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 Saturday’s too.
Bruce’s parents had died on a Saturday, Dick’s 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 week… well, on a bad week…
Bruce lay still, unmoving. His large frame, somehow small, in the king sized bed. Ace was curled up at his feet, chin resting on Bruce’s ankles. The heart monitor beeped steady, monotonous.
Alfred gently unhooks the empty blood bag from the IV pole. “That’s the last transfusion.” He says quietly, tying off the tube that ran out of Bruce’s arm. “Now we’ll just have to wait.”
Dick nods. Watches as Alfred slowly packs away the equipment that has been used to save Bruce’s 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 hadn’t turned up any injuries requiring monitoring. It was only thanks to Alfred’s 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 didn’t realise the older man he still did it.
“Why don’t you get some rest, Alfred?” Tim suggests. His voice is scratchy. He unfurls himself from the arm chair in the corner of the room, finally tears his eyes from Bruce’s resting figure. “I can make you some tea.”
“I—“ 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. “A good idea.” 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.
“Asleep.” Cass confirms. Damian lies on the ottoman at the end of the bed. His face creased with worry.
Dick sighs, unzips his hoody - it’s one of Bruce’s - and lays it over Damian’s shoulders.
