Chapter Text
It was the beeping that he heard first, quiet and atonal, repeating, steady and endless, like a heartbeat. A heart...monitor? Whose?
The soft scuff of a foot, a gentle sigh, the rustle of papers. Someone was there. The...patient? But why would they be on a monitor if they could walk? He was the one laying in bed, unmoving. Ohhh, they are the doctor. I am the patient.
A sudden gust of wind, and with it the scents of cut grass and sunshine, a memory of cotton and plaid. Farmboy?
"How is he?" A deep, soothing voice asked, and a weight settled down beside him on the bed.
"About the same," was the reply, this voice reminding him of healing and reliance , despite a mildly caustic tone. "You know he'll pull through anything out of sheer stubbornness, but I'll feel a lot better when he wakes up."
Him? Me? He heard the heart monitor speed up a little, and pushed away the fog that lay on his muscles and other senses. I'm awake , he thought, but the words were too heavy to make it out of the fog.
"Hey, B, you coming back to us?" A hand stroked the hair back from his forehead.
He managed to twitch his lips ever-so-slightly in reply, and then with inhuman effort pried his eyelids open.
The darkness parted slowly to reveal an incredibly handsome man leaning over him, concern etched on every line of his chiseled jaw. At the sight of his opening eyes, the man smiled brightly like the sun, like he had never seen anything so wonderful. "Welcome back."
Every movement made the next one easier, so he managed a sloppy smile at the man, and tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasp.
"Oh, water!" The Adonis said, picking up a cup of ice chips from...somewhere and sliding a cool piece between his lips.
The moisture allowed him to finally form a word, and it was a very faint, "Who…?"
The handsome man frowned at him, and he really wanted that smile back. "Clark," the man said, placing one hand on his chest.
That was nice to know, but not what he'd meant. He licked his lips to try again, but there was the sound of hurried feet outside the door, and then it swung open. Another man entered, this one elderly, thin, dressed formally. His hair was white, he had a thin mustache, and he triggered some memories of trust, safe, protected, guiding, family…
"Father?" he asked, softly.
The elderly man's eyebrows almost got lost in his hair. "Oh dear," he said, exchanging glances with the Most Handsome Man.
The doctor cleared her throat. "He seems a bit confused, Alfred, maybe it would be best if you just--"
There were more sounds of hurried feet coming their way, this time several pairs, rushing fast, and accompanied by at least two voices playing keep-away with words too fast for him to grasp.
The doctor waved her hand at the door. "--could prevent that ."
The elderly man--Alfred--departed, and there were more words from behind the closed door, but they went too fast, and the voices hovered too close to memory, and he decided they could be dealt with later.
Mustering his strength, he tried again, "Who...I?"
The doctor nodded slowly. "Memory loss, not unexpected. It should come back on it's own in a bit. First, why don't you tell us what you do remember?"
"There was…" laughing, clinking glasses, too much talking, terrible band "...party." Chaos, dark balcony, go up. "Stairs." Faster, the light, hurry, the light, something lost, something breaking . "The light...falling."
"That's...not incorrect." The doctor glanced down at her clipboard. "You've got something like a pretty bad concussion, which has apparently come with some temporary amnesia. Can you recall your name yet?"
He went to shake his head, but the movement shot pain through his skull and he stopped abruptly, his eyes falling on the handsome man waiting patiently at his bedside. The man triggered memories of close, companion, trust, strong, comfortable, shared, love , and also one from just a few minutes ago, where he called him, "B--B--b--" he stammered over the letter, and then the sound, his tongue tripping until it fell on what came next. "B--b--Bru...ce." Vain. No. Rain? No. "Wayne."
The doctor smiled. "Very good," she said. "And I'm Doctor Leslie Thompkins, nice to re-meet you, Mr Wayne. Now," she continued, "it's important that you don't strain your memories too hard; most of them will come back on their own, although a few may be gone forever, especially the ones surrounding the accident. The best thing to do is rest in bed and at home for as long as possible. Not that you ever listen to me." She turned to the other man--Clark? "Do your best to make sure he's not swinging from rooftops for at least a week, please. I'll let the rest of the pack know, too. For whatever good that'll do."
She left, and Clark offered Bruce more ice chips. Bruce accepted them, and wanted to talk more, to remember more, but instead found himself drifting away again into quiet dark clouds.
--
When next he woke up, it was night, though the darkness was pushed back by a gentle yellow lamp in a corner of the room. That handsome man didn't seem to be anywhere, but someone else sat beside him, typing quietly on a laptop. This young man had blue eyes, and black hair. Seeing him reminded Bruce of flying, colors, brightness, family, joy, son, "Dick?" Bruce whispered quietly, reaching a hand out to him.
"B! You're awake!" Dick said, putting the laptop aside to grab Bruce's hand. "How are you feeling?"
Bruce considered for a moment. His headache had receded, and nothing else seemed to be damaged. "Okay. Thirsty."
Dick helped him to a few slivers of ice, which reminded Bruce of the handsome man from yest...the last time he'd awoken.
"Where...boyfriend?" he asked, trying to remember the man's name.
"Boyfriend?" Dick repeated, glancing around the room as if looking for someone else.
"K--C--" Bruce said, brain offering both a Ka- sound and a Cl- sound for the start of the name. "C--c--"
"Clark?"
Bruce's head drifted down in what might have been a nod.
"He's not…" Dick paused for a moment, then cleared his throat, smiled a bit. "He's not here. We've been taking turns sitting with you, and right now it's mine. He'll be back later."
Bruce closed his eyes to think about that. He didn't drift off, or maybe he did, because when he opened his eyes again, Dick was still there, but he had his laptop out again, typing away. "Working on?" Bruce asked.
Dick's reaction was slower this time, glancing up from his laptop as he kept typing. "Just mission files from the south river drug ring bust."
"Ohhh," Bruce said, eyes drifting shut again. "Police stuff."
"It's not police--" Dick's words fell off a cliff, but Bruce was drifting away again, not sure if he heard Dick saying, "Oh no," or what it could mean if he had.
--
Mostly when Bruce woke, it was K-Kent?-- Was that his name? Claud? Cl--Cal--Calvin?--Bruce's utterly stunningly handsome boyfriend who was there, but Dick and Alfred also spent time at his bedside. They asked him lots of questions about crime in Gotham and newsworthy current events, but Bruce couldn’t figure out why. They were probably trying to plumb the depths of his amnesia, but wouldn’t asking personal questions be more to the point with that, rather than about news stories Bruce may or may not have read?
And then, the next time he woke, a different black-haired young man was sitting there, with a cup of coffee held precariously in the crook of his arm, and one earbud in, doing something on his phone. He brought with him a memory string of son, discovered, proud, heir, best, save . "Tim," Bruce said, "Wayne."
"Enterprises?" Tim asked, only half-glancing up, as though he'd already known Bruce was awake. "WE is fine, stocks are--"
"No," Bruce interrupted. " Tim Wayne." He couldn't remember why, but he knew it was important Tim hear that.
Tim's jaw dropped, and he stared at Bruce, then shook his head. "Oh, you mean the adoption. Yeah, that happened."
"No, you're--"
Bruce was interrupted by a commotion at the door.
"--I will see him!" Declared an angry boy, pushing the door open hard enough that it hit the doorstop with a bang. "I don't know why you think I--Oh, hello, Father." The boy visibly calmed. "I'm glad to see you are awake. Do you remember who I am?"
Bruce dug through his memories, and received, stubborn, tempestuous, son, daring, uncontrolled, can't protect . "My youngest," Bruce said. "Robin."
"There," Robin's chin tipped up smugly. "I don't see how you can say he doesn't remember that--"
Dick, who was hovering behind Robin, cleared his throat. "Bruce, what's your youngest son's name?"
Bruce frowned; hadn't he just said? "Robin."
"Bruce," Tim said, drawing attention back to himself. "Can you name all your sons, please?"
"Richard," Bruce looked at him. "Timothy," Tim nodded, looking relieved. He looked at Robin again--was that not what he called him? But his memories didn't offer another option. "Robin." Robin looked distressed at that.
But Tim had said all his sons, and there was another, wasn't there? One that came with memories of anguish, mourning, failed, failed, failed, gone . Breath hitching, Bruce whispered, "Jason," and felt tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
"Hey, hey," Dick said, practically jumping over Robin to get to Bruce’s beside and take his hand. "It's okay, Jason's back, he's okay. He'll--he'll be by later, you'll see."
"You have distressed Father, Drake," Robin said.
Bruce was distressed, but he couldn't let that slide. "Wayne," he said, trying to clear some of the tears from his throat.
"Not Drake, Robin ," Tim said, in the tone of someone totalling scores to find they are winning.
Robin's face grew stormy, and he opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Alfred swept into the room, and sent all three boys tumbling away.
Bruce had remembered that Alfred was father figure, and not father, but he still couldn't feel properly embarrassed about the slip-up. It was important Alfred knew how much he meant to him.