A/N: Alrighty, this resulted from a prompt on tumblr and I kind of just ran with it so…yeah. This week is finals for me, but after that I should get back to my bigger stories. Thanks for reading!

"I was three feet away from him," Dick murmurs, stunned, head in hands, "I was three feet away and the floor just…disappeared. I couldn't–" He swallows convulsively and Bruce watches his knuckles turn white as the grip on his hair tightens.

Dick is out of uniform now, bundled through the shower and into clean clothes by his youngest siblings while Alfred and Leslie worked frantically to save their wayward brother's life. While Bruce paced and prayed and tried not to let the screaming escape his mind.

His oldest son sits across from him, and his second lies unconscious in the bed between them. The only sound between their words is the constant, irritating (thank you, God) beep of the heart monitor.

"It's a mercy," Dick whispers, throat rough with dust from the half-collapsed building he carried his brother from earlier…yesterday, Bruce confirms, gritty eyes drifting to and from the clock on the wall.

"That he's unconscious, I mean. Leslie told me that. He was awake for–for a few minutes before you guys found us and I–"

Bruce can see the tears balanced precariously on his son's eyelids.

"I couldn't take it. He didn't make a sound, not after the first fall, but I could see it. In his eyes, I could see it, and I had to put him out." Dick pauses, oddly calm for a moment. "I have never, not in my whole life, seen pain like that. I cannot imagine."

Dick curls further in on himself, but his confession provokes the opposite response in his father. With each word, Bruce straightens, back stiff and neck tight, like he's ready to fight, ready for anything if it will save his son.

There is no battle, not now. The battle has passed and he was too late.

He can see it, in his mind. First Dick, and then Jason, too, running into that dust-filled building–unstable from the first of the bombs–and Bruce still outside, thinking he was fighting the real enemy, thinking he was taking the fire.

There were people, families, still inside and his sons saved them, saved every last one of them. And then, at the end, Jason pushing the last child into Dick's arms, pushing them before him towards the door, just as the floor went out and sent wood and stone and his child plummeting down into darkness.

The landing broke Jason's right leg. Broke is such an inadequate word, Bruce thinks. Shattered it, Leslie had explained, practically shattered it from ankle to hip.

Dick makes a strangled noise, face hidden still. "He could lose it, you know. The leg. And even if he doesn't, God, the rehab. Even–even if he does walk again, it won't…Bruce, he won't be what he was, physically, not in the field, not ever. And that's–" Dick's voice breaks, "that's on me."

"No." Bruce's head jerks up at the first of his son's sobs. "No, Dick, you don't get to take this one."

I take this one, this one and all others, his mind finishes. My soldier, my son. My–my fault.

He pushes up, out of his seat, and around the bed, puts his hand on the shoulder of his eldest.

"Listen to me," he says, Dick's chin firmly in hand, like he'd done when the boy was eight and eighteen and twenty. "You are not to blame for this. You did everything possible, everything right."

"I should've," Dick protests, crying, "If I'd made him go first–"

"There is no might or should have, Dick. Jason makes his own decisions, and he'd thank you not to insult them." Bruce bends, searches until Dick meets his eyes. "Right?"

The young man nods, reluctantly. "He saved my life."

Bruce nods. "I know. And I will never be able to repay him for that. For both of you." His grip on the boy's shoulder tightens momentarily. "Get some rest, son. He'll need you, tomorrow and after."

Dick nods, swiping at tears, despair retreating and resolution taking its place. He won't waver, Bruce knows, when Jason wakes, when he needs him most.

Dick stands, leans past Bruce to the figure in the bed. "Thanks, brother," he whispers and something else that Bruce can't hear, brushes a kiss to the bruised cheek and slips out, heading for the stairs and restless sleep.

Bruce sighs, settles himself into Dick's vacated seat and leans forward, elbows on knees.

Jason looks relatively like himself, except for the swaddled leg. There's a small gash on his forehead and a bruise blooms on one cheek, but otherwise he looks to be sleeping. Leslie has him on heavy drugs for that very reason.

His hand lies on top of the blanket, and Bruce is bothered by the still bloodied knuckles, abandoned in favor of more pressing medical concerns. He takes the hand in both of his, carefully, and begins to clean, running the wetted cloth gently across the raw knuckles, painstakingly under the edges of the nails.

Bruce holds the now clean hand to his chest, absently, eyes on his son's face.

It's a good face, he thinks. Not quite traditionally handsome. Not with the slightly crooked nose, with the way one side of the mouth climbs higher than the other. The one dimple is visible even in sleep, uneven and adorable and so very Jason. Bruce remembers poking it once, when the boy was a child, grinning and teasing.

There's a shallow cleft in the chin, charming, and strength in the jaw and high cheekbones. The boy's hair flops over his forehead now, mostly straight, but there are still a few curls around his ears and down at the back of his neck. Bruce finds them sweet, reminiscent of a different time.

He marvels at the simple, beautiful things that make up the complexity that is his son. The heavy sweep of hundreds of individual eyelashes, the specific arch of the brow, mostly straight sharpness of the nose, that small, perfect dip in the boy's upper lip, the full curve of the lower. All these things that make Jason.

He might have lost them, almost did.

The hand in his is cold, and Bruce curls the limp fingers into his own, warming them.

"Come back to us, Jason," he murmurs into his son's skin.

It is a hard thing, to watch one's children hurt and to do nothing. It is an impossible thing, to know one's child may never walk again and to only pray. To know it is his fault.

He is no stranger to guilt, though. And Jason…Jason is the strongest person he knows, and never one for the odds.

It will be a cold day in hell when he bets against his son.

Fingers twitch in the cradle of his own, and the boy's eyelashes flutter stubbornly.

Bruce jerks to attention, resting his elbows on the edge of the bed and pulling his and his son's joined hands close under his chin.

"Jason," he says, falsely calm. "You're alright. I'm here. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Lashes part slowly and he sees a glint of blue between. "That's it, there you go."

Jason's brows crease, lips moving fruitlessly. Bruce smoothes his hair with one hand, sitting on the bed now. "There you are," Bruce says softly as the eyes blink open.

"Br'sss?"

"Yeah, kiddo, I'm right here."

"h'ppen'd?"

"It's alright, Jason. The building collapsed, remember? You were hurt pretty badly, but we got you out. You'll be okay."

The heart monitor's beeping speeds up.

"H'rt. Leg h'rt. C'n't feel 't." The hand in his twitches, as if to feel if the limb is still there.

Bruce's grip tightens. "Shh-shh. You're okay, you're fine. Leslie has you on the good stuff right now, because we don't want you hurting, okay? I promise it didn't walk away without you," he jokes, heart breaking.

The boy's lip quirks, almost a grin, but Bruce will take what he can get.

"Ha." It's an exhale, seems to take all the air the boy has, and he has to wait for the rest with the next breath. "Y're funny."

"You think so, huh? I think maybe that's the drugs talking. Why don't you go back to sleep until you're a little more like yourself?" His thumb makes slow circles on the boy's temple.

"Y' c'n't tell me wh't t' do," Jason sighs stubbornly.

Bruce smiles. "There he is. Rest now, baby. I've got you."

Jason smacks his lips experimentally, like a toddler before its nap. "'Kay, Br'sss. Got me." He slides into sleep gently, before the last word can finish falling from his lips.

Bruce lifts the hand to his lips once, leans his forehead against the lovingly bandaged knuckles.

"I've got you," he swears again, and settles into the chair once more to watch his son sleep well into the morning.

Watching his child hurt is the hardest thing he's ever done, but he'll do it tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.

Bruce will keep his promise. He'll be there when Jason has the second surgery, and the third. He'll be there when sitting upright is painful, and when Jason throws green jello at the wall in frustration and demands red instead.

He'll watch as Damian climbs onto Jason's bed on a bad day, reads to him for hours. He'll listen through the door as Tim and Jason laugh obnoxiously at mindless sitcoms and bicker over casework. He'll pretend he doesn't see when Jason falls apart in Dick's arms one horrid day in April.

He'll be there when Jason's knuckles turn white on the silver bars and he swings his bad leg slowly, painfully, stubbornly against Barbara's hand. He'll hurt on the bad days, when Jason screams and cries and throws things but never, never in his life gives up.

He'll be there when Jason takes those first unaided steps, slow and hitching though they may be. Afterwards, he'll go upstairs, lay his head on the desk in his study, and cry. Not because he thought he'd never see it, but because he knew he would, and because Jason is still the strongest person he knows.

He'll cry for love and pride of his son, but for now he watches the son sleep and rejoices in the fact that the boy is alive and here with him.

The well will come in time. For all of them.

One must only have faith.