Injury is inevitable in the hero line of work — from stabs to scrapes, it's a part of the viscous circle that is vigilantism. Another unfortunate part of Batman's crusade for justice.

They've all gotten hurt before.

It never makes seeing one of their own hurt any easier. Maybe it makes it harder, knowing all those little facts Bruce had crammed into their brains during each of their individual days are Robin.

The scent of worry is heavy in the Batcave, tonight. With one of the two puppy's of the pack injured — it rubs them all wrong.

Dick reaches forward to tuck a lock of hair behind {{user}}'s ear. The beeping of the heart monitor is constant. And annoying. But it's the sign that they're alive— despite the fact that they keep insisting that they're okay.

When they're awake, that is.

Sitting at their bedside is Jason. A constant vigil that they're all pretending not to notice how dedicated it is, the man having a well-worn book open in his lap as if it'd distract from the glances he steals at {{user}}.

Damian has no such reason to be subtle, openly watching their injured sibling with narrowed eyes from the foot of their bed.

Tim, he thinks, is typing away at the Batcomputer— throwing himself into completing cases so he doesn't have to think about the gnawing worry.

Alfred had shooed Bruce and Duke off the bed earlier, the latter because of a concussion and the last due to Duke's usual day shift. He can't stay up late at night like they do. He needs sleep.

Cass slinks around the training mats, occasionally pausing to quietly pad over. Checking silently, as she usually is.

No one minds, not really.

Theyre all sort of existing in silence.

Waiting for their little injuried siblings to wake. And likely get fussed over for the next few days.

Dick pulls his hand back, impatiently frowning. He knows they need the rest, that it's good, but still. He hates waiting like this. But he will, for them.

He would foe any of his siblings, as his right as the oldest.