Saturday nights were always the worst. The collective stresses of Gotham, let loose in a mix of alcohol and violence, loud music and dark corners. If he tracked it back, Dick was sure that every Arkham break out, every crisis, every invasion, every Gotham nightmare, had all been Saturdayās too.
Bruceās parents had died on a Saturday, Dickās parents had died on a Saturday. Hell, Jason died on Saturday.
It made Sunday mornings the hardest. Bruised bodies and aching joints, new injuries on top of old and jade tinted glasses.
That was a good week. On a bad weekā¦ well, on a bad weekā¦
Bruce lay still, unmoving. His large frame, somehow small, in the king sized bed. Ace was curled up at his feet, chin resting on Bruceās ankles. The heart monitor beeped steady, monotonous.
Alfred gently unhooks the empty blood bag from the IV pole. āThatās the last transfusion.ā He says quietly, tying off the tube that ran out of Bruceās arm. āNow weāll just have to wait.ā
Dick nods. Watches as Alfred slowly packs away the equipment that has been used to save Bruceās life. Again. Wonders how anyone in this family would ever have survived without his care.
None of them had made it back from patrol the night before unscathed. But post patrol check in hadnāt turned up any injuries requiring monitoring. It was only thanks to Alfredās own routine, his own private ritual of checking in on his family once they slept, that Bruce had been saved. Bleeding out and delirious in his own bed, from a wound far deeper than first suspected.
Dick can remember Alfred checking in on him when he was kid, he didnāt realise the older man he still did it.
āWhy donāt you get some rest, Alfred?ā Tim suggests. His voice is scratchy. He unfurls himself from the arm chair in the corner of the room, finally tears his eyes from Bruceās resting figure. āI can make you some tea.ā
āIāā Alfred begins, but his voice catches. He looks at Bruce, his eyes desperate for just a second, then they drop. He nods, clears his throat. āA good idea.ā He says, voice steady this time. And he lets Tim lead him from the room.
The rest of them are silent. Dick looks at Damian, then at Cass. He feels at sea, unsure what to do next.
āAsleep.ā Cass confirms. Damian lies on the ottoman at the end of the bed. His face creased with worry.
Dick sighs, unzips his hoody - itās one of Bruceās - and lays it over Damianās shoulders.
