Disclaimer: I do not own anything DC or related to anything DC. The only thing I own is this specific plot for my story.

…

It happened the one day that Bruce decided to be his own caretaker and get groceries. Tim was probably just coming home from school, and Alfred was doing god-knows-what with his free time. It wasn't the first time something like this went down, but it was the first time it had been Tim, and not Robin, who had been shot and beaten almost to death – if that wasn't bad enough, the unfortunate person to have answered the door to the assaulter was Alfred, who had also been shot. Twice.

It started with a phone call.

Bruce was on his way to the line for checkout (ignoring the paparazzi and people staring, pointedly) when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. Sighing, he maneuvered himself away from his cart so that he could answer the phone, which was practically stuck in his jeans tight pocket. After a few seconds of struggling, he saw that the call was from Tim. Frowning, he answered the phone.

He expected to hear Tim's either cheerful or sullen voice (depending on what kind of mood he was in). What he hadn't expected was complete silence.

"Tim?"

"B-Bruce…" Tim's voice sounded like he was talking with his mouth full. Bruce raised an eyebrow, thinking that that was exactly the problem. "What is it?"

"They're…. inside… the… manor…" each word sounded forced out, and Bruce started to feel worried. Not that he'd admit it. "Who's in the manor?"

Silence.

"Tim? Tim, answer me!"

"I – I don't know, they – they shot Alfred!"

Bruce felt his eyes widen, even more so with Tim's next words. "I'm in the… family… room… I don't remember… how I got here…"

"What's your status?" Bruce demanded, some of the Batman's voice leaking through it. The only reason he wasn't full Bat-mode was because of all the people staring and the bright lights flashing from the many pictures the paparazzi was taking. Deciding enough was enough, Bruce headed towards the men's room, thankful that nobody could follow him into the single-man bathroom.

"Tim! What. Is. Your. Status."

"I…" Tim sounded like he was trying desperately to hold on to air. "I don't… know…"

"What do you mean you don't know?! Tim status!"

"I… can't…" Bruce narrowed his eyes at this, about to demand that he tell him yet again, but paused at Tim's next word. "Remember."

Remember? Remember what? It took about three seconds for it to click together. I can't remember.

It was obvious now who the attacker was – Batman and Robin had been following the case of the man who made his victims forget with some odd substance that the dynamic duo had yet to identify – but it was unclear as to why they would attack Alfred and Tim. Were they looking for Bruce? Was this all a trap for him? Did they know about Batman and Robin? Or did they think he was in contact with Him… without even thinking about it he raced out of the shop and into his car, speeding down the road towards the manor.

Before Bruce could speak again, to tell Tim to hold on… that he'd be right there, he heard a rustling sound, and then a muffled cry of pain. Bruce knew that Tim only reserved that silent gasp if the attacker(s) were in his vicinity. He could hear voices, but they were muffled, and he couldn't make out what they were saying.

Either the attacker was an idiot, or Tim had managed to hide the phone at the exact moment, because the phone call wasn't cut off, nor was the attacker commenting on the phone. That much he could tell at least.

He sped up, going at least triple the speed limit, sure that his car was screeching at him to stop pushing it so hard. He didn't care, his adopted son and adopted father were injured, possibly dying… he hadn't been there – all because he tried to act normal for one day – and he wasn't there for his family. He couldn't speak into the phone – if Tim was intelligent enough to hide it, he wasn't about to give the location of the phone away. That didn't mean he couldn't hear what was going on though. It killed him to listen to his son's moans of pain without being able to do anything about it… he couldn't even offer words of assurance. He just hoped that Tim knew he was coming for him. He hoped Tim could hold on. He couldn't lose another son.

The groans of pain were cut short abruptly with the sound of more rustling, and Bruce froze despite himself. There was no way someone could go from being in that much pain to completely okay enough to be silent. Either the attackers had knocked Tim out, or…

No, don't think like that! You're going to save him! This isn't Jason! You won't let him die!

If Bruce's heart was racing before, it was competing in the Olympics at the sight that greeted him when he finally reached the manor. Red flooded his vision as he hopped out of the car, jumping completely over the fence and racing across the irritatingly huge lawn to where he could see his son. Tim was being held awkwardly by two figures – one had his legs and the other was hauling him from his armpits. Blood was covering Tim's entire torso, and his cheek had an ugly bruise.

Bruce didn't even have time to think as he grabbed the nearest attacker – a man clad in black who was holding Tim's legs – and threw him to the ground. Thanks to the lack of balance, the other attacker, who had Tim's upper body, fell down along with Tim. Bruce spared a quick glance at Tim, and saw that his eyes were half opened, glazed over as he looked slowly side to side, as if wondering how he'd gotten to the ground. In that split second, the attacker clad in black tried to run away.

"Oh no you don't," Bruce growled, grabbing the man by the back of his collar and spinning him around. One hard punch had the man fall to the ground on his ass, but Bruce wasn't going to let him go that easily. Punch after punch was laid upon the man until his face was as covered in blood as Tim's torso was. He felt arms wrap around him, and without thinking he elbowed the person in the stomach. The person let out an 'oomf' before falling to the ground, clutching his stomach. One more swift punch had the man in black knocked into unconsciousness – now it was time for the other attacker. Tim was still on the ground, blinking rapidly and twitching his fingers, as though that was the most he could move. This attacker was in white, and seemed to have already recovered from the swift blow to his stomach. That was fine – Bruce had another idea in mind.

Wincing inwardly at what he was about to do, Bruce swiftly kicked the man where no man wants to be kicked. This had the attacker fall to the ground, letting out pitiful moans and what could only be described as a half-sob half-scream. Okay, maybe Bruce had kicked him a little harder than he'd meant to… he hoped this guy wasn't planning on having kids.

A swift punch to the temple (not hard enough to kill him) had the man knocked unconscious along with the other kidnapper. Bruce stared at them in disgust, before Tim's voice brought him back to the present. "Bruce…" Bruce raced towards Tim, but Tim shook his head and shakily pointed at the manor doors, "Alfred…"

"Tim…" Bruce had never felt so conflicted in his life. How could he choose between the two?

"'Mm fine," Tim slurred out, and Bruce raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Fine my ass.

"Alfred needs help!" Tim exclaimed, his voice hoarse. Bruce bit his lip and stared at his son, his body wanting to leave and find Alfred but his mind wanting to stay with Tim. Tim seemed to get this, and a small, reassuring smile twitched on his lips. "Go…"

Bruce squeezed Tim's shoulder, and Tim's glazed eyes seemed to clear. Bruce reached into his back pocket and pulled out a taser, which he handed to Tim. "If they wake up, use this," Bruce said, nodding at the two attackers. Tim nodded to show he understood, and Bruce took off to find his faithful butler.

Alfred was lying on the floor, though he was more conscious than Tim had been. As soon as Bruce appeared, worried eyes met his. "Master Timothy, is he -?"

"He's fine," both Bruce and Alfred knew that was a complete lie, and more of a reassurance to Bruce than anything else. It was then he noticed the blood pooling on the floor beside Alfred. "God…" Bruce breathed, kneeling down beside Alfred.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Alfred assured him, though he winced slightly as Bruce touched his right leg.

"Where did they get you?"

"Unfortunately, both of my legs," Alfred sounded both dejected and angry, surprising Bruce. He'd only heard that tone from his Robins when he told them they were banned from patrols because they'd hurt themselves.

"Alf…"

"I'll be fine – Master Timothy! What are you doing up!?"

Bruce whipped his head around and glared at Tim, who was shaking and supporting himself on the wall. Blood was still flowing from his stomach, and it stained the wall and dripped onto the floor.

"I tied them up for you," Tim mumbled even as Bruce got up and stalked towards him. Tim blinked at him once before taking a nosedive to the floor. Luckily, Bruce caught the unconscious teenager just in time. Although, he'd never admit it, but he'd almost dropped Tim again due to the weight of his body. Has he always been so heavy? He's such a skinny little thing… no wonder those attackers were having trouble taking him out of the manor. With that thought in mind, Bruce hugged Tim closer to him, the back of his mind informing him that he would never let go.

He picked up Tim bridal style and placed a heavy hand on Tim's stomach. Luckily the bullet was still imbedded in his stomach (easy to take out, plus it was stemming the bleeding slightly) and seemed to have avoided hitting any organs – unluckily, he was still bleeding out. Tim's face was almost as pale as the white walls (which were stained with blood thanks to Tim deciding to rest against them), and his body was littered with bruises, although the only one on his face was on his cheek.

"I got you," Bruce muttered to Tim, only to be snapped out of his own world as he heard Alfred's voice. "Doctor Thompkins is on her way," he informed Bruce, who blinked in shock. Alfred was leaning against the very wall Tim had just been using, his injured legs shaking. A cell phone that Bruce was unaware Alfred even owned rested in the withered hands of the butler. "She'll be here in less than five minutes."

"Alf…" Bruce was seconds from putting Tim back on the floor to help the older man, but Alfred gave him an extremely stern look, and Bruce felt his arms clench tighter against Tim automatically. Looks like he wasn't placing Tim down for Alfred's sake any time soon.

"Go downstairs, Master Wayne," Bruce gave him one last look before nodding and heading towards the old clock where the cave was. Tim shifted and moaned in his arms, but Bruce shushed him each time this happened. When Bruce put him down onto the table in the batcave, Tim's eyes fluttered open and met Bruce's own. "Bruce?"

"It's okay, you're safe now. I'm going to go get Alfred, do you think you can stay down here by yourself?"

For a second, panic filled Tim's eyes, but it was gone so quickly Bruce assumed he had imagined it. "Go… get Alfred."

Bruce gave Tim's shoulder a squeeze before running off up the stairs of the cave and towards where he had left Alfred in the hallway. Alfred was clutching his legs and looking as pale as Tim had been when he spotted Bruce, who was mentally cursing himself as he took in the state of his butler. "Come on, Alfie," he murmured, going towards the old man and picking him up gently, much like he had with Tim. "We're bringing you downstairs."

"Sir –" Alfred started to object, but Bruce ignored him and made his way down to the batcave. Tim was clutching at his stomach, his eyes squeezed shut, and for what felt like the billionth time that day, Bruce mentally cursed himself out. He should have bandaged Tim before he went up to get Alfred, gave the kid something to put pressure on. He was a horrible parent.

He placed Alfred down on a table much like Tim's was, making sure the butler was comfortable, before running to his son. Tim blinked at him, his eyes glazed over again, his arms clutching his stomach. Bruce attempted to pry them apart, but Tim held firm, his form shaking.

"Tim, I need you to lie flat," Bruce informed his son, though he wasn't sure if Tim could even hear him. "Tim, come on, listen to me… let go of your stomach."

Tim gave him another glance, but didn't do as he was told. The pain must have been worse than he had originally thought. Bruce spared a glance over at Alfred, only to discover that the butler had fallen asleep – well, probably more like a state of unconsciousness. Blood was still pooling around the butler's legs, and Bruce unwillingly left his son's side to check on his surrogate father. The bullets must have ripped through both of his legs, because Bruce couldn't find them at all. He nearly jumped a mile when he heard the door to the batcave open, and looked up to see a startled Leslie Thompkins.

"Leslie…" he said desperately, and she snapped out of it. She quickly raced towards Bruce's former patients, eyes glancing between the two of them as though unsure as to which one to help first. She turned to Bruce, "Are the bullets still in them?"

"No, not in Alfred's wounds. Tim has one in his stomach though…" he swallowed at the look on Leslie's face, but she quickly masked it over in an impressive act of professionalism. "I need you to make a tourniquet on both of Alfred's legs and apply pressure on the wounds until you wrap bandages over them. Do NOT unwrap those bandages no matter what, even if the blood soaks all the way through. Keep pressure on them."

Bruce nodded, he'd done this before, he just needed to calm himself down. He walked over to Alfred's table and ripped two long strips of his shirt off – it was the only thing he could think of in that short amount of time. Luckily the bullets hadn't hit the bone or his kneecaps – it appeared to have hit the muscle instead. He carefully wrapped the makeshift tourniquet around the top of both of his legs, making it as tight as he possibly could without cutting off all circulation from Alfred's body. Then he got to work on keeping pressure on the bullet wounds. It was harder than he would have liked since there were two bullet wounds, both on separate legs, but he would have to make do. Once the blood stopped flowing out of the wounds, he deemed it safe to grab the gauze and wrap it around the wounds. Like Leslie said, the gauze pads automatically turned dark red, but he simply wrapped more gauze around it, even though his body was screaming at him to take it off and put a new one on it.

He heard Tim let out a choking cry and he whipped around, but Leslie had her body blocking his view. "Leslie!"

"I've got him," she snapped, "go make yourself useful and hook him up to the monitors!"

Bruce nodded and practically flew to the monitors, pushing them back to where Leslie and Tim were. When he caught sight of his son he almost froze, key word being almost. He somehow managed to keep himself going, despite Tim's terrible appearance. Leslie had undressed him until he was in nothing but his boxers (judging by the scissors lying on the small table next to her, she had cut his clothes off), and the blood and bruising stuck out even more.

The worst part was probably that Tim was conscious this time, and blood was bubbling from his mouth as he choked on it. Leslie quickly lifted his head up and to the side as much as she could without disturbing the bullet wound in his stomach. Leslie kept him held up as Bruce hooked the machines up to him, and finally his breathing started to even out, though it was still shaky. Bruce himself was shaking slightly, though for a completely different reason, and his heart was pounding. The monitors came to life in steady beeping noises, which signified his heartbeat. Bruce felt like his whole world was wrapped around those tiny beeps at that moment.

"Shouldn't we put him under?"

"No," said Leslie firmly. "He needs to be awake so that I can make sure he doesn't start choking again, but he'll need painkillers. Get the morphine ready, let me do the rest."

"But –"

"Do you want your son to live or not!?"

Bruce stared at her for a moment, shocked into silence. Leslie was glaring at him, and he knew that she meant every word she just said.

"I'll go get the morphine…"

…

Bruce's leg was bouncing up and down as he glared at the ground, even though doing so was completely pointless. Leslie had kicked him out of what she called 'the new medic room', and had placed a curtain around it so that he couldn't see what was going on. Maybe she had kicked him out because she could tell he was panicked, but it didn't exactly please Bruce when she told him that he needed to wait outside of the curtains that cut his vision from Tim and Alfred if she were to work properly. According to her, she couldn't take 'yet another person to kick themselves over thinking stupidly that this is their fault'.

He'd been waiting for a good hour, maybe an hour and a half, glowering at the ground and hearing the beeping from Tim's monitor. It had spiked quite a few times, and he had to refrain himself from bursting through the curtain. As it was, he was still banned from going behind the curtains, and was forced to sit down on a chair (that he wasn't even aware he owned) in front of the curtain separating him from his adopted son and faithful butler - who had practically raised him after his parents' death.

"Bruce?"

The glare disappeared as Bruce snapped his head up, too worried to be angry at the aging doctor. "Are they okay?"

"They're going to be fine," Leslie said with a small smile, and Bruce jumped up from the chair. "You can see them now –" she barely got the words out before Bruce was flying past her, shoving the curtains out of his way. Tim was asleep and had a breathing mask over his face, his stomach wrapped with heavy gauze. He was pleased to see that there was no blood seeping through – however, he was not very pleased at the bruises on his body. Alfred, on the other hand, was awake – and Bruce blinked in shock at the very annoyed look on his face. Alfred had one of the best pokerface's he knew – it was very rare to see him with any kind of emotion.

"Alfred?"

The look of annoyance faded, but the butler still looked rather grumpy. "A pleasure to see you, as always, Master Wayne."

"What's wrong?" asked Bruce with a frown on his face, making his way over to the butler. Alfred appeared to be trying to calm himself down as he sat a bit straighter on the makeshift bed. "Doctor Thompkins has just informed me that I will not be able to walk for…" he paused, his mouth thin, "nine weeks."

Even Bruce seemed surprised at that, but he quickly hid it with his own, perfected pokerface. "Well, you can still move around, can't you?"

"Oh yes," Alfred definitely sounded like he was trying to reign in his anger, "I simply have to stay in a wheelchair. Doctor Thompkins did say, however, that towards the end of those months I may possibly be able to stand on crutches."

Bruce nodded his head, "any long term damage?"

"I've been shot before, Master Wayne," said Alfred, glancing down at his legs, "in the arm to be precise. I still seem to have use of it, don't I?"

Bruce had to hold back a chuckle. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

Alfred nodded, looking determined, as though he would will himself to get better. "I know I will. How is Master Timothy?"

Bruce glanced over at the sleeping boy, "I'm assuming tired. He's had a tough day. I need to ask Leslie if it's okay to move him – you both –" he added at the end of the sentence quickly, knowing that Alfred would hate to be kept down here by himself. Bruce could stay down there all day, but he knew that the butler definitely preferred the manor rather than the cave connected to it.

"Mm," Alfred gave him a look as though he knew exactly what Bruce was thinking. "I suppose it's worth asking."

Bruce smiled and gave him a pat on the shoulder, spared one more look at Tim, before going back in front of the curtain to have a little chat with Leslie.