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The hallway was too bright.
The lights above buzzed in that cheap, sterile way that only hospitals seemed to master. Everything smelled of bleach and metal. No scent of oil from the Batmobile, no faint burn of the fireplace logs Alfred always kept stacked in the Manor’s hearth. Just that smell of clean decay, of endings hiding under white sheets.
Dick Grayson walked the corridor slowly, his boots quiet on the tile, hands tucked into the pockets of his navy hoodie. He passed nurses with polite nods and doctors who barely looked up from their charts. They all knew who he was. They all knew who was in that room at the end of the hall.
Room 417
Bruce Wayne.
The nameplate looked wrong — too impersonal, too small.
Dick knocked once, but didn’t wait for an answer. He eased the door open and stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by soft afternoon sunlight creeping through half-closed curtains. A heart monitor beeped steadily in the corner, its green pulse like a ticking clock. Machines whispered oxygen. A tray of untouched soup sat cold on the windowsill.
Bruce lay on the bed, propped up slightly, shoulders thin. The hospital gown hung on him and made it look as if he was engulfed in it. His dark hair was streaked with silver now, longer at the temples, softening the lines of his face. There were shadows beneath his eyes. A man hollowed out by time and inevitability.
But his eyes, those were still sharp. Heavy-lidded with fatigue, yes, but unmistakably Bruce.
He looked up and smiled. It was small, but real.
“Hey,” Dick said, his voice quiet, careful. “You decent?”
Bruce gave a soft grunt. “Since when did you care?”
Dick chuckled and closed the door behind him, letting it latch with a soft click.
“I brought you something,” Dick said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his hoodie pocket. “Fan letter. Some kid from Blüdhaven found out I was coming to Gotham and asked me to give this to Batman.”
Bruce quirked a brow. “Does he know Batman’s dying?”
Dick’s smile faltered. “Well I know that Batman was real to him. That’s enough.”
He set the note down on the side table, next to a copy of Treasure Island that had a bookmark wedged in page ten. Bruce hadn’t touched it in days.
“I could read it out loud if you want. It’s adorable. Full of spelling errors. Kid says you’re his favorite superhero ‘even if Superman can fly faster and not die from anything.’”
Bruce exhaled a soft chuckle. “Smart kid.”
Dick hesitated, then sat down in the armchair. It creaked under him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, putting the letter down and letting the silence take over for a moment before talking once more.
“I saw Damian yesterday,” he said.
Bruce tilted his head slightly. “How is he?”
“Stoic. Short-tempered. Dead-eyed with worry. In other words—fine.”
Bruce didn’t laugh, but his lips did twitch. “Tell him to come soon.”
“He will,” Dick promised. “They’re just… all taking turns. Tim’s been here every day, bringing you reports you can't even read without your glasses anymore. Jason pretends he’s fine, but I caught him staring at your x-rays when he thought no one was looking.”
Bruce was quiet for a long time.
“You shouldn’t have to do this,” he said eventually.
Dick blinked. “Do what?”
“Watch me go.”
Dick’s jaw tensed. “You know that's not the problem”
Another silence.
“I hate this place,” Dick murmured.
“I know.” Bruce smiled weakly. “I hate it too.”
They fell into silence for a while after that. The soft whir of machines filled the space. Somewhere down the hall, someone coughed.
Bruce turned his head slowly, eyes finding Dick’s face. “How’s the job?”
Dick smiled. “Busy. But good. Mayor wants a security overhaul for the waterfront, so the precinct is kind of all over the place right now.”
“You’ll always get through it just fine tho.”
“Yeah. Guess I do.” Dick looked down at his hands. “Some days I feel like I’m still on that wire, you know? Balanced between who I was and who I’m trying to be.”
Bruce reached out slowly. His fingers trembled, but the motion was steady enough to catch Dick’s wrist gently.
“You have your family now, we won't let you fall,” he said.
Dick looked at him then, and smiled. A little brighter. But there was a wobble at the edge of it.
He looked away quickly. “I don’t like this, Bruce.”
“I know.”
“I keep trying to talk about normal stuff. Jobs. Reports. Public transport budgets. But every time I look at you, I keep thinking…” His voice caught. He cleared his throat. “I keep thinking this might be the last time I get to do that.”
Bruce tugged gently on his wrist.
“Come here,” he said softly.
Dick hesitated, then rose and sat on the edge of the bed like he used to when he was younger, back when Dick had nightmares or a bad landing and pretended he didn’t hurt. When neither of them could sleep and Alfred had long gone to bed.
Bruce reached up and ran his fingers through Dick’s hair, slow and affectionate.
“You’ve gotten taller,” he murmured.
Dick let out a short, shaky laugh. “You say that every time.”
“I mean it every time.”
His hand was shaky but deliberate, brushing strands from Dick’s forehead. Every now and then, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss there—soft, brief. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
Dick’s voice broke.
“I’m scared,” he admitted. Bruce didn’t say it would be okay. He couldn’t lie to him.
He just ran his fingers through Dick’s hair again and pulled him closer. Dick folded in, resting his head gently on his father’s chest, careful not to disturb the wires. His hand lightly wrapping around him. And for a long, fragile moment, they just breathed together.
Bruce held him as long as his strength allowed.
And Dick didn’t cry.
Not really, just a few tears gathering in his eyes.
But his shoulders shook, and his voice didn't come back after that.
———
The machines blinked and beeped beside them, but Bruce barely heard them anymore. He could feel Dick breathing against his shoulder—shaky at first, like he’d been holding it in for hours. Maybe days. But now it had softened. Slowed.
They’d sat like this before.
Not for years, but the shape of it still fit.
Dick’s head on his shoulder, knees curled slightly on the bed, one arm draped loosely across Bruce’s chest. Not clinging, not desperate. Just… close. Like when he was nine and had a bad dream and wandered into the master bedroom without a word.
“You okay like this?” Bruce murmured after a while.
Dick nodded without lifting his head. “Yeah. This’s good.”
His voice was muffled into Bruce’s gown. Sleepy, warm. Fragile.
The minutes stretched long. The sun shifted. Outside the window, the sky was dipping toward a soft orange. Gotham’s skyline burned gold and gray.
Bruce’s fingers brushed through Dick’s hair slowly, smoothing it back, letting it fall again. Over and over, in the same absent rhythm he’d used when Dick had fallen asleep on him as a child. The same way he used to calm him after long nights, or when thunderstorms rattled the manor walls.
He remembered the first time Dick had curled up in bed like this. It was months after the adoption. Bruce had been sitting up late reading when he heard soft footsteps in the hall. Dick didn’t say anything. Just hovered in the doorway until Bruce lifted the blanket without a word.
Some things don’t change.
Bruce’s thumb made a gentle pass along Dick’s temple. His son’s lashes were long and dark against his cheeks, blinking slowly. Not asleep, not quite awake. Just resting. Like maybe he was hoping time would stall if he was still enough.
“You remember the cabin trip?” Bruce asked softly. “When you forced Alfred to bring ‘normal camping foods’ and threw his can opener because you said that we needed to learn to survive in the wild?”
Dick huffed a laugh against his chest, voice groggy. “He used a stick.”
Bruce’s mouth curved slightly. “You ate yours cold. Refused to wait for the fire.”
“I was eight and starving.”
“You said you were going to build your own fire with ‘the power of youth.’”
Dick giggled quietly, the sound muffled but bright. “You really remember that?”
“Every detail.”
Bruce tilted his head, pressing a kiss to his temple.
For a few moments, nothing else existed. Not the quiet dread in the room. Not the tubes. Not the fact that Bruce’s legs were slowly losing feeling again. There was just his son in his arms, smiling softly through the ache, letting himself be held.
Dick’s hand curled tighter into the blanket. He murmured, “Tell me another.”
Bruce went quiet for a beat.
Then he smiled, a breathy thing. “What about the mouse in the kitchen?”
Dick lifted his head slightly, brow furrowed. “The one Alfred threatened to sell the house over?”
“That’s the one. You tried to catch it with a mixing bowl and ended up knocking over every spice jar in the pantry.”
Dick broke into another laugh, this one snorting out through his nose. “I smelled like cumin for a week.”
“And cinnamon.”
Bruce let him laugh. Let it run out soft and warm. Dick’s body shook a little, but this time it wasn’t grief.it was the trembling edge of joy and memory. A moment suspended in amber, untouched by time.He shifted slightly on the pillows, turning just enough that Dick’s head fell against his shoulder again. The younger man curled in closer, sighing contentedly.
“You tell the worst stories,” Dick muttered.
Bruce pressed another kiss to his hair. “You still love them.”
Dick didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything at all.
The silence that followed was comfortable this time. Familiar. Like rain pattering against the manor roof, like Sunday mornings with Alfred reading the paper and Bruce silently sipping tea beside him.
The kind of silence that comes when everything is okay, even if just for a moment.
Bruce continued running his fingers through his son’s hair, slower now, almost drowsy. His own eyes were starting to flutter. His body was tired. Always tired these days.
But this moment, this was worth staying awake for.
Dick breathed out against him. “Don’t fall asleep before me.”
“I won’t,” Bruce promised.
Liar.
But Dick didn’t call him on it. He just smiled and tucked himself in closer, like a kid again. Like the world hadn’t ended and wouldn’t.
The nurse poked her head in sometime around eight.
She paused at the sight of Dick curled gently beside Bruce, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting protectively across his father’s chest. The monitor beeped in steady rhythm. Bruce’s hand still rested in Dick’s hair, though it had long since gone still.
“...I can come back later,” she whispered.
Bruce’s voice was soft, nearly inaudible. “Yes please”
The nurse gave a small nod and left without another word.
Dick didn’t wake. Just murmured something unintelligible in his sleep and shifted closer. Bruce closed his eyes and leaned his cheek to his son’s head.
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
He just remembered the warmth.
And the quiet.
———
Jason stood outside the hospital room door for fifteen minutes before going in.
He leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, a can of soda half-drained in his hand. His jacket hung open over a plain t-shirt. His boots were dusted with dried mud from whatever alley he’d stomped through to get here.
He stared at the door like it might open itself.
It didn’t.
Eventually, he sighed, tossed the empty can in the trash, and pushed the door open with his shoulder.
Bruce was awake. Sitting up more today, or maybe the bed had been adjusted for him. His hands were in his lap, IV still taped into one arm. There was a faint new bruise near his collarbone. His eyes flicked toward the door and stilled when they met Jason’s.
“Don't talk yet,” Jason said, dropping into the chair hard.
Bruce didn’t. He just gave a slight nod and let the silence return.
Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His fingers drummed restlessly on one thigh. “You look worse.”
“You said that two days ago.”
“Yeah, and it’s still true.”
Bruce gave a dry huff of air that might’ve been a laugh.
Jason rubbed a hand down his face and exhaled slowly. “Dick was here overnight?”
“He fell asleep, he'd just gone home actually.”
“Of course he did.”
Bruce glanced toward the window. “He needed it.”
Jason didn’t respond to that.
They sat in silence for a while. It wasn’t awkward. Not really. It was the kind of silence that had lived between them for years. It had shape. Weight. Meaning without explanation.
Jason stared at the monitor for a bit, then looked away like it personally offended him.
“I hate that sound,” he muttered.
Bruce glanced at the monitor. “I used to think it was comforting.”
Jason scoffed. “Only because you’re a masochist.”
Bruce hummed faintly.
Jason stood up abruptly and began pacing. One loop around the bed. Then two. Then he stopped and stared at Bruce with a scowl.
“You know this is messed up, right?” he snapped. “You’re not supposed to die like this.”
“There aren’t many other options left.”
Jason’s hands clenched at his sides. “You could’ve fought harder.”
“I did.”
Jason went quiet. Jaw tight. Eyes hotter than before.
“I watched you drag yourself out of worse,” he said, voice lower now. “I watched you claw your way out of hell. And this— this is the thing that beats you?”
Bruce didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
Jason turned away. His voice came ragged.
“I don’t think I can sit here and watch you go,” Jason admitted.
“You don’t have to stay.”
Jason turned, eyes flashing. “Don’t— don’t say that. Don’t give me an out.”
Bruce blinked. “Then why are you angry?”
“Because I’m scared.”
That silenced the room.
Jason dropped back into the chair like the air had been pulled from his lungs. His hands shook slightly as he dragged them through his hair.
“I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “I’ve never been good at this.”
Bruce kept quiet as he reached out slowly, hand unsteady, palm open.
Jason stared at it like it was a trap.
But eventually, he took it.
Their hands sat between them, big and calloused and rough, but somehow still fitting like always. Jason’s grip was too tight. Bruce didn’t mention it.
“I wanted to yell at you,” Jason said. “When they told me it was terminal. I wanted to throw a chair through a window.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
Jason snorted. “Give me time.”
Bruce smiled faintly. “You’ve changed.”
Jason looked away. “Not enough.”
“You stayed.”
“Doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing fine.”
Jason laughed once. It sounded hollow. “Only you would say that.”
Bruce let the silence stretch again. The only sounds were the beeping monitor and the slow whirr of the oxygen feed.
Then, gently, Bruce squeezed his hand. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”
Jason bowed his head.
After a moment, he shifted forward in the chair. Not all the way onto the bed like Dick had done. Just enough that he could rest one hand on the mattress and lean closer. He stared at their joined hands like it anchored him.
“You used to read me stuff when I got sick,” Jason murmured.
Bruce nodded.
“You read me Final Payments.” Jason smiled faintly. “Was that supposed to be symbolic or something?”
“...You were ten. I just thought you’d like the story.”
Jason chuckled. “I did. You did all the voices, too.”
“Only because you made fun of me when I didn’t.”
Jason’s shoulders shook faintly. It wasn’t quite laughter. Not yet. But it was close.
He went quiet again, then added, “Do you want me to read something back to you?”
Bruce blinked, surprised.
Jason shifted, pulled a paperback from the table beside them, Old yet still so serene.
He held it up. Treasure Island.
“You never finished it,” he said.
Bruce smiled slowly. “I never had to.”
Jason opened the book. Found the page. Cleared his throat.
And in that hospital room—quiet and washed in golden afternoon light—Jason Todd read aloud.
His voice was low and even. Stilted at first, but steadier as he went. And Bruce watched him with a gaze heavy with pride and pain and everything in between.
The story spilled into the space between them, filling it with something close to peace.
———
Jason hadn’t intended to fall asleep at all.
The recliner chair by Bruce’s hospital bed was uncomfortable in a way that expensive furniture always managed to be— it looked good, but it was hell on his lower back. Still, sometime between Bruce’s light snoring and the ambient hum of the machines, Jason had drifted off, arms crossed, head lolling slightly.
He stirred with a soft grunt the next morning, eyes crusty from bad sleep. For a second, he didn’t remember where he was.
Then he blinked blearily at the IV stand and the oxygen monitor.
Right. The hospital. Bruce.
Jason groaned and ran a hand through his messy hair, sitting up stiffly and rolling his neck until it popped. He looked over toward the bed and promptly scowled.
Bruce was awake, propped up against the headboard with pillows. The breakfast tray was pushed aside, untouched. Porridge with chicken and prawn topping, Fruit and a pastry. It wasn’t the usual hospital mush.
None of it had been eaten.
Jason shoved off the blanket someone had draped over him during the night and rose to his feet.
Bruce looked up at him with mild amusement, as if he already knew the storm coming.
“You didn’t eat,” Jason said flatly.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Good morning to you too.”
Jason ignored the jab. He grabbed the tray and set it back in front of his father, careful not to spill the juice. “You need to eat. That’s basic. You don’t get to skip that part, especially when you're old and dying.”
Bruce’s hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the blanket over his lap. It was subtle. Anyone else might’ve missed it.
Jason didn’t.
“I’m not hungry,” Bruce said after a pause, voice even. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” Jason’s jaw tensed. “You’re not exactly going to get better skipping meals.”
Bruce gave a quiet huff of laughter, not unkind. “That’s not really the point anymore.”
Jason bristled. “Yeah, well, tough. You're still here. And until you’re not, you're eating.”
Bruce’s gaze softened, eyes shadowed with something old and worn and tired. “You were always stubborn,” he murmured. “Even when you were small.”
Jason clenched his fists, then let them fall open. “Don’t change the subject.”
Bruce reached out with one trembling hand and pushed the tray a little to the side again. “I appreciate the concern. But I really can't, Jay. My stomach’s… not what it used to be.”
There was no venom in it. No defiance. Just… truth. He wasn’t trying to fight him. He was just too tired.
Jason stood in silence, jaw tight. His knuckles turned pale.
“Fine,” he muttered after a beat. “But you’re drinking the juice at least.”
Bruce huffed again, but didn’t argue.
Jason took the small glass and carefully passed it over, watching to make sure Bruce’s hand didn’t slip when he took it. Bruce’s grip was unsteady but functional. The juice went down slowly.
When the glass was empty, Bruce passed it back and leaned against the pillows again, his head sinking slightly like the act of drinking a few sips had worn him out.
“Happy now?” he asked lightly.
Jason didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the empty glass. Then he turned, setting it aside again and pulling the chair closer to the bed.
He dropped into it and rubbed a hand down his face. The harsh scowl he’d worn since waking was starting to chip away.
“You’re gonna make me yell at you every morning, aren’t you?” Jason mumbled. “Like clockwork.”
Bruce smiled faintly. “It’s tradition.”
Jason didn’t laugh. But the crease between his brows eased.
The silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet.
Jason looked at him and felt something twist in his chest. Bruce looked so much older now. So thin. His skin too pale, his lips a little cracked. The hand resting on the bed still trembled, even now.
He swallowed around a lump in his throat.
Bruce watched him with calm, unreadable eyes. But there was warmth there too. Familiar. Unchanging. No matter what happened.
“Are you scared?” Jason asked quietly.
Bruce tilted his head, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. He didn’t answer for a while.
“…Not really,” he said finally. “Not for myself.”
Jason looked away, blinking quickly. “You’re an idiot.”
Bruce didn’t disagree.
Eventually, Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.
“Wanna hear a story?”
Bruce turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Only if you make it better than mine.”
Jason smirked, a little more genuine this time.
“Mine has wild pigs,” he said. “So automatically, yeah.”
Bruce made a contented sound. Jason began to talk — not about pain or fear or anything dark—but about the absurd incident last year when a wild pig had gotten loose in the outlaws' base and how he’d been the only one dumb enough to chase it with a broom. The story had no moral, no deep meaning.
Yet it made Bruce laugh, just a breathy, worn-out chuckle, but it was real.
———
The knock was soft, courteous, but Jason barely looked up from the chair by the window. The evening sun cast long, golden shadows across the hospital suite, glinting off the untouched tray of dinner perched neatly on the fold-out table.
The door cracked open. A familiar nurse stepped in, her voice gentle, “Mr. Wayne, you need to eat. You have surgery scheduled early tomorrow, and your body needs the strength.”
Bruce said nothing at first. He was half-sitting, half-reclining against his bed, his expression showing a slight frown, eyes never quite reaching the food. “I’m not hungry,” he murmured, voice dry and raspy from the day.
Jason's brow furrowed and finally stood, arms crossed. “You didn’t eat breakfast. Or lunch.”
Bruce gave a faint shrug, like that explained everything.
The nurse tried again, tone firm but still kind. “Please try. Even a few bites.”
Jason held up a hand to her. “I got it.”
The nurse hesitated, then nodded, retreating quietly with a polite glance at Jason. The door closed behind her.
Jason stared at the tray for a long moment before he moved toward it. He opened the lid, revealing still-warm food. His nose wrinkled—not out of disgust but worry, a muted kind that he’d been keeping just beneath his skin all day.
He picked up the fork.
Bruce gave him a long look. “You’re not seriously gonna feed me.”
Jason arched a brow. “You gonna stop me?”
Bruce’s mouth tugged upward slightly at the corners, dry amusement layered in something heavier.
Jason sat on the edge of the bed carefully, balancing the plate on one thigh. His movements weren't graceful but his hands are steady from the countless times he had to feed Catherine. He stabbed a piece of soft chicken and held it out. “Open up.”
Bruce raised a brow, but he didn’t argue.
The bite went in with a tired sigh. Bruce chewed slowly, clearly forcing himself to swallow.
“You’re not fooling anyone, y’know,” Jason muttered, going in for another bite.
Bruce glanced at him.
“You think we don’t see it,” Jason said, quieter now, eyes not meeting his father’s. “The way you shake. The way you just... don’t want to eat anymore. Like you’re giving up.”
“I’m not giving up,” Bruce replied softly.
Jason snorted, but it lacked real heat. “Could’ve fooled me.”
There was a silence between them, stretched thin and brittle like glass. Jason fed him another bite. Bruce took it with a little more effort this time.
“You always did this for me when I was a kid,” Jason murmured, after a while, voice strange and distant. “When I was too sick to even get out of bed. You didn’t say anything either. You just sat there, telling me stories I can’t even remember now and threatening to call Alfred if I didn’t take my meds.”
Bruce chuckled weakly at that. “He was the real enforcer.”
Jason huffed out a quiet laugh too. “Yeah, well. I guess that makes me you now. Scary.”
“Terrifying,” Bruce deadpanned.
Jason tried another bite, this one slower. Bruce chewed, struggled a bit more this time. He coughed lightly into his hand, and Jason instinctively reached for the water, holding it up.
Bruce took a few sips before sinking back against the pillows.
Jason stayed close, holding the plate steady but not pushing for another bite just yet.
“You used to say you could always tell when I was pretending to feel better,” Jason said, his voice a little rough. “Said my eyes gave me away.”
Bruce tilted his head slightly, gaze fixed on his son’s face.
“Well... I can see it in yours now too,” Jason admitted. “You’re tired. And scared. But you won’t say it.”
Bruce’s hand, still shaking faintly, reached out and lightly patted Jason’s forearm. “I’m not scared of the pain.”
Jason met his eyes. “Then what?”
Bruce was quiet for a long moment.
“Leaving you all behind,” he said eventually, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “That’s what scares me.”
Jason looked down at the spoon in his hand, then at Bruce. His face twisted into something almost pained, but he swallowed it back, setting the plate aside on the nightstand.
“You'll get through this surgery,” Jason said. “Then the next one, and the next.”
Bruce gave a tiny, weary smile. “Hn, you're very stubborn”
“Takes one to know one,” Jason said, voice softer now, words trembling at the edges.
Bruce didn’t eat more, but he didn’t have to. Not tonight.
Jason stayed beside him, one hand resting lightly on the blanket over Bruce’s wrist as his father dozed off. Exhausted, still weak, but just a little fuller than before.
———
The monitors in the suite beeped in slow rhythm, steady but thinner, like each pulse was more precious now than before. The curtains were half-drawn, keeping the early evening light soft. Bruce was pale against the sheets, more so than Jason had ever seen him, lips cracked, face lined with exhaustion.
Jason sat in the same chair he’d claimed for the past few days, his leather jacket thrown over the back, his boots resting heavy on the polished floor. He’d been there since before dawn, pacing through the hours of surgery, drinking bad coffee until his hands shook. He’d snapped at a nurse once. Snapped at Tim when he’d tried calling. Snapped at himself when he realized how stupid he was being by getting angry at everyone.
Now he was still. Too still.
His arms were crossed tight, jaw working as he watched Bruce’s chest rise and fall under the oxygen tubing.
The door clicked once before a nurse slipped inside, checking the IVs and monitors with careful hands. She whispered to Jason “It went as well as expected. He’ll be weak for a while. Try to keep him calm.”
Jason only nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.
When she left, silence swallowed the room once more.
Jason leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. He rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling through his teeth.
A soft rasp cut through the quiet. “Jas'n.”
Jason’s head snapped up.
Bruce’s eyes were half-open, unfocused but searching. His hand twitched weakly against the blanket.
“Hey,” Jason said quickly, pushing up out of the chair and dragging it closer. His tone was rough, but his movements were gentle. “Don’t try to sit up. Just… stay where you are, alright?”
Bruce gave the faintest twitch of a smile. “You stayed.”
Jason scoffed, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. “Where the hell else would I go?”
Bruce’s fingers curled faintly, trying to reach. Jason caught the hand before it could fall back, gripping it tight but careful. His thumb brushed over the IV tape without thinking.
“Told you you were gonna get through this without an issue.”
Bruce blinked slowly before chuckling.
“...Can't you just stop being sick and go back to normal B?“Jason's voice barely a whisper.
Bruce’s eyes slipped shut briefly, then opened again. “…Not sure I get a choice anymore Jaylad”
Jason swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes to stop the tears from welling up.
He sat like that for a long while, keeping watch while Bruce drifted in and out, fighting sleep, fighting weakness. When Bruce stirred again, Jason was still there, pushing back his father’s hair the way Bruce had done for him long ago.
———
The next morning, the door to the suite opened with the faintest click.
Jason looked up from his spot by the bed, his boots planted lazily on the polished coffee table in the sitting area. He was in the recliner again, looking like he hadn’t slept much—which he didn't, so not completely wrong about that—his arms crossed over his chest.
Tim slipped inside quietly, shutting the door behind him. He carried a paper bag of coffees, his hair slightly rumpled, dark circles bruised under his eyes. He hadn’t bothered with anything formal. hoodie, jeans, sneakers. His gaze flicked immediately to the bed.
Bruce was awake, eyes lighting up when he saw his son.
Tim let out a slow breath, the kind that eased some of the weight off his shoulders. “Hey,” he murmured.
Jason shifted, leaning forward on his knees. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh… look, before you say anything— about yesterday. I was an ass. I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you.”
Tim arched a brow, setting the coffee bag on the counter. “Wow. Jason Todd, apologizing. I should’ve brought a camera.”
Jason rolled his eyes, muttering, “Don’t push it, replacement”
Tim smirked, shaking his head, and walked closer. “Whatever, asshole.”
There was warmth under it. Familiar, brotherly warmth that hadn’t always been there.
And right on cue, a hoarse but firm voice cut through the room. “Language.”
Both of them froze, turning toward the bed.
Bruce’s mouth was set in a stern line, though his eyes had a flicker of dry amusement.
Jason blinked. Then—unexpectedly—he barked out a laugh. “You’re still pulling the dad routine? In a hospital bed?”
Tim grinned guiltily, running a hand through his hair. “Guess some things don’t change.”
Bruce shook his head faintly, but the warmth in his gaze was undeniable.
Tim moved closer, hovering for a moment before leaning down carefully. His arms wrapped around Bruce. not tight, not enough to jostle him, yet solid. He buried his face briefly against Bruce’s shoulder, inhaling the sterile scent that clung to the room, grounding himself in the sheer fact that his father was still here.
Bruce’s hand, lifted just enough to press against Tim’s back.
When Tim finally pulled back, his expression was lighter, if still tired. He gave Bruce a small smile before retreating to the seating area of the suite, sinking into the couch with a sigh.
The VIP room was spacious, an actual sitting area with plush chairs, a small coffee table, and a TV mounted on the wall. The curtains were drawn open now, city skyline glowing faintly through the windows yet everytime the kids came, they were huddled on the couch and armchair beside Bruce's cot.
Jason glanced at him. “You look like crap.”
“Thanks, you look way better yourself” Tim said dryly, kicking his feet up on the edge of the couch. He reached for one of the coffees he’d brought and held another out in offering.
Jason accepted it with a grunt, their fingers brushing briefly.
———
Jason stood after finishing the coffee, stretching his arms overhead until his shoulders cracked. He looked like hell— wrinkled shirt, hair sticking out in ten different directions. He turned towards the bed, eyes on Bruce. “I’m gonna head back to the manor for a bit. Shower. Change. I’ll come back later tonight with Dick and the demon brat, too.”
Bruce’s lips curved faintly, though it was tired. He gave a short nod.
Jason smirked, leaning against the bed rail. “Also, I’m gonna eat Alfred’s cooking before I come back, don't get me wrong, the food here is delicious but they're nothing compared to Alfie's” he gestured toward the dinner tray still sitting on the counter.
Bruce’s brows drew together just slightly, a flicker of disappointment and jealousy passing over his face so fast it almost could’ve been missed.
Jason caught it.
He hesitated, then sighed. “…Yeah, alright, old man. I’ll bring some back. Don’t pout.”
“I wasn’t—” Bruce started, but Jason cut him off with a crooked grin.
“Please. You totally were.”
Tim snorted quietly from the couch, trying to hide it behind his coffee cup.
Bruce looked between them, equal parts exasperated and fond, but he didn’t argue again.
Jason leaned down, bracing a hand on the edge of the bed. “Get some rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Bruce’s eyes softened at that, the faintest glimmer of relief breaking through the exhaustion.
Jason squeezed his father’s hand once, firm, before letting go and shrugging into his jacket. He looked back only once at the door, just long enough to catch Bruce watching him leave.
“Don’t go dying while I’m gone,” Jason muttered.
And then he was gone, boots thudding down the quiet hall, leaving Tim in the suite with their father.
———
Bruce shifted against the pillows, and looked over at Tim, who had sunk deeper into the couch, scrolling halfheartedly through his phone.
“Tim,” Bruce said, voice rough but steady enough.
Tim glanced up immediately. “Yeah?”
“…How was your day?” Bruce asked.
Tim blinked, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “My day?”
Bruce nodded, patient.
Tim huffed a laugh under his breath and rubbed at his eyes. “Uh—nothing exciting. Did some work in the cave. Had a board meeting on video call this morning. It was… fine.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Better now that you’re awake.”
Bruce gave the faintest ghost of a smile, as if that answer settled something for him. “Good.”
For a few minutes, silence lingered, only the faint hum of hospital equipment filling the room. Then Bruce asked another question, quieter “Have you been keeping up with your sleep?”
Tim rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat in it. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”
Still, he answered honestly, because Bruce’s gaze had that steady weight that was impossible to sidestep “Some. Not enough. I’ll… catch up.”
Bruce’s lips curved, almost amused. “See that you do.”
The questions trickled on in little starts and stops. Bruce asking about the latest project Tim was working on, if Alfred had been resting, if Damian had finished the book Bruce had gave weeks ago. It wasn’t interrogation, not the sharp-edged way Bruce usually pried for answers. Just a father trying, in his faltering way, to catch up.
Tim answered everything. Sometimes with a tired smile, sometimes with an exasperated sigh, sometimes with just a simple nod. He never moved from the couch, but his voice softened each time Bruce spoke.
———
Hours passed. The soft lamplight in the suite shifted with the coming evening, the outside world dimming to twilight. Bruce dozed on and off, his breathing steady if shallow.
Tim stayed put, tapping on his laptop for a while before letting it slide shut. He glanced at his dad often, the way one keeps checking on something fragile, making sure it’s still there, still holding.
A knock sounded at the door just after nightfall. Tim sat up, brushing a hand through his hair.
The door opened, and Jason walked in first, hair damp from his shower, followed by Dick with his usual brightness and Damian trailing behind, small but tense.
Tim stood, relief flickering across his face. “Finally.”
Jason smirked faintly, lifting a tote bag. “Told you I’d bring food.”
Bruce stirred at the familiar voices, eyes opening just enough to watch as his sons filed in, the room suddenly warmer, fuller.
Jason was the first to reach the bed, the scent of rain still clinging to him from his quick trip out. He set the paper bag on the side table, his smirk faint but there.
“Made good on my promise,” he said, pulling out containers Alfred had packed. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
Bruce’s lips tugged upward, the faintest hint of a pout easing into relief. “Thank you.” His voice was scratchy, the words carrying more weight than Jason probably expected.
Jason coughed into his fist, looking away. “Yeah, yeah.” He fiddled with the lids, making sure everything was in order before moving to the couch.
Dick was next, slipping closer to the bed, his smile soft but sad around the edges. “Hey B.”
Bruce’s eyes softened instantly, the same way they always did when his eldest entered a room. “Chum.”
“Don’t you sound happy to see me,” Dick teased, but his voice caught halfway through. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle anything, and reached for Bruce’s hand without hesitating.
Bruce squeezed faintly, his grip not what it used to be, but steady enough.
Damian hung back for a moment, arms crossed, sharp eyes scanning the room as if the walls themselves might betray him. He didn’t move until Bruce’s gaze found him directly, patient, expectant.
With a huff, Damian stepped forward, muttering, “Father.”
Bruce inclined his head, something warm flickering in his eyes at the greeting. He reached out a trembling hand. Damian hesitated, then carefully, almost reverently, placed his smaller one in it.
No more words passed between them for the moment. The weight of the silence said enough.
———
Jason leaned back on the couch, pulling out containers and nudging one toward Tim. “Here. Don’t make me babysit you too.”
Tim shot him a wry look but took it without protest, settling the carton on his lap. “Thanks.”
Jason snorted. “Don’t thank me. Thank Alfred. I just played delivery boy.” He slid another container toward Bruce, hesitating only briefly before setting it within reach. “And you— don’t even think about pushing it away this time. I didn’t haul this back just to watch it sit there.”
Bruce gave a quiet, amused hum. His fingers trembled as he reached, but Jason leaned forward quickly, catching the container and opening it for him.
“I’ve got it,” Jason muttered. He speared a small piece with the fork, holding it out almost like a dare. “C’mon. Don’t make me feed you again in front of the others.”
Bruce’s lips twitched, a spark of humor threading through his exhaustion. He accepted the bite, slow and deliberate, and Jason relaxed back with a faint grunt. “That’s more like it.”
Tim rolled his eyes but smiled into his food, and even Dick’s shoulders seemed to ease at the sight. Damian remained at Bruce’s side, quiet, but his gaze never strayed from his father.
The suite filled with the small, homely sounds of dinner. the crinkle of containers, the muted clink of utensils, the low hum of conversation between brothers. Nothing dramatic, nothing loud. Just the ordinary rhythm of a family sharing a meal.
Bruce leaned into it, listening, letting the warmth of their voices settle into him. He knew the truth— the weight of the illness in his bones, the certainty of what lay ahead. His body would fail him sooner rather than later.
And yet—
With Jason grumbling but making sure he ate, Tim rolling his eyes but smiling, Dick’s hand still loosely holding his, and Damian seated close enough that their shoulders brushed—Bruce found he didn’t mind.
If this was what the end looked like, surrounded by his sons, their lives twined with his in ways neither blood nor time could undo.
then it was more than enough.
He let his eyes slip shut, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, and breathed easier than he had in weeks.