Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own DC.

The world is dark, soft, comforting, and for a moment Damian feels as if he's floating, then being pulled slowly downwards with an irresistible tug towards consciousness. He doesn't want to give in. Doesn't want to wake, and for a moment that could last hours or seconds or years he hovers, clutching to the last tendrils of this surreal peace before the pain of reality.

After a time he realises he can feel a lump next to his leg, folded into the crook of his knee, and there's a faint hum and beep of machinery that he recognises all too well, although it's still fuzzy, like he's hearing it from underwater. There's something – someone – clutching his hand, stroking his fingers gently, talking softly in a continuous monotone. Damian thinks that maybe he should shake them off, but for the moment it's… nice. He's still not quite conscious and there's no hurry.

He can break their fingers later, if need be.

He thinks for a moment that maybe it's his mother, but the voice sounds masculine, so maybe it's his father…

Damian tries to shift slightly without opening his eyes and the voice falters slightly. There's a thump, thump from the lump down from next to his knee, muffled by the mattress, then a small whine.

"Stupid mutt." Damian mutters, finally forcing open his eyes and looking down at Titus.

There's no ache or pain upon reaching consciousness, and Damian wonders if he's been drugged with too many painkillers, and his head is fuzzy, which means he probably has.

Pennyworth is good like that.

"Damian? Dammi?" Damian turns his head – slowly, because he's still working out how injured he is, and there is a dull sort of ache, if he really thinks about it.

Damian allows his eyes a moment to focus, blinking rapidly, and when they do he makes a soft 'tt' sound of disapproval, trying to roll his eyes. The motion makes him dizzy.

"Grayson." He murmurs, but his voice sounds softer, fonder than he'd like it to.

Dick smiles briefly, although it barely reaches his eyes, and he looks exhausted. His grip on Damian's hand hasn't loosened, although he's stopped stroking it.

"Hey, Baby Bird. How ya doing?" Damian attempts to shrug.

"I'll live." Dick squeezes his hand, and Damian tries to shake himself out of the drug-induced fuzziness that he can't quite pinpoint.

"You'd better."

"Oh yeah?" Damian is surprised by how weak his own voice sounds.

"You die and I'll go to hell to drag you back here." His voice is light, but tight at the same time, and Damian isn't alert enough to work out what that means. He reaches out and scratches Titus behind the ears, and the big dog stretches out on the small bed, twisting to rest his head on Damian's leg.

"Where's Father?" Damian asks finally, although he thinks he probably knows the answer.

"He's out on patrol. Trying to find the ones who did this to you." Damian nods, although he's still not exactly sure what happened to him. A dull ache is building behind his eyes.

"I should probably contact him. He told me to keep him posted on your condition." Damian closes his eyes, squeezing Dick's hand tightly.

Like a small child who doesn't want to be left alone, Dick thinks.

And later Damian'll tell himself, will insist, with his most vehement growl, that it's the painkillers talking when he murmurs - so quiet Dick almost thinks he imagines it – "don't go…" before his eyes droop shut and he smiles slightly, shifting to get comfortable, already drifting into sleep, back down into a peaceful darkness.