[ Damian barks out a laugh, rough and rusty but a definite laugh, mussing Dick's hair with a vengeance as he leans back in his chair. It is good to be king, and it is better to embarrass the hell out of your siblings. This is a perk of the job. ]

Titus is also out of your league. Plus, he's much too old for you. Sixteen - you know how long that is in dog years?

[ Very long. Most dogs make it to ten, twelve, but Titus has been hanging in there years past the usual life expectancy. Damian's prepared himself for his pup to pass soon (or, more like, Timothy has been preparing him, as Damian was refusing to acknowledge it altogether), but so soon after the wake of his father's death--

No, he won't think of it. ]

Close enough. It was a long few hours in surgery. You had some internal damage, too.

[ And Damian himself had to pick the splinters of bone out, had to drop them in the metal bowl and watch the pile grow. A long, long few hours.

His eyebrows raise at the toes comment, and, with lazy grace, he stretches one long arm over to tweak the toes of the nearest foot beneath the blanket; half to tease, half to see if Dick really couldn't feel them. He has been laying down for a while, and he can see the boy getting increasingly restless. ]

These toes, you mean?

[ Ah, but he'll take pity. Dick does need to move a little bit. ]

I can help you sit up. No acrobatics just yet, but you may feel a little better if you do.