Archive of Our Own

“Well you look like shit.”

Bruce sighs, eyes flickering across the bed board left over from the night-shift to get a feel for the day. It's not the worst mess to clean up, and they actually have a couple trauma rooms ready to be filled with new patients — so as far as starting the morning-shift goes at Gotham Trauma Medical Centre, this is shaping up to be a somewhat uneventful morning.

Of course, he'd never say that out loud, unless he wants to tempt the spirits of Gotham to prove him wrong. As if aware of his careless thinking, turning his head to the side reveals Stephanie's unimpressed expression watching him critically.

“Good morning to you as well, Resident Doctor Brown,” Bruce grumbles, not bothering to plaster a smile he knows Stephanie will see right through and berate him for attempting to fool her with.

It doesn't matter in the end, because Stephanie finds his genuine-pain just as amusing as his attempts of fake-pain, “Bruce, your whole brooding thing is really going to bring down our patient satisfaction. Imagine you're about to have a heart attack and then your Doctor shows up looking like he wants to kill you. That's like — instant heart attack.”

Bruce just stares at her for a moment, blinking slowly, before he looks away like he hadn't even noticed her presence initially. The giant clock on the right hand corner of the board has only just presented 09:04 to him and he's already reached his Steph-limit for the day.

Stephanie giggles at his reaction, and Bruce can only roll his eyes fondly at her antics. While he's not pleased by Stephanie's jokes, she always carries a specific sort of excitement with her so early in the day, tapping into Bruce's perpetual exhaustion and filling him up with similar insatiability. Perhaps it's the desire to learn that she always has. Bruce feels rich with information to share.

If only she didn't go about it in a way that was hand-crafted specifically to piss him off.

With another sigh, he peers at her curiously from the corner of his eye. She grins back at him.

“Have you not got anything better to do than stand around harassing me?” He then asks her, not unkindly, but not without some heat, “When I was —”

“Yeah yeah, when you were a medical student, you were performing intubations with your eyes closed,” Stephanie waves him off, coming over to stand right next to him, knocking their shoulders together as they both glare up at the slowly expanding list of occupied beds in the emergency room, “Anything look fun?”

Bruce frowns. He wants to point out that he's never performed an intubation with his eyes closed — that's, most definitely, a ridiculous thing to attempt — but more pressingly; “You shouldn't pick and choose cases. You'll never learn that way. I expect better from you.”

Stephanie groans, “That was a joke, Bruce. We're stuck together for the next twelve hours, so can you at least pretend to like me?”

If Bruce tries to frown any deeper than he already is, he runs the risk of pulling a muscle in his face. Which is a completely plausible risk when it comes to conversing with his most irritating resident.

“I'm only kidding,” she says dramatically, and to his surprise, slumps closer against him as opposed to pulling away like she usually would've after she's finished winding him up, “But seriously, you feeling okay?”

Bruce spares a fleeting look at her face, suddenly very unsettled by her genuine concern. This really isn't their style. As Attending Physician Chief of the emergency department at Gotham Trauma, his role is to teach and navigate the rest of the team, and Stephanie's role as a resident medical student is to convince Bruce of an early retirement at least three times in one shift. Statistically speaking, she should've already said something to make Bruce pop a blood vessel.

Except right now, she looks worried. Bruce feels ridiculous and juvenile for it.

“I didn't get much sleep,” he tells her, since she can smell both fear and dishonesty like a shark in bloody water, “But I'm alright. Are you ready to get started?”

It's a blatant attempt to steer away any personal questions, not that Stephanie would've pushed for anything more, but she graciously allows him this mercy. As much as she likes to push his buttons and he can't help but shove her hands away, Doctor Brown is his responsibility and he is her teacher. It's none of her business why Bruce can feel his heart threatening to burst out of his chest (in a totally non-medical way), nor is it her responsibility to fix him.

They've got patients that would benefit far more from her observations.

She nods expectantly, used to Bruce's quick turn back to business, tapping away at the counter in front of them as they read the board.

“Take bed 14,” Bruce orders without any more fanfare, “Call for me if you need assistance. I'll be doing rounds shortly."

Stephanie narrows her eyes at the board, and lights up at the case Bruce's given her. Despite her never having told him explicitly — because aside from his comments, she is his best and least picky resident — Stephanie loves stitching people up. She gives him a lopsided smirk, a mischievous glint in her rushed wink that suggests she will definitely not call him for help, “You got it boss.”

“I told you to not call me that,” Bruce grunts.

“You also told me not to place bets with the nurses on what natural disaster will hit Gotham next,” she shrugs, walking backwards and just barely missing knocking into a passing security guard, “Which reminds me, should I put you down for an earthquake or tsunami?”

She's doing this on purpose, he knows, but that doesn't stop Bruce from scoffing, “Isn't one technically a consequence of the other?”

Her eyes are practically twinkling with mirth, “I'll put us both down as seismic sea wave.”

“Just get lost already,” Bruce sighs.

“Spot me fifty bucks, B-man!” Stephanie shouts as a parting, because god forbid Bruce have the final word in any of their conversations, taking her leave before Bruce can refuse.

He'd wondered, back when Stephanie had first shown up, fresh out of medical school with only one other field of hospital experience, if they'd ever find balance in this strange dynamic. Not only was she Leslie's golden apprentice from some forgotten corner of Burnside, but she was also a recipient of the Wayne Life Sciences Bursary. The conflict of interest at having Bruce be her primary attending was a slippery slope, awkward and tentative at best —

Right up until he raised his voice at her for a stupid mistake with a patient and she told him to stick a scalpel up his ass. Tensions have been a little high ever since.

But Leslie Thompson doesn't do anything halfway, and she'd prepared Stephanie for problems scarier in this career than Bruce Wayne's emergency room. She'd bounced back harder and better since. Bruce isn't too bothered to say she'll probably outperform even him, one day.

He watches her go, rushing off just as quickly as she had appeared, a bright beacon of blonde hair disappearing into the sea of other nurses and doctors rushing around to blend the night shifts closing into the morning shifts opening. Bruce sees her finally turn the corner, but not before she's greeted every passing staff member with a smile and a wave.

Bruce snorts. He wonders when all this energy so early in the morning will finally be sucked out of her. Since she's only been here for three month, Bruce gives her two more weeks before the dark circles appear.

“Careful Bruce,” an amused voice calls from behind him, “You'll ruin your stone-cold reputation by smiling at your interns like that.”

Bruce immediately flattens the quirk of his lips into a straight line, turning around with a glare that lacks any real heat.

Andrew grins, “That's more like it,” the nurse gestures to the hall of curtains and rooms, a few stragglers from the night before exploring the halls in hospital gowns and family members asleep in chairs outside temporary bed stations, “I was surprised when I saw your name on the shift rotation.”

Bruce looks away, swiping his access card into the computer at his desk and compiling a mental list of the particular patient charts he wants to speak to personally on his morning rounds. Some of the names are familiar, which could be good news or bad news, and most are brand new, which is always bad news. There are notes left over from the night-shift attending that he files away to check on in order of severity, “Why were you surprised?”

“I thought you said you were taking the day off,” Andrew reminds him softly, not in a way that feels patronising, but in a way that makes Bruce very aware of his skin rubbing against his clothes, “You know, Gotham will still be here even if you decide to take a break once in a while.”

Bruce scoffs, “I wouldn't be so sure. What will you all do when that seismic wave happens?”

The head nurse's eyebrows furrow, “You're not supposed to know about the betting pool.”

“I’ll also pretend I don't know that Stephanie's betting my wallet,” Bruce states dryly.

“And I'll pretend I didn't see you this morning. It's not too late to call in and see if someone else can cover your shift,” Andrew tries to offer.

It's definitely too late, but it's sweet of him to try. And even if it wasn't, Bruce had tried to stay in bed for hours last night and despite that stubbornness, his body was practically moving to get to work on its own, head spinning with the weight of too many thoughts and too many memories, “I’m fine. It's just another day.”

Andrew watches him for a long while, from when Bruce starts speed reading his ongoing patient files all the way to him mentally organising his priority list of cases. The only reason he stops staring is because the phone on the reception desk is about to blow up with how hard it's been ringing.

He sighs, giving Bruce one final knowing look as he goes back to work, “Well, we're ready when you are, Doctor.”

Bruce takes one final look behind him at the bed board, it somehow having grown in both numbers and cases, colours and names and codes a cacophony of life and death and something in between. The time now reads 09:10 and the date is the 26th of June.

The anniversary of his parents death.

Just another day at work.

After one final deep inhale, probably the last one he'll be able to take uninterrupted for the next few hours, Bruce faces the ever busy and ever changing environment of the emergency room. Vaguely, he can hear the sound of a baby crying, the squeaking of a gurney rush past him back towards the ambulance bay, the opening and closing of the entrance. Even fainter, he hears two gunshots.

Bruce exhales, stepping forward, “Let's begin.”

It's not even twenty minutes later when Gotham decides that peace is not an option for Bruce.

“Mid-twenties male, two gunshot wounds to the abdomen through and through, multiple lacerations across chest and arms.” The paramedics call as they race in through the entrance, arms and clothes covered in a thin layer of bright red blood from many actively seeping wounds and holding an ambu bag over a trembling man's face, “Possible head trauma — too much blood to see.”

“That's an understatement,” Stephanie mumbles, stepping up beside Bruce and helping them roll the patient in. She's not completely wrong, given the man's blood is quite literally leaving a bloody trail from the ambulance into the emergency room. A little girl waiting for her comatose father's CT scan jumps over it like a jump rope instinctively before horror dawns on her.

Bruce ignores that, Stephanie included, and steps right into the blood to lean closer to the man, “Sir, can you hear me?”

On closer inspection, he's a lot younger than Bruce had initially thought. The scars on his face and militaristic hair make him appear old and hardened, but this close, Bruce can see the inkling of fear and vulnerability in the pale lines across his face. The shock of white hair splitting the front of his hair makes him appear even younger, even if it's caked with blood and grime.

“Sir,” he calls again, clearer. The man's shaking pupils shift to him in an instant, zeroing in and dilating.

For a split second, Bruce thinks he sees life quite literally spark into the man's eyes, a glossy sheen over an iris made up of a startling concoction of gold and green peering up at him helplessly. The arm at his side, that is being held down by Stephanie to prick for an IV, twitches with shocking strength, rising. He tries to reach up towards Bruce. Without thinking, Bruce reaches back.

But just as quickly as he was rejuvenated, the man's eyes roll into the back of head and he slumps to the side, arm dropping like deadweight before Bruce can hold his hand.

“Hey kid!” Bruce says, shouting in his face, immediately checking for a pulse. Under his finger, a gentle but fiery beat of life meets the pad of his finger through the feverish skin. “Pulse is faint, get him into OR 14, call for Windsor!” he directs to the crowd of nurses and paramedics alike, watching them rush off in the direction of the available room. He continues barking orders to get him set up for the surgeon's arrival, when the paramedic that had brought him in lags a step behind to stand next to him.

“Can I get his name?”

She frowns, “He was unresponsive when we got there. No wallet and no ID.”

Bruce winces, “Where'd you find him?”

“Some kids called in about a body they found behind a dumpster down in Crime— uh, Park Row,” She mumbles at the end, eyes trailing after the body, “We left a lot more blood back at the scene.”

Alley covered in blood, two gunshot wounds, bodies slowly dying, Bruce inhales sharply, legs moving a little quicker and nearly leaving the paramedic behind in his haste, “Are the kids okay?”

“They don't seem to be involved in whatever this was, ran off as soon as they heard the sirens,” She sighs anxiously, “Get in there, Doctor.”

When Bruce makes it into the OR, it's to an unbelievable frenzy from his usually unruffled staff. Only half the patient's clothes have been removed, wires messily stuck across his chest for the vitals. The IV drip is still not in his arm, on the account of the needle not going in. The nurse curses as another needle slips from her grasp and onto the floor of the operation room.

By the foot of the gurney, another one of his Residents, Marcus, is struggling to cut through the man's clothes with trauma shears, “Holy shit man! I can't get through these belts!”

Bruce's frustration climbs at the absence of the senior surgeon, and he takes a quick look at Marcus' flailing, and immediately feels his stomach flip.

It had been hard to see before, with the mountains of bloody gauze and blankets from when he was being transferred in, but the man laid out on the table was definitely wearing tactical gear. Strapped across his waist and legs are patterns of belts and holsters, for knives and —

“Well then start unbuckling them!” Stephanie shouts, breaking Bruce out of his stupor, hands never straying once from the steady suction of blood in his mouth, “I can see the head wound now, it's just a deep laceration. I've stopped the bleeding.”

Blinking awake like he's just come up for air, Bruce allows himself one more inhale and one more quick look at the patient's (empty) weapon holsters.

“We've got a John Doe, no medical history with us,” Bruce states clearly, “Get rid of those needles and bring in meta-grade supplies. Unbuckle belts and cut through everything else, I need an IV going and steady vitals now.”

At the sound of Bruce's voice echoing orders into the now silent OR, the man jerks awake, immediately choking on the suction tube down his throat. He thrashes upwards, the nearby nurses and doctors throwing themselves over his writhing body to stop him from moving, “Holy shit!” Stephanie exclaims, scrambling to remove the obstruction in his throat as he gasps for air.

Bruce rushes forward, “Sedate him before prepping.”

“I did! Point five milligrams of midazolam less than twenty seconds ago!”

The man cries out an ineligible roar with a mouth full of blood, eyes wide and burning. Marcus holds his legs down, getting a half unlaced boot to the gut, “Fuck — he's burning through everything like crazy.”

Bruce turns to the nurses, “Triple every dosage. All meta-grade supplies and treat him like you would an enhanced person.”

Everyone starts moving in a far more orderly fashion with the new instructions, and the belts and boots come off far easier. Bruce rips through the remaining clothes across the abdomen and takes a closer look at what they're dealing with as the nurses finish sticking on the monitor wires. There are multiple wounds on the John Doe's body, some old and some very new — and some healed over in a way that can't be normal.

In fact, one particular scar cutting across under his pectorals and down the centre of his torso looks eerily like —

Stephanie seems to notice it as soon as he does, her face suddenly pale and arms ceasing all movement. Bruce is reminded that growing a skill for stitching people up comes from close and prolonged sessions in the cadaver lab and morgue, and that Stephanie has seen her fair share of autopsies to know what a stitched up body looks like. Bruce spares a quick concerned once over at her, wondering if she'll have the stomach for this, but is not too surprised to see her shake off the shock and get back to work immediately.

Bruce swallows his own horror and keeps pushing forward. Worse cases have come through his ER — it is Gotham, after all.

“Vitals are surprisingly stable given the blood loss, pulse too,” someone calls from the side.

“Metahuman assassin?” Stephanie jokes, voice only a little strained as the man groans in pain below her.

Marcus makes a choked sound as the patient kicks him in the ribs this time, “Too heavy for that. Metahuman hitman for sure.”

“Cut the chatter,” Bruce orders, their voices grating his ears as the erratic heart monitor beats into his skull.

The injured man stills suddenly, as if following Bruce's instructions, before he begins to struggle again. Thankfully, once the new dosages of sedation finally kick in, the thrashing and crying stops. Instead, the man starts keening lowly, the sound coming from the back of their throat and muffled from blood and pain. Stephanie winces, before her eyes narrow, leaning in close to the patient's mouth, “He's saying something!”

“Get his name,” Bruce barks out the order.

“Sir, you're at Gotham Trauma Medical Centre. Can you hear me?” Stephanie says loud and clear, trying to hold his wavering gaze, “Can you tell me your name? Or what happened to you? Is there anyone we can call for you?”

The man's pupils shift back and forth in rapid succession, struggling to focus, but somewhat interested in Stephanie's face. His lips open and close silently, nothing but mumbles passing through, before Stephanie's eyes widen.

“Bruce?” She calls out, stunned.

“What?” Bruce says, removing the previous gauze that he had bled through and grabbing a new one from the silver plate beside him, “What's wrong?”

“No, he keeps…” she looks up, confused, “He keeps saying Bruce.”

Bruce gestures to a nearby nurse to hold the gauze in place, before shuffling over to where Stephanie stands while looking up at the vitals, searching for any sort of familiarity in the stranger's face, “Bruce? Is that your name, son?”

The patient twitches at the sound of Bruce's voice, trying to raise an arm trapped under Bruce's hold and eyes slipping shut but trying desperately to look up at him, “Bruce… Bruce…”

The mantra of his name continues for a few more seconds, apparently bringing the patient down enough for the doctors to get a closer look at his chest and abdomen. The whole time, Bruce holds onto his arm, holding his stare, feeling oddly exposed and seen. A layer of his skin is peeled back and Bruce feels cold.

Who are you, Bruce wants to ask, Who are you, “Status?” he says to his team instead, but not once looking away from the kid.

The patient twitches, “Hurt… Comm s'gone… Robin— B-Bruce…”

“Bullet didn't seem to hit any organs, but it looks like there's a lot of blood starting to pool behind the lung.” Stephanie rattles off as the boy starts to ramble deliriously, blood smeared on her cheek, “I’m thinking we should check his ribs. Possible puncture.”

“Get him under and do it,” Bruce accepts.

The man's hand twitches again, “Bruce?” That's the clearest the name has sounded, and now very obviously and undeniably, directed at Doctor Bruce Wayne. This kid knows him.

“We gave you something for the pain,” Bruce says thickly, held in place by the surprisingly heavy and desperate gaze through the small slit of the patient's heavy eyes, “You're alright kid. I'm right here.”

The patient sighs, satisfied with the answer.

Then, he goes very, very still.

Bruce's heart jumps, and he immediately waits to hear the heavy shrill of a flatline, only it never comes. Stephanie moves before Bruce can, pulling the light away from the patient's face, leaving behind a dark shadow that makes him look like a corpse, frozen in time and covered in blood. Bruce swallows thickly, swapping places with her to lay a finger in the crook of his neck as if the heart monitor’s steady jumps would be lying to him.

“Pulse is steady but weak,” he says, unable to look away from the boy's still face, “Get him started on some O-neg and keep an eye on those vitals. And can someone get Dr Windsor down here fast.”

He's not sure when everyone else picks up on his strange demeanour, but they all jump to attention and shuffle away quickly. Marcus spares him an odd side-eye as he cleans around the lacerations, looking away quickly when Bruce turns to him. When Bruce shifts his glare onto Stephanie, she stares back just as strongly.

She frowns at him, unafraid, “You happen to know this guy, Bruce?”

“No,” Bruce says in barely a whisper, his response getting drowned out by the arrival of the trauma surgeon, “I don't.”

For the next couple hours, the man doesn't wake up again, but they almost lose him on the table twice during his surgeries. Windsor had come out of the OR sweating, mumbling about how she hated performing on individuals with enhanced healing without prior notice. It had been a race against skin that closed up faster than the team of surgeons could remove bullets.

Bruce wasn't actually there to see it happen on the account of a series of car accidents that consumed a better part of the morning, which might've been for the best (the distraction, not the accidents) (in which no one was seriously injured), since whenever a new arrival was wheeled into the emergency room, Bruce had to blink away the sight of their John Doe laying still on a stretcher.

He stumbles over his own fraying composure for hours, seeing a corpse in the corner of his eye in every bed, calling for Bruce.

It's strange. Bruce had seen bodies far more beat up than that. He's had his hands on patients the moment they die, desperately trying to pull them back into the world of the living. He'd witnessed death more intimately than that of strangers in hospital beds.

But for some reason, he can not get that John Doe out of his head.

Maybe it's because of how young and injured he was. Maybe it was because the kid seemed to know Bruce.

Or maybe it was because Bruce feels as though he should know him, too.

Regardless of that, Bruce still has a job to do, which means it's almost five hours later where Bruce finds himself approaching the room they've placed him in until a bed opens up at Gotham General. The already unsettling feeling in his gut is only amplified at the presence standing outside the door, arms crossed over the chest and a dark look settling on Bruce's approaching form.

“Bruce,” the man greets stiffly.

“Gabriel,” Bruce sighs, “You look like you want to punch me more so than usual.”

The hospital Social Worker scoffs, “Well, I've got an unidentified meta covered in gunshot wounds that seems very attached to you lying in a bed in there. So yeah. I do kinda want to punch you.”

“I don't know who he is,” Bruce states calmly.

Gabriel raises a brow, “Sorry if I don't believe you. He woke up about an hour ago asking, and I quote, ‘I will only talk to Bruce.’”

And well. That's a little worrisome.

“Has he said anything else?” Bruce asks instead of repeating what he already knows: I have no clue who this kid is.

“Nah,” Gabriel grumbles, apparently also starting to believe Bruce, “He passed out right after and hasn't moved a muscle since. I was hoping you could give me a name so I know what we're dealing with.”

Bruce doesn't say anything else. Gabriel only grumbles some more, rubbing a hand over his face in a way that suggests he's not actually gone home from his shift before this morning, “Alright. I'm going to start with the GCPD. Find out if there's been any shootings in the area.”

“Look for any guns that have been found or handed in as well,” Bruce says quietly as he passes by Gabriel, sliding open the door to the room. Inside, Stephanie is diligently checking the drip and other vitals of the patient, a harsh look on her face, “He might've been armed before we found him. At least two.”

“Ah shit,” Gabriel groans, now looking concerned for Bruce, “You want me to post security outside his room?”

Bruce just watches for a moment, the stillness of John Doe's face paired with the barely imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. Stephanie attaches the clipboard back onto the end of the bed, turning to Bruce expectantly.

“I think we'll manage,” Bruce says as he slides the door closed behind him.

“Are you friends with any assassin hitmans?” Stephanie asks the moment Bruce steps into the room, not one to pull her punches, “Or uh, not-friends with any?”

“I'm sure they could use your help in pediatric urgent care,” Bruce says instead of answering her.

She holds her hands up in surrender, stepping away and heading for the door with a look that suggests butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, “Alright! Just so you know, the winning betting pool currently thinks he's your stalker. Should I talk with security?”

“Goodbye Doctor Brown,” Bruce says pointedly, not even looking back at her as she finally leaves the room with a huff.

It doesn't take a genius to work out what's going on; she's unsettled as well. The entire ER has been not-so secretly avoiding the John Doe-shaped elephant in Room 7, though that doesn't seem to have stopped them from betting on who he is to Bruce. Stephanie is trying to make it a little less serious by joking around with him, but Bruce can see her loitering around outside the room anxiously, peering through the windows as she pretends to inspect a bedpan.

He rolls his eyes, moving over to close the curtains.

Once the room is relatively empty and dimmed once more, the only other sound being the steady beat of the John Doe's heart monitor and other machinery humming faintly, Bruce finally spares a good look at the patient. Nothing much has changed from the last time he saw him in the OR, though he is decidedly far more bandaged and far less bloody. There even appears to be colour in his face again, a slight flush dusted over his cheek bones as proof of life and blood circulation that isn't leaking out of multiple bullet holes.

Bruce stares for a second longer.

“Is there a reason you're pretending to be comatose?” Bruce asks finally as he drops himself onto the chair next to the bed.

The man's eyes shoot open immediately, which is startling given he had just come out of a serious operation and was supposed to be on quite a lot of painkillers. Just to make sure, Bruce leans back to look at his IV, and then at the chart next to the machine. He's on a relatively low meta-dose, but apparently that's too little of an amount to keep him in recovery, so Bruce makes a note to tell the room's nurse to double it once this runs dry.

The man opens his mouth to speak. Bruce watches in morbid fascination at the pure determination to undo all his stitches, unsurprised when nothing but a winded gasp comes out at first, so he coughs once, the sound crackling in his chest like popcorn in a pan. Bruce holds back a wince.

“Would you like some water?” Bruce asks diplomatically, already standing to grab a paper cup from the table to fill up at the sink.

The man watches him silently, neither refusing or accepting the offered drink. Once Bruce returns to the bed and his seat, he lets the man struggle to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position. Usually, Bruce would offer some assistance, but it seems unwise to physically help him with how skittish he is, so Bruce settles for pressing the upright button on the side of the bed and waiting for John Doe to become comfortable.

When Bruce holds the cup out, the boy accepts.

“I'm not gonna answer any of your questions,” He says after a sip of water, voice thick with injury and disuse from the hours spent under anaesthesia, “I've got questions I want answered first.”

Bruce hums, unsurprised but hoping to handle this situation tactfully, “How about this, you ask me a question and I'll answer, then I'll ask you a question that you have to answer?”

The man blinks at him in surprise. Then they grunt, which might've been the beginnings of a laugh stunted by the medicine and pain, “Quid pro quo.”

“You can go first,” Bruce prompts, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in the chair.

“Who are you?” The man asks in a sudden whisper, losing the strength they just had. Bruce leans forward to hear better, but also in slight concern, worried about the sudden and abrupt change in confident demeanour. Maybe a stitch has come undone, or maybe he's having a bad reaction to a specific medicine, or —

A quick look at the machines shows that their vitals are still stable, so Bruce urges himself to sit back, “Bruce Wayne. I'm the Attending Doctor here at Gotham Trauma Medical Centre.” Then, Bruce narrows his eyes slightly, “I was under the impression you already knew who I was, however.”

Evident disbelief flashes across the man's face. They are surprisingly expressive, given the circumstances, and Bruce further narrows his eyes at the way the man catches himself before revealing too much else. The shock retreats behind a cold glare, searching thoroughly through Bruce's composure. The brief crack in the mask reveals to Bruce that there is an answer the man had wanted, to which Bruce had not provided the correct one.

Who do you want me to be, is what Bruce could've asked.

“Your turn, Doctor Bruce Wayne,” the patient says quietly, testing the name on his mouth like it's new and familiar all at once.

“Have you got any past medical conditions I should know about?” Bruce asks immediately.

The man's eyes widen, before he scoffs, looking rather unimpressed, “That's your question? Not who I am? Or why I turned up looking like I just murdered two people?”

Bruce tries to hold back a wince, but judging by the disturbed look from the patient, he doesn't hide it well enough, “As my patient, this is more important to me.” for now.

The man stares at him for a long while, before finally stating, “No.”

“Really?” Bruce raises a brow. Scars and injuries like the one John Doe has don't usually leave people in great health.

“You already asked your fucking question, and I answered,” The man bites back, nose scrunching up in annoyance. He bares his teeth for a second, as if this will scare Bruce off from prying further.

Instead, Bruce sits silently. If this kid wants to play a game of patience, he's picked the wrong opponent. The kind of work Bruce does now, the kind of work he's been doing for the last two decades around Gotham, has made him a very patient person. Not to mention how this John Doe isn't even the strangest person to be wheeled into Gotham Trauma this month.

This battle of stubbornness must dawn on him, since the man only sighs in frustration before saying, “It's complicated. But I got nothing that could affect any treatment you give me. Judging by the dosages you're treating me like a meta anyway.”

So he has a somewhat confident grasp on medical care, “Your turn now,” Bruce says.

Before he can start, the door to the room opens after a sharp knock of announcement. It's Andrew who appears, large and imposing in the doorway, which is a little unusual since this isn't his usual rotation room. It seems the nurses are all a bit concerned and decided to send in one of their senior nurses. Bruce is struck between being annoyed or flattered at their worry.

“Just here to check your IV,” Andrew says with a small smile, before squinting at them, “Why's it so dark in here? You guys are like a bunch of bats in a cave.”

The man visibly stills in the corner of Bruce's eye. Strange reaction.

Andrew seems to think so too, as he walks over and practically drapes himself over Bruce's shoulder to check the IV. This time, Bruce is irritated at all the smothering, poking at Andrew's foot with his shoe to give them some space, “We're alright. Could you double the dose?”

Andrew spares a quick look at Bruce, and then at the John Doe, before he too visibly relaxes. Andy's always got a bit of a soft spot for hard looking kids that get wheeled in, and the longer this boy stays, the more apparent it becomes that he's probably not a stalker.

“Sure thing,” then he smiles at the boy, “You want a sandwich?”

The boy blinks in surprise, looking at Bruce like he's searching for some sort of ulterior motive. Or maybe even permission. Bruce files that action away for later as well, “We have great sandwiches.”

“Oh,” The boy says quietly, looking like he has lost all footing in the situation, “Sure. Thanks. I'm starving.”

Andrew chuckles, “Yeah kid, I can imagine.”

Andrew leaves after that, returning in less than five minutes with the extra doses of painkillers and the promise of a sandwich (“Chicken or Turkey?”) in the near future. Once that's all done, he leaves them once again in their awkward silence. The entire time, the boy had plenty of chances to ask Bruce his question, but decides he's going to stare intensely into Bruce's face for as long as possible instead. Bruce has no pressing cases to get to in the next hour, so he accepts the strange study, waiting patiently.

Finally though, John Doe's eyes are starting to droop, and Bruce's patience is waning, “Your question?”

The boy blinks awake, not unlike the sudden spark of life that ran through him when he was first brought to the ER and Bruce called for his name.

“Do you know who I am?” He asks.

Something drops in Bruce's stomach, ripping past all his organs and landing coldly in the pit that is usually occupied by his usual amounts of daily despair and paranoia. Instead, now, it is also full of uncertainty. It dawns on him that the last few minutes of staring at each other wasn't one-sided, and that the boy was giving Bruce ample time to look at his face and commit it to memory.

It seems he had hoped that by doing so, recognition would come to Bruce.

It doesn't.

“No, I don't,” Bruce admits gently, then for reasons he's not sure about at all, he adds, “I'm sorry.”

The boy sighs, relaxing back into the pillows of the hospital bed. They surround his broad frame, making him seem all the more younger and innocent when surrounded in plush white with a lost and confused expression on his face. Despite this clearly not being the answer they wanted, the boy accepts it with very little resistance.

“Your turn,” he says.

Why do you think I know you? Have we met before? Did I forget you? How did I forget? Why did you look so scared, calling for me when you were dying? Are you okay?

“What's your name?” With dozens of questions in the forefront of his mind, this is what comes out instead.

The man swallows thickly, “Peter.”

That's it. No last name, no age or background or mention of a story that might explain why he showed up here looking like he'd come out of a warzone, or why there's clearly an autopsy scar ripping through his body.

“Is that your real name?” Bruce frowns, disbelieving. This kid does not look at all like a Peter.

The man snorts, “It's my turn to ask a question, Doctor Wayne.”

“Just Bruce is fine,” he says impulsively and uncharacteristically, “Doctor Wayne was my father.”

Peter narrows his eyes and glares at him like Bruce had just said a very bad, very tasteless joke. Once he seems to realise that Bruce isn't joking, and had meant it quite literally, the mask cracks a little more and realisation trickles in. Then, he freezes. The man looks very vulnerable. A lot younger too.

Bruce's eyes narrow, how old are you? will be his next question.

Unfortunately he doesn't get the chance to ask, since while Peter was thinking of his next question for Bruce, he finally dozes off under the extra doses of painkillers Bruce ordered for him. Even in his painless sleep, the boy looks on edge and hurting.

Bruce sits there, watching him, trying to recall his face, for a few more minutes before he gets up to continue his shift.

It's obvious that Bruce is clearly out of it, because he doesn't even realise someone's calling his name until he almost walks straight into them.

Well, over them, since this particular patient is sprawled across the floor with their leg elevated onto the bed, acting as both a hygiene and obstruction concern in the emergency room. Bruce blinks down in confusion, not quite processing what exactly he's supposed to be seeing here, until he spots a battered skateboard resting on the bed.

“Hello Tim,” Bruce greets simply for a lack of any other enthusiastic comments, “What are you doing down there?”

Tim frowns, “Hey Bruce. I thought this was how you treat broken legs?”

“Your leg is not broken.”

“You can tell just by looking at it?”

Bruce inhales deeply, mentally counting down the hours until the day ends, “Who told you to lay on the ground?”

“I did,” Stephanie says, appearing at his side with a grin, “I'm hoping that by doing this, some of the blood from his legs will flow to his brain.”

“It's unprofessional for you to treat your significant other,” Bruce grumbles instinctively, a phrase he is usually forced to say whenever Tim and Stephanie are standing next to each other in his ER. He leans over to help Tim back onto the bed, spotting the slight swelling of his ankle that he seems to have attributed as a broken bone.

Tim clutches onto his arm and he hops onto his uninjured foot, “Hold on, so I've been laying here for, like, half hour, for no reason?”

“We're not dating anymore,” Stephanie says, “Well, kind of.”

“I really don't care,” Bruce tells them both honestly, moving the skateboard aside so Tim can sit down, “Brown, go check on Mr McSurley from that bar fight. I'll wrap Mr Drake's foot.”

Stephanie stalks off without any more instructions, clearly not wanting to talk to Tim. Bruce hadn't been joking when he said he did not care for their current relationship issue, of which they seem to have many — but he can't help but smirk at Tim's clearly disappointed pout at Stephanie's quick departure.

“Did you get hurt on purpose so you could come see her at work?” Bruce asks as he reaches out to inspect Tim's foot.

Tim hisses in pain a little as Bruce presses down to start taping it, “Of course not. I was practicing a trick to impress her.”

“Ah,” Bruce nods. Sounds about right. It had gone something like this a few weeks ago as well, when Tim had first come into the ER with a skating-related accident and promptly embarked on the most exciting romantic endeavour Gotham Trauma has ever seen.

Though, Bruce had actually known Tim before Stephanie had come into his life. Long before the ER in general. Bruce had done sociology as a pre-med with Janet back when they were both undergrads, which naturally transitioned into a tentative friendship with Jack when they got married. Despite that, he wasn't particularly close to them, even before Janet had passed away, especially not with Tim, until more recently.

Speaking of which: “Have you visited your father yet?” Bruce asks quietly, resting a hand softly on Tim's now wrapped ankle.

Tim smiles softly, “Not yet. I was thinking about heading up soon. Have you visited recently?”

Bruce nods, smirking, “I gave him a shave yesterday. You won't even recognise him.”

Tim laughs, “I thought the nurses usually did that?”

They do, for comatose patients that don't have family willing to do it for them, “I don't mind,” Bruce shrugs, “Next time you can give it a go.”

Tim shakes his head, looking a little sad. It's a usual sort of expression whenever they talk about Jack, but it's definitely become easier as the weeks have gone by. Bruce isn't sure if it's a developing acceptance for the dire situation, or hope that it will get better.

Much like Bruce, Tim isn't one to let himself be seen as too vulnerable when he's not got a way to escape — and a twisted ankle greatly hinders that — “So, I heard about your creepy John Doe.”

Bruce sighs. He'd gone an entire hour without thinking about that particular patient. For some reason, his reaction seems to amuse Tim, who leans forward eagerly, “I saw that you put him down as Peter on the system. Sounds like a fake name, if you ask me.”

“I am not asking you, and you should not have access to those systems,” Then, practically seeing the cogs turning behind the boy's eyes as the mystery of the John Doe deepens, Bruce almost desperately adds on, “Stay away from his room.”

Tim's growing interest in a puzzle that's waiting to be solved sours at Bruce's instruction, “Come on, you don't honestly think he's an assassin hitman trying to steal your fortune?"

Despite not working in the ER in any capacity, Tim has far too much access to the gossip his Residents seem to be spreading, “Tim.”

“Okay! I'm staying away,” he holds his arms up in surrender, and then smiles bashfully, “I might have already placed my bet on his identity with Steph though, sorry.”

“He's not a stalker,” Bruce says for what feels like the hundredth time, standing up with a tired sigh, “Now I want you to stay off that ankle as much as possible, okay? Or it really will break.”

Tim frowns, “Stalker?”

“Bruce!” Someone shouts from the other end of the hallway, to which Bruce is running towards before he even hears the rest of their call, “We've got a stab wound, ETA 2 minutes!”

“No skateboarding until it heals,” Bruce shouts behind him in finality as he turns for the entrance doors.

“I promise!” Tim lies.

The stab wound ends up being a false alarm in terms of severity, though it does provide a good case for his Residents to practice their immediate haemorrhage control. This however means that a good chunk of the rotation are fighting over a clean pair of scrubs, a long line of bloodied clothes waiting to be handed in for cleaning.

This leaves Bruce as the only one available to check on Peter No-Last-Name.

“You've been avoiding me,” No-Last-Name in question says the second Bruce walks into the room.

Bruce ignores that comment in favour of checking over his vitals and his chart for any updates from the nurses, “Good afternoon, Peter. Any discomfort?”

“Why are you avoiding me?” The boy asks pointedly, scoffing rudely, “It's not like you know me. I'm just another patient to you.”

Bruce is sure he hides his reaction to that well, but judging by the boy's bark of laughter, his annoyance is not at all hidden. Even though Peter is trying to make it seem like Bruce is the one who should feel awful about whatever misunderstanding has transpired between them, it's the boy himself who seems irrationally upset about Bruce's lack of knowledge.

“You seem to be feeling better,” Bruce comments under his breath, though his comment is definitely heard from the scowl directed his way, “I'm here to let you know that the police will be coming in to talk to you soon. They just want to help.”

“I'm sure they do,” Peter grumbles, “Is it because I got shot? It's whatever. I'll be back on my feet by dinner.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, “Partly.”

Realisation sparks in his eyes, “Ah. My holsters.”

“If you could tell them where you deposited your firearms, I'm sure this can all be resolved quickly,” then, because it's been scratching away at his chest all morning, “It was some children in the area who found you this morning. I'd rather they not find anything else of yours.”

In a miraculous turn of events, the boy's unbothered demeanour stumbles over itself, leaving all his soft edges exposed. Bruce isn't sure what he said to make the boy look quite so guilty, but whatever it is, Peter shifts his green-gold gaze to the floor to avoid it, fingers digging into the hospital bedsheet for a moment.

“They're okay? Those kids?” He asks with a new tone, something far more brittle than before, “I — I can kind of remember. Where was I?”

Bruce exhales deeply, trying to unwind his tightly coiled anxiety as the boy grows more and more uncertain. He's being entirely too professional when his patient is very injured and very confused, “They're okay. They found you in Crime Alley.”

The boy jolts as if shocked. He looks up slowly, “Today's date. Is it still —”

“June 26th,” Bruce says as if the words are punched out of him. He inhales sharply after the fact.

“Oh,” the boy breathes.

Behind him, Bruce can hear a commotion of footsteps and an inappropriate volume of undeserved authority that cops in the ER usually inspire. If Gabriel is with them, he'll keep them outside until Bruce is done talking with the patient, so it's probably best to wrap things up. Gabriel doesn't usually get along with police.

Feeling a little cruel, Bruce notes how the boy seems particularly vulnerable right now, and will most likely answer any questions the police have for him. As long as no one else gets shot today, Bruce doesn't feel too bad about it.

Just as he's about to gently tell Peter that he's going to give him some space with their hospital social worker before the questioning, the boy blinks up at Bruce in obvious terror. The abrupt shift in reaction, from confusion to fear, renders Bruce absolutely still. In fact, he sways forward without thinking, worried as he leans closer, “What's wrong? Are you okay?”

“Your parents, they died in Crime Alley,” Peter announces with unquestionable confidence, then, suddenly uncertain, “Right?”

Oh.

For some inexplicable reason, Bruce feels the urge to laugh. The whole day, everyone has been very pointedly toeing the line of reason for Bruce's more than usual amounts of frowning. Andrew had made sure there was always a coffee with his name on it in the breakroom. His Residents, even Stephanie, have been giving him a wide berth of space unless promoted closer. Bruce has seen very few critically injured patients today, though not for a lack of trying. His pager is suspiciously unresponsive.

People have been avoiding calling him by his last name solely because they don't want to accidentally remind him that he's the last Doctor Wayne. 

Then here comes this kid, who Bruce has never met before in his entire life, quite simply speaking directly to him what no one else had in years. Not even Alfred had brought it up so haphazardly.

“What's funny?” Peter asks in concern, looking struck between getting up to help Bruce or to make his escape. It's only then that Bruce realises he's laughing so hard it feels as though someone's punched him hard in the gut.

He holds his side as he straightens his back, coughing to try and cover the delirious laughter bubbling up in his throat again, “You've got it wrong, kid. A lot of people assume they died in that alley, but they didn't. They died here.”

“Here?” Peter frowns.

“Gotham Trauma Medical Centre,” Bruce lets out a shaky breath, wiping at his eyes, not sure if the tears are from laughing or from admitting this truth to a stranger, “My mother died in this very room, actually.”

The boy looks absolutely appalled when Bruce starts laughing at the cruel coincidence, too shocked to say anything as he leaves the room soon after, walking right past Gabriel and the confused police officers standing awkwardly by the door. Not too far away is Stephanie, who appears to have been waiting patiently for Bruce to safely exit the room, but once she sees him rush past, she doesn't follow.

Bruce manages to make it all the way to the break room without actually bulldozing over anyone and finds it to be blessedly empty.

Distantly, Bruce realises he's much too old to be acting like this. He is the Attending Physician Chief. This is just another day at work. He needs to get a hold of himself.

As he tries to regulate his breathing, Bruce catches sight of the betting pool scribbled on the whiteboard in the breakroom. There's more names than the usual gambling suspects up there, and Bruce isn't surprised to see the pool is named WHO IS BRUCE'S JOHN DOE? Stalker is clearly winning, though hitman and assassin are two seperate categories and aren't too far behind either.

Off to the side however, hidden next to a small collection of names for those who placed a bet for Internet prank is something only Stephanie and Tim have collectively placed ten dollars for.

Son he didn't know about.

Bruce laughs again. It's either that, or cry. And he doesn't cry at work.

The air is clearly different when he visits Peter's room again a while later.

“Gabriel told me you refused to cooperate with the police,” Bruce says impassively as he takes a seat next to the bed.

Peter can't look away from him, like he's seeing Bruce's person for the first time all over again, “I told them I'd only talk to you.”

Bruce grunts in acceptance, “Quid pro quo?” He asks amusedly.

The lightheaded tone unravels the tension a little. Bruce feels the contemplative silence rest over them softer than it had previously, even though it should probably be the opposite.

“Sure,” the boy says with a ghost of a smile.

“How did you end up in that alley?” Bruce asks immediately, having been turning the question back and forth in his head the whole time the police were interrogating him.

“I don't remember,” Peter says immediately, then leans forward when Bruce frowns disappointedly, “I'm serious. I was with my — brothers, before, and then we got separated. I woke up to those kids screaming in my face. Then you, here.”

“Your brothers?” Bruce echoes in surprise, “Are they alright?”

Bruce half expects to be shut down, since he's already used up his one question, but the kid seems to be feeling magnanimous after poking at Bruce's Wayne-shaped wounds, “They're fine. I don't remember anyone else getting hurt.”

“Except you,” Bruce says slowly.

“It happens sometimes,” the boy shrugs, “My turn to ask a question.”

He's not feeling very satisfied with those answers, and for some reason, Bruce is itching to know more about Peter's brothers. He wonders if he should know them, too. Regardless, Bruce nods for the boy to continue, deciding to pick his battles in the form of future questions.

The boy watches him carefully, focusing sharply on his every reaction, “You got any kids?”

Bruce makes sure the surprise at the question is not evident on his face, thinking back to the losing bet in the breakroom, “I don't,” He answers heavily.

Peter closes his eyes with a slow and deliberate movement, disappointment evident in the way his shoulders relax in defeat, “So you're not my dad, huh?”

“No, Peter,” Bruce confirms gently, not sure why the truth feels wrong, “I'm not your father.”

The boy opens his eyes, expression full of grief and eyes a blazing gold flecked with green, “My name's actually Jason.”

“Jason?” Bruce repeats. Yeah. He definitely looks like a Jason.

“Jason Todd,” the boy — Jason — scratches at his cheek uncomfortably, running a tired hand across the scars carved into the hills of his face, “Uh, Peter's my middle name.”

“My middle name is Thomas,” Bruce offers.

Jason snorts. Bruce has a feeling he already knew that.

“Is there someone we can call to come get you?” Bruce asks quietly, not wanting to break their gentle truce, “Maybe your brothers?”

“No,” Jason sighs, leaning back into the pillows. The kid seems exhausted.

“Are you sure?” 

“He'll find me. He always does, eventually.” Jason tells him with certainty.

Bruce doesn't ask who exactly he is, or why Jason is so certain they'll find him. Even without knowing, Bruce is secretly grateful that the kid seems to have someone out there who's apparently always looking for him. He doesn't get the chance to ask either, since the pager in his pocket beeps with life after a long few hours of silence. It startles them both enough to make them jump, whatever bond had been building between them snapping like a rubber band. Bruce is propelled back by the emotional force more than anything, heart beating louder than Jason's own monitor.

Bruce stands shakily to his feet, though, he suddenly wants to do nothing more than sit here and ask Jason Todd more questions, “I'll be back to check on you soon. Get some sleep, son.”

“Before you go,” Jason calls to him in a panic, too quickly to appear indifferent at Bruce's departure, “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Of course,” Bruce says before he can think better of it.

“Why did you become a Doctor?” He asks.

Bruce stills. Jason's asked him more personal questions than this in the last few hours, and yet, this one is the one that makes him feel the most uneasy. He's answered it a few times before with the sort of responses people expect to hear from him: to continue my father's legacy, to help people, to make a difference in the world. It's a completely safe and impersonal way to satisfy someone's superficial curiosity in his career that doesn't offend him or his hypothetical obsession with his father's medical reputation.

But just like saying you're not my son had felt like a lie, all these responses sound just as wrong.

“Gotham was a different city back then. It took almost an hour for an ambulance to get to us in Crime Alley, and then there weren't enough doctors or beds in the ER to treat them. Someone shot them, but that's not what killed them. They died alone while I was sitting in the waiting room,” Bruce inhales sharply, letting the exhale pull him until the very edge of the breath before he breathes in again, “I don't want that to happen to anyone else. If I’m here, I can stop it, I can fix it. That's why.”

Despite trying very hard to stay calm, Bruce still stops talking with a harsh gasp, a shaky breath snaking down his throat. It constricts painfully when the boy does nothing but stare at him without a single flicker of emotion.

Then, Jason Todd smiles.

“Fuck,” Jason laughs, throwing his head back against the pillow in exasperation as more barks of amusement leave him in bursts of disbelief, “I guess some things don't change.”

The pager jumps in his palms, but Bruce can't look away away from the giggling boy, overcome with deja vu despite never having witnessed this boy's joy before in his life, “I have to—”

“You're a good man, Bruce Wayne.” Jason states like a parting, closing his eyes with that same smile.

“Get some sleep, Jason,” Bruce says instead of a goodbye.

The boy's laughter follows him for the rest of his shift.

“Hey there,” a familiar voice greets him quietly.

Bruce doesn't need to open his eyes to know who it is, but he does so anyway, because starting and ending his shift with seeing Stephanie doesn't sound like a bad day at all. He'd never admit that out loud, of course. Even just admitting it to himself is clearly a sign that he's more emotionally compromised by today's events than he's willing to admit. Growing attached to a Resident is just waiting to be abandoned for a bigger and more well-paying position after their graduation.

“Your shift should've ended a while ago,” Bruce mumbles tiredly, patting the space on the bench next to him.

He's sat directly outside the ER, where the ambulances park to roll in their patients on stretchers. Bruce had put this bench here a few years ago, back before Alfred passed away, because the old man liked to wait outside for Bruce to finish his shifts every night. It didn't matter how late it got, Alfred would wait outside, ready to accompany Bruce home. In hindsight, it was probably one of Alfred's carefully planned out emotional manipulation tactics to keep Bruce alive and well, finishing work at a respectable time that ensured he had time to eat and sleep before the next shift.

Bruce can't remember the last time he went home as soon as his shift officially finished. Not since Alfred died, certainly.

Even today; technically speaking, Bruce's shift finished an hour ago. It's almost midnight now and the ER is deceptively calm, so he decided to take a minute to clear his head before doing another round of his patients. The night-shift Attending Resident has yet to kick Bruce out of the ER, so until that happens, he's going to stick around.

Stephanie takes the offered seat with a loud and exaggerated huff, knocking into Bruce and almost sending him rolling off the edge. He catches his balance before that can happen, turning to her in annoyance. It only makes her laugh, “I've been sitting with Tim and his dad. He's just saying goodbye and then I'll drive him home. You know, with his broken foot and all.”

“It's not broken,” Bruce grumbles, then he raises a brow, “Are you two back together again?”

“I thought you didn't care?” Stephanie smirks.

“You're right, I don't,” he huffs, unable to stop the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. If Stephanie points it out, he'll blame it on the sleep deprivation. They both have been up for well over 15 hours now.

She laughs quietly, tapping her foot against the ground. It's a pleasant rhythm, not unlike the steady beat of a heart monitor, but far less imposing. It beats at the base of his skull like a distant memory.

“I heard your John Doe vanished while you were in surgery,” She offers carefully after a few seconds of silence.

“He did,” Bruce sighs, then, because of the aforementioned sleep deprivation, he snorts, “He actually left me a note."

Still chuckling quietly, Bruce opens his palm to pass over a crumpled piece of paper. It's a little damp from the nervous sweat of his hand that's been encasing it for the last few minutes, but Stephanie makes no comment about it as she smoothes it out against her leg.

“My dad's taking me home. Don't worry about me, old man. See you later.” Stephanie reads, looking over at him in surprise, “That's actually… really sweet. Do you think he's going to be okay?”

Bruce considers the question, and the many other questions he'd asked and been asked today, “I hope so.”

It must dawn on Stephanie how uncomfortably nice this moment has become, since she deposits the note back into Bruce's palms with a disappointed sigh to change the mood, “Oh whatever. I lost the betting pool because he disappeared. I was on a winning-streak!”

“You thought he was my secret kid,” Bruce scoffs, “That I just somehow had no clue about for so many years?”

“You never know! It could happen!” She exclaims, then she pouts, grumbling under her breath, “He was frowning just like you. Not to mention all that grunting and growling. It has to be genetic.”

Bruce's eyebrows ticks, “I don't growl—”

Just then, the sound of an ambulance interrupts Stephanie tapping and Bruce's impending complaints, roaring down the street towards them. Despite having changed out of her scrubs, Stephanie drops her things on the bench and stands to attention behind Bruce, tying her hair up as the two of them wait on alert as the sirens and lights bombard their every senses. A lot of people find it hard to slip into emergency mode, but it comes naturally to Bruce, and now to Stephanie as well: a mask to slip on in the face of injury and illness. Or, less a mask, and more another layer of skin, ever-present below the surface.

The backdoor swings open before the ambulance has even stopped moving, screams of agony that cease immediately once the cool air of the evening hits them and loud instructions spilling out of the vehicle and into the bay. Stephanie and Bruce move like a rehearsed unit, with her standing upfront checking on the patient as Bruce pushes the end of the stretcher with the paramedics. There's blood everywhere and the young patient's face is covered by an ambu bag that Stephanie takes over at pumping.

“What have we got?” Bruce asks as they enter the ER, leaving behind the calm of the night and back into the bright lights and noises of Gotham Trauma Medical Centre.

“Armed robbery at a convenience store,” the paramedic starts to give him the rundown, blood smeared on their cheek. “Kid jumped in to save the people in the store. Two gunshot wounds to the abdomen through and through. An off duty paramedic from Bludhaven was on the scene and administered hemorrhage control until we got there.”

Bruce pulls back the patient's leather jacket to see a hastily but efficiently packed wound control and very minimal bleeding from the obvious pressure, “They did a great job. OR 14 is free, let's get him prepped for surgery. Call for an surgery Attending.”

“Probably the reason the kid is still alive,” the paramedic adds, “He was conscious on route, and was asking about the people in the store. Tell him they're all okay, when he wakes up.

When, not if, and Bruce understands their desperation, “Will do. What's our hero's name?”

As they finally wheel into the OR and the nurses descend onto the patient to get him prepped, the paramedic catches Bruce's eye with a crestfallen expression, “He had no ID on him. Police are on the scene hoping to find out more.”

Maybe it's because Bruce hasn't eaten in six hours, or because he's been awake for almost three times as long, but his head spins at the scene before him. There's again, that sour feeling of deja vu nipping at his heel, everything in the room shifted slightly too far in one direction — but there are more important issues at hand than his fraying mind.

“Alright,” he swallows thickly, “Let's get him started on 2 units of O-neg and check for any blood in the abdomen. Once we've got a clear reading of vitals I want a chest x-ray for—”

“Bruce…” Stephanie suddenly calls once she's removed the bag from the patient's face. She looks a little sick.

He frowns, “Doctor Brown, you're not scrubbed in for this. Go home. Swap with—”

“Bruce, look!” She exclaims, not caring at all about what he's saying and instead meeting his glare with shaking pupils. Slowly, she looks back down at the patient in disbelief.

Bruce moves over to the head of the operating table immediately, about to not-gently urge her away from the scene and to sit down somewhere before she passes out when his mind zeroes clearly on the face in his peripheral vision. It's an almost instinctive pull to focus, the rest of the operation room dimming into a barely perceptible buzzing of voices accompanied by an erratic heartbeat from the monitor. It beats like a distant memory at the base of his skull.

The patient on the table is a boy. Maybe early twenties. Maybe even younger. There's a harsh shadow draped on his face, casting an older and hardened demeanour over the youthful unscarred features. Distantly, Bruce doesn't doubt for a second that this boy is someone who would jump in front of a gun to save a bunch of strangers. He doesn't even know him.

He doesn't know him. This boy is much too skinny, much too short, much too human. The needles go straight into his skin, his blood is red and pouring, he is shrinking right before Bruce's eyes.

He does not know this boy.

Except —

The boy's face twitches, mouth grimacing in pain as he starts to stir awake. Bruce should order some morphine, any painkillers at all, coax the boy into a calm and comforting wakefulness, and promise to look after him. That he's going to be fine. You're going to be fine, son. I'm right here.

Bruce opens his mouth but all that comes out is a definitive and undeniable, “Jason!”

On the operating table, for the second time that day, Jason Todd jerks awake at the sound of Bruce's voice with a gasp — eyes a blazing blue.