me know if you encounter any problems.” 

Hm?

“What do you mean?” 

“How to phrase it… an, ‘odd’ group asked specifically for your side-“ 

There’s no way. 

“And waited for you to be their server-“ 

It can’t be.

“So, I’d thought I'd give you the heads up.” 

You want to cry. You don’t have to turn around to know who she’s talking about. It didn’t last that long, all that hope and happiness you developed trashed and burned. You haven't started working yet-!!

Dammit all, she could’ve at least switched you out-actually, no. That would make things worse, knowing the possibilities and their capabilities to pull anything and everything. Ugh! 

Without the energy to think of a reply, you slowly turn around and drag your feet across the floor towards the table. 

Please act normal. Please act normal. Please act normal-

“…What would you like to order.” 

“Well, someone looks happy to see us.” 

You sigh. 

The things you’d do to wipe that smirk off-! It’s already bad enough Wooin annoys you constantly on a daily basis, roping you in to hanging out with them, coming over to your place unannounced. What exactly did you do to deserve more torment from him? 

No, no. Let’s not think too hard. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Remember, it’s for the money. The. Money. 

“Do you need more time to order, then?” 

“I want Pocari.” 

And you want to smack that black mask off with the notepad.  What does he- is he really thinking this place is an extension to your place? He’s been here before! He knows this place doesn’t sell Pocari! Also who wears a mask inside a restaurant? Or polaroid sunglasses for that matter? 

You cover your face with the notepad for a moment then pull it back down. 

“We don’t serve Pocari but we do have soda, tea, or water.” 

“No beer? Soju?” 

The grip on the pen tightens, tighter when Wooin snorts most likely from seeing you resort to biting down on your lips. 

“Would that be all you’re getting?” 

“Do you guys have hanwoo*?” 

Finally, a legitimate question. Thank Joker and his infatuation for meat. 

“Yes, we do. You can order that on its own though I recommend ordering the premium combo for a bigger variety and better price.”

“Then we’ll get-“ 

“Hold on. I’m the one that’s paying. Why are you calling the shots?“ 

In no time, Wooin’s going at it to both Joker and Hyuk like usual, the latter brought in after he chimes in on wanting the same thing. 

Your soulless eyes lock in equally soulless heterochromatic ones, the sense of comradery and being done on having to deal with this every day resonating between you two. 

“…Know what you want?” 

“…I’ll…just have water.” 

Nodding, the notepad ends up with nothing written on it when you turn around and head to the back. 

It doesn’t take long for you to return with cups and a pitcher of iced barley tea per usual for all customers. 

So yes, it’s completely on purpose you don’t let your presence known, slipping both onto the table as you hear and see no signs of Wooin’s irritation stopping any time soon. 

Scribbles fill your notepad after heading towards the other tables and getting their orders and it isn’t until you finish delivering their drinks you go back to where your self-proclaimed “friends” are sitting. 

“Where did you go?” 

Doing your job? What does he mean where did you go? Did he really think you were going to stand all day and wait until he stopped? 

“You were busy having a conversation over what to order.” You shrug. “I thought I’d buy you some time by taking care of the other groups sitting in the area.”  

“You.” Some would think his eyes couldn’t get anymore snake-like only for them to do so as he scowls and narrows them into slits. “You didn’t just call me a yapper.” 

“Did you decide on your order then?” 

Call you petty, you don’t care. A win is a win and you’ll take it, satisfaction washing over you when you hear Wooin clicking his tongue as the trio, watching on the sidelines, try not to laugh.

Then he smirks. An evil one.  

“Hey, can we get more water?” 

“Actually, a bottle of soju?” 

“I want an extra serving of this.” 

You lost track how many times you’ve gone back and forth towards their table, in particular for the tattooed male. One time he’ll want something, then he won’t, then want it again. 

Don’t get you started with the others. Rather than helping you out, they added more coal to the fire. Vinny, not so much, doing more as-needed basis. Hyuk and Joker? …Let’s not think about them. 

Legs burning, arms sore from all the walking and carrying dishes. Can’t they see they’re not the only ones you’re taking care of-?!

“Ack-!” Miraculously and out of pure adrenaline, you rebalance yourself on time before the dishes on your tray shift and fall to the floor. 

Readjusting your grip, you let out a sigh of relief and go back to carrying the food. Or, that was the plan. 

“Hey! Watch it! You could’ve spilled that food on me!”

Great. Now you’re having to deal with Kevins. Like you didn’t have enough dealing with their female counterparts.

“So, sorry. Did any get on you?” The hand holding the tray trembles from the weight meant to be supported by two while the other pulls napkins from your apron and holds out to the offended party. 

“Are you kidding me right now? I’m a customer and you’re only offering me napkins? What kind of shitty service is this?” Your hand gets slapped, the napkins falling to the ground. “You ruin my shoes, nearly get raw meat on me-!”

Your day can really get worse, huh. First the cafe, now here. Should you call in for your morning shift so it won’t become three out of three?

You wince at the pounding in the back of your head, your vision blurring leading you to squeeze your eyes close. 

“Call your manager, right now! I want compensation and you fired for-Uh, who are you?”

Cue you turning around, the weight on your one hand suddenly disappearing the same time the guy yelling at you asks that. 

“What’s it to you? Got a problem?” Behind and towering both you and the guy sitting, annoyance leaks out of Vinny as he scowls. 

Whether it’s from recognizing him or the ominous glow emanating  from his eyes as his scowls deepens at the lack of response stays up for debate as the guy starts to quickly shake his head. 

“Then quit holding the waiter up so the rest of us can get our food.”

…Wow. If he hadn’t taken the tray and left you in the dust your heart would’ve skipped a beat like the girls squealing over in the corner. 

A beat of silence is shared between you and the other. You go back to offer another apology and amends, more out of fear he’d start things again only for him to shoo you. Er, rather, “screw off”. Same thing. 

Shuffling between tables, the gratitude and other touching emotions are tossed to the side and irk replaces them. 

Let it be known, trays are meant to hold and transport food. Not for food to be eaten off of them or treated like a placemat like a certain group is doing. 

Speaking of which, you really, genuinely don’t want to know when and how they were able to start up the grill. A grill that requires a wand lighter which is in your apron and most definitely wasn’t on any of them. 

Another round of one-sided teasing/bickering goes on between Wooin and Vinny, them alternating in flipping the meat while Hyuk and Joker busies themselves on the side  in stuffing their mouth with it. 

“Hm? I don’t think any of us called for you?” 

Ah, stress. S-t-r-e-s-s. 

“I’m here for the tray and to check if anyone needs anything else.” You manage to grit out, swallowing the words you wanted to hurl. 

“Oh. In that case,” he waves the tongs in the direction of the table you had a moment with, “give me that guy’s check when he leaves.”

Say what now? He can’t be serious. 

His eyebrow raises.

“...Sure.” Like hell you are. 

Famous last words. Your co-worker must’ve gotten the checks for them in the midst of you being pulled in all directions and busy serving when you peek over your shoulder and catch Sabbath leaving through the exit while the other guy’s table is in the process of cleaning. 

This can’t be simply for damage control. Is it? Maybe it is since they are somewhat famous and none of the others questioned or said anything against it.

Never mind, it’s better to leave it or else you’re going to get a bigger headache. 

Thankfully, nothing happens and service ends smoothly. Two large take-out boxes are in your hand once you step out, one from your manager, who gives you an ear full about not calling for her and trying to deal with the situation on your own before handing it to you. The other, you ordered and paid. 

“Here.” You wonder if they have life outside of LOS, having found and confirming your suspicions that they were waiting for you again, this time loitering a few steps away from the door.  

You roll your eyes, exasperated by the blank looks given flickering between the box and you. 

“It’s a thank you for earlier.” 

“You know how to say thank you?” It’s amazing you’re able to hear the sarcasm so clearly when Hyuk’s mask is one of those thick, solid cloth ones and not the flimsy, disposable kind. 

“For once in your life, would you-” You pause. A strange sound comes seemingly further away in the alley you and everyone else stand, similar to a groan. A human groan. “Uh, what was that?”

“What was what? Don’t tell me you’re hearing things now.” Wrapping an arm around your shoulder, Wooin turns you around and leads you out to the streets. “If you’re going to lose it, lose it at your place at least.”

“...Excuse you?”

The walk back was not quiet to say the least, you releasing all the pent up rage and giving them a piece of the mind that’s been held back that past twelve plus hours up and it isn’t until you got them to swear they wouldn’t terrorize you like they had today that you let up. Next morning comes and you didn’t appreciate seeing the first customer being a familiar black-haired male, approaching the cashier counter with a banana and banana milk in hand. 

Blonde, heavy make-up, smacking loudly on pink bubble gum, and a heavy valley-girl voice. When everyone’s been saying the new group of residents were a piece of work, you thought you were prepared. Hell, you work at Gotham Hospital- home of every horror story imagined for any working in the field. Child wielding a knife? Happens every day in the psyche ward. Guts spilling out? That’s the least of the worst injuries patients come in with through the ER. Nothing could compare to that, right?

It’s barely two hours into the shift and already three of the new residents were reported to HR for risking the life of their patients. One dosing the wrong medication to the wrong person, another refusing to order blood for a patient that was showing the worst case of anemia. And now there’s this chick, not wanting to collect lab work herself because it’ll ruin her new mani. 

Forget about the people outside, it’s going to be the newbies killing everyone off instead. 

It’s not helping you’re on week two giving the family the silent treatment over the window incident. It’s one thing to break a window. It's another for the landlord to tell you it’s going to take a month. You have to be stupid to believe that when it’s one window. One! 

Sure, fine. Say it’s because of the danger with Joker, Bane, and Lady Death Man, the three that also happen to know Batman’s identity, are on the loose and you’re the only “normal one” in the family. It doesn’t mean it requires putting you into lockdown and monitoring twenty-four seven to the point of keeping you closed-off in the Manor. 

It was supposed to be simply not talking to them. Then came the calls. Texts. Email. Block, block, block you go to get the point across you. Are. Pissed. 

…Welp. You’re not getting paid enough to deal with any of this and jokes on everyone you’re in charge tonight. 

“ ‘Kay. Then, you’re dismissed,” smeared mascara eyes widen and stare at you while another pair turns into despair as you turn towards the other, “and you can explain to your guy’s mentor why she’s dismissed and why you’re taking over for her.” 

“W-what?! You can’t do that!” She stomps her foot, balling her hands into fists. 

“Do what? Prevent you from causing more harm to patient care? Or expediting your journey to the peer-review board- which in that case you're welcome that I’m the one ripping the bandage off because your mentor, Dr. Abel, would’ve done it worse-“ 

“Level 1 adult trauma, emergency department. Level 1 adult trauma, emergency department. Level 1 adult trauma, emergency department.” 

Instantly, high-pitch beeping blares through the hallway as every single pager goes off. 

You don’t forget to hold your hand out and wait for her to hand over her pager as you press the tiny button on yours and look down at the screen. 

“Come on, no more gunshot wounds. We already have two.” You groan, the irony of you wishing you were the one getting dismissed once you read the alert. 

You ignore the sting on your palm after a certain witch smacks the pager into your hand before fuming out and, politely, place it into the begrudgingly held out one.

“Think you’ll make it to the breakfast meet up at this rate?” Despite the scrunch-up expression, there’s sympathy and relief in his voice, most likely glad to not have to be the one to deal with the oncoming onslaught though feeling bad knowing how busy you’ve been as soon as you started. 

“Has to be my first rodeo to not.”

He gives you a nod and a pat on the back, wishing you good luck which you most definitely going to need. 

You turn around and expertly weave between bodies, chaos continuing with people yelling, nurses calling for residents and physicians. And then there’s this: 

“I’m telling you, I’m not on that fear gas! The British. Are. Coming!” 

“Hey, hey, girlfriend. It’s Abby from the emergency department again. Can we get security for a combative patient in hall B room 201?” 

“Seriously, just one day. One normal day is all I ask.” You grumble under your breath. 

Screw it. HR better approve your two weeks off for the next schedule because you will die on this hill, it’s either that or you’ll walk out and make the remaining eleven senior residents turn into ten. 

It takes less than three minutes for you to reach your destination. 

…You wish it didn’t and took longer instead. 

You can’t be kidding me… 

“Ti-“  You bite your lips down. 

Familiar black hair, pale skin more ghostly than ever. It doesn’t matter if his eyes are closed. No matter when, where or  how far away, you would always be able to recognize him. Even if it’s on a patient’s bed. 

Deep breathe in, a deep breath out. You got this. You’ve gone through it multiple times. You have to get a grip. 

“Someone give me a report.” Managing to squeeze past the bodies, you get close beside him. 

Finger tips trembling, stomach churning, you not fumbling is purely out of muscle reflex and completely used to doing it so many times. You wanted to shake him, yell at him how many times you’ve warned him to be careful and not put himself in danger. Ask if he or anyone else knows how much worry and fear you carry that the ER would become the last place you would see them. Hell, this was exactly why-

The second your hand reaches towards his neck, you pause. Then sigh. 

Of course, he wasn’t alone. Thank goodness. It was already strange that he was pretty stable but you were more concerned about the actual wound to really think about it once it was mentioned no one actually inspected it (more disciplinary paperwork to file, hooray. At least it’s not on another resident). It’s seeing a familiar bandage produced and used by a popular vigilante that also happens to be personally close to you, everything comes together. 

“Figures.” You grumble under your breath, annoyed yet tinged in relief. 

“Sorry, care to repeat that?” 

“Get a hemoglobin on him.” You mask your fluster, forgetting the nurse standing next to you for a second.  “Also, did anyone call for the physician?” 

More orders and yelling ensues the next few minutes from you then by Dr. Abel a.k.a Dr. Spartan-from-Hell once he enters the room and gets filled in on the situation. 

“Someone get him to radiology and contact surgery after!” 

“D-did you actually check his vitals to deem him stable enough to-”

“Do you think I’d say that when he’s not?!”

In Dr. Abel, we trust-! You mentally cheer him on while on the phone with the surgical team after you were told none of the RNs knew how to get in touch with them. Like come on, let’s get it together people. Over half have worked here for over five years, many more in terms of having experience, so let’s not act like it’s everyone’s first night working in a hospital-!

Everything repeats once the other victims in the shooting incident Tim was involved in come in at the same time, throwing the ER into an uproar. More yelling, more incident reports submitted, at one point you had to call security to escort another new resident for raging in the lobby after dismissing him too. 

In between juggling that and multiple patients including one that ended up calling for a massive transfusion for actively bleeding, you keep track on Tim’s chart. CT, duplex ultrasonography - that lucky S.O.- duck. You mean lucky duck. From the scans, his artery was nicked and not full out damaged by the bullet. And by the looks of it, he was fairly able to have the procedure start quicker than expected. 

Soon enough the end of the night shift hits, day shift trudging in to take over.

“Woah, you alive?” Curly ginger with dark freckles and turquoise eyes, you look up from your seat and see Sally, the most senior and your closest fellow resident, stare down in worry. 

“No.”

“Figures.” She makes a face when she reads over your shoulder the notes you add. “Heard it was bad on the news, didn’t think it could possibly get worse. You’re heading out now?”

“Can’t.” You cover a yawn with a hand, stretching an arm up towards the ceiling. “It slipped my mind that I picked up a twelve-hour shift up on ICU  after this one.”

More like you offering the last second, pulling strings here and there after finding out which floor Tim was getting admitted for recovery once his surgery was over. If anything, you’re going to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself and stop him going AMA the hundredth time so he could recover properly for once. 

“You know, I already thought you were insane for choosing EM/IM here of all places. Now, I’m wondering if we should just admit you to the psyche ward.” 

“Excuse you? I think you’re the last person to tell me-“ 

Suddenly your phone starts vibrating. Specifically your personal phone. 

She smiles in understanding when you apologetically glance at her and places a paper bag and a go-to cup down in front of you. She waves and you wave back as she makes her way towards the hall she’s assigned to.

Sweet, ol` Sally. To think she’d get you breakfast and coffee, the scent of sweet, savory, and caffeine coming from the bag and cup. 

Taking note to get her something in return for the kind gesture, your smile transforms into a frown when you see the caller ID.

You don’t want to know how. You don’t want to know since when. But gosh darn it, Babs, did she really have to hack your phone so she could unblock herself?

“What?” You don’t hide your irritation, your voice curt and snappy. 

“Well, good morning to you too, I guess. Listen. I get you’re still mad but-”

“If you’re going to talk about the whole cold war, now isn’t the time.” You press a finger against the skin between your eyebrows. “Tim got hit by a bullet last night and is fresh out of surgery and I’m about to head to his floor to monitor him.”

“What now-?”You don’t let her finish, hanging up without a second thought. 

Placing your phone facing down on the desk, you put your face in your hands. A part of you does feel guilty, knowing that it was out of desperation to help relieve and resolve the tension between you and everyone else by going out her way to call at the usual time you get out when it’s too early on top of her sleep-deprived schedule. 

Yet, did it really require crossing another line?  What would’ve ended at one week got extended for this very reason (i.e., crossing a line, not hacking).  They can say all they want about you not understanding them, completely valid. The same should be thought out the same for you, though. They’re vigilantes, you’re a soon-to-be-physician. And you’re so, so tired being the one to give in and wave the white flag. Whatever. 

It doesn’t take long to tidy up everything, joining the next group going up the elevator in time.

By the time you reach ICU, you’re greeted by the scene of everyone already running around. Great. 

Things get better when you head towards the desk and catch sight of a resident leaning against it and brooding, most likely waiting for you as you end up being assigned to take over his patients. He pushes himself up once you stand next time. 

“Couldn’t you have gotten here faster? It’s been a shit-show for everyone on the floor!“ 

“Would you rather have worked in the ER then?”

“…Oh.” 

Reports? Check. Phone? Check. Tablet? Check. Sucking in a deep breath, you approach and quietly slide open the door of the most prioritized patient currently. 

The only sound in the dark room are the soft beeps coming from the monitor. The door closes without a thud and your steps are light and silent once you enter.

Chest gently rising up and down, it’s unfamiliar and surreal to see the sibling you lived and were raised with for the longest time sleeping almost peacefully instead of bustling around and busy solving crimes and mysteries. Even back before him becoming Robi 

You wince, suddenly a stabbing pain rippling over your heart. Right, now isn’t the time to be like this. 

Your hands go flying, multitasking everything like any other day, any other patient. Except it’s not and your mind is making sure to remind you it’s not. 

Is he okay? Is he fine? There weren't any complications documented in his chart and report; should you double check just in case? 

Anxiety racks your entire being, suffocating and pumping adrenaline and making your heart hurt more intensely.  What makes checking him worse is your thoughts plaguing you that this would be how you will lose him. In this room, hospital, over something that might’ve not been noticed beforehand. 

Double, triple, quadruple checking him, the weight and tension finally lifts off once it settles in that everything appears normal. 

“Stupid idiot.” You sniffle softly, using the back of one hand to wipe the tears threatening to fall. “Why couldn’t you’ve been more careful?” 

Walking towards the small desk next to the bed, you place the tablet down and log into the computer. 

You hear shuffling coming from the opposite direction where you  and Tim are only for you to not take mind and continue typing away progress notes into the latter’s chart. 

“…How is he?” 

The piece of mind you wanted to give him as soon as he asks that dies when you glance at him over your shoulder. The typically stoic, striking blue eyes sunken in and filled with fatigue and worry, the back that’s always held up straight hunched as if carrying the whole world on it. There are stubbles all over and his face is completely haggard. The man presently visiting and sitting on the visitor’s chair behind you isn’t Bruce Wayne, owner of Wayne Enterprise or Batman, Gotham’s protector and dark knight; he’s any other father full of distress and broken affection, here to make sure his son is safe and alive. 

“He’s fine.” Tapping the period key, you click save then turn towards him. “Whether it’s from reflexes or whatever was going on, he somehow got the bullet to nick his artery rather than getting it fully blown out.”

“Hh.” 

You puff air out your mouth, pushing your hair back. Of course he wouldn’t say anything else. Always bottling it up and trying to deal with it on his own. If only he’d use words to express his feelings, it’d help make life a bit easier for you and him. Actually, everyone should. Steph and Duke, not as much; they’re actually the better ones out of the rest. Jason. Tim. Dick.  

You glance at him again and sigh. It’s not maybe or perhaps. He’s definitely going to crash out. Ninety nine point nine nine nine percent positive burn himself out over this knowing for him to have treated your older sibling in-time to prevent blood-loss, he would’ve been close or at the time of the scene. Someone should probably stop him- is probably what everyone would say. And guess who’s first in line and conveniently there to start that process. 

“The bandage on Tim’s neck,” you nod at the aforementioned male, “plan on selling it on the market for first responders?” 

That seems to do the trick in pulling the older man back to reality, the grip on the bouquet of flowers he brought with him loosening.  

“Not the exact one. A prototype is being made and tested that’s more suitable for them and the field.” 

“Nice. Honestly, can’t wait to see it enter and get used in hospitals with how effective it is and practically saved Tim’s life. ” 

“…Yeah?”  

“...Yeah.” 

It’s the tiniest of the tiniest smirk known to mankind. Well, to you at least. But, hey. A win is a win and you’ll take it, flashing a smile of your own in return while mentally fist bumping yourself at the success. 

Silence, then, settles between the two of you, mindlessly watching the other male’s resting state. 

“...Thank you. And…I’m sorry.” 

You’re quick to hold a hand towards him. It hasn’t been a full minute since pulling him out of his self-dug pit; you are not going to let him jump back into it. 

“We can talk about it when I get home,” you stretch an arm out and shake the mouse to check the time, “two days, ten hours, and forty-two minutes from now.”

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Close it. Rubs a hand over his face. Wow, to think you’d do the impossible twice: one, preventing him putting himself on fire, and now two, making him speechless. Where’s Alfred, he would’ve been so proud. 

Two hours pass after he tells you he’s going to stay and watch in which you decide to take that as an opportunity to check on the other patients. Maybe Lady Gotham did feel bad about your night, all the patients you’re assigned miraculously stable leading you to go back to the room sooner than expected.

“Done?” He gets up and straightens his jacket. 

“Yeah. You’ll get rest as soon as you get back?”

“I-” He pauses and clears his throat when you raise an eyebrow. “I’ll do just that before continuing working on the case from last night.”

“Great. I’ll check in with Alfred during break to make sure you did.” 

He heaves a sigh, fully aware you meant and will do it. 

“Make sure you go one, a proper one if you’re going to do so.” 

You huff. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. However, it comforts you seeing the light and warmth return in him as you watch him leave through the exit. 

Closing the door back, you walk towards the bed.

“So, how did the talk go?”

“You knew?” Slowly, his eyelids flutter and reveal pale, skyblue irises. 

“Please. Unless you lost that much blood, I’m sure you’re able to remember how long we’ve known each other.” 

Bleary and sluggish, he looks up at you then down to his arm with the IV stuck in it.

“...Sorry.” He mutters weakly, hanging his head low. 

You can feel your blood pressure rising. Stress. Struh-eh-esss. First, Bruce. Now, him. Do they think you’re heartless? Unable to realize how all your focus is making sure someone you consider and care as a family stays alive and heals completely?

“That’s not really answering my question.” You sit down on the spinning chair and open the screen of your tablet.

“Oh, uh, it wasn’t much.” He wet his lips, his words coming out slightly slurred. “Asked how I was feeling, traded information and discussed what else was needed. That was only a small part; most of it was him telling me to focus on getting better.”

“As he should.” You leave out the part about what you would do had he not or said anything else. 

He starts fiddling with the blanket covering him between his fingers. 

“Are…you still mad?” He winces, the question sounding more pathetic than intended. 

Oof. Ouch. That, that one is fair and now you feel kind of guilty.  

The worst part is you can’t deny that you are. You can lie. The catch? He’ll know right away and it’ll make his condition worse. Same thing if you were to tell him that you are. Fuck.

“If you don’t stay and leave before you’re in the clear, I might as well be mad forever.”

Thankfully he doesn’t prod into it more, attempting to nod only for his face to scrunch up at the pain shooting through him. Carefully and quickly, you get up to help him shift into a more comfortable position and pull the blanket up all while minding his injury.

“Thanks. For everything.” 

You’re about to move your hand away when he rests his over yours, a tired yet gentle smile on his lips.