…

When Stephanie Brown first met Batman, she'd been covered in blood, but she was not a murderer.

She was shaking. She'd lost her voice. She couldn't loosen her fingers or relax her arms at all, and she was covered in blood.

Maybe it wasn't as bad as it felt. Maybe it was just a few splatters, really. But there was blood in her hair, and blood on her jeans, and blood soaking into her sneakers, making them squeak with every step she took, so Timmy had taken the reins. Timmy had taken the reins. He'd emerged from his shadows on the edge of the empty lot, walked right up to Batman, and said: "help."

Stephanie heard Nightwing start laughing, high pitched and uncomfortable.

Then, they heard the gunshot.

Batman's face twisted. Darkened. He turned, and Stephanie could have sworn he stared right through her—and she knew he saw the two crumpled bodies behind her, and the dead cop by the wall. She knew that Nightwing was leaping over her head, and that she was going to die.

She knew she was going to die.

The Bat snarled. She remembered teeth. He didn't bother addressing Nightwing, didn't call out for Robin. His stare pinned Steph in place, froze her in terror. "Explain."

Stephanie choked. She held the iron piping in her hands even tighter. She was going to die.

Tim's tiny hands reached out and snagged the Bat by his cape. Steph didn't know people could go so still. Didn't know Tim could speak with a voice of steel. "He tried to help us."

The first time Stephanie Brown met Batman, she was shivering and covered in blood.

000

She spent three days in a room with Tim, awaiting the inevitable, wondering why they had to be locked up instead of just ending it. The Bat didn't torture people, only his little bird did, and even then she'd always thought it was only the Families they seemed to go after that way. But maybe Riddler'd been wrong when he delivered that gossip. Maybe the Bat just didn't like leaving marks. Maybe he liked watching people break.

Admittedly, she wasn't really in the best headspace. The Bat hadn't even hurt her when he'd knocked her out. She woke up alone in the room—four windowless walls, two beds, two doors, and no escape—with a pair of clean clothes beside her, a plate of tinfoil-wrapped food at the foot of the bed, and her injuries bandaged. Dried blood crusted off her clothes and hair when she moved. The only unlocked door led to a bathroom.

She ate, washed the blood out of her hair, changed clothes, and lay back on the bed, hoping they'd kill her while she was asleep. Instead, Timmy was there when she woke up, his bad arm in a new wrapping and his hair cut short again. He said he'd explained everything to Batman and Nightwing. Steph started choking again, looking around for some way to escape. Tim said not to bother. She lay back down and wondered how it came to this.

Nightwing came in later. Hard to know how long. He brought in a plate of food, a stack of books, and the words, "Robin's alive." It went like that, in and out, for three days.

Two days after Everything Happened, Robin showed signs of waking from his medically-induced coma. Early on day three, Nightwing brought her and Timmy out of the room and led them down a set of stone stairs and into a massive, messy cavern.

Stephanie really thought that was it.

Robin was awake. Still super listless, but awake, and making quiet moaning sounds from where they had him hidden behind a white plastic curtain. Now that it looked like he was really going to survive, Batman had no reason to hold onto them (if he'd had a reason in the first place. Around day two, she sort of chalked it up to a classic case of 'I need someone to take my anger out on if things don't go the way I want them to,' which, okay, maybe she was projecting a bit, but could anyone blame her?) so it seemed pretty reasonable that at any moment, Batman was going to either walk up behind her and snap her neck, or have Nightwing do it. Would he even have to speak out loud to tell Nightwing to swoop in and gank them? If Batman could do that, he'd probably have told Nightwing to take them out before they reached the stairs. Or maybe by using the stairs. Or maybe he wanted Robin to be able to watch. Maybe they'd somehow get Robin onto his feet and allow him the honors. Maybe that was why they were brought out of the room. So Robin could do it.

Batman seemed to have an interest in Timmy, though, if the last two days were anything to go by. The haircut, Nightwing occasionally pulling Tim out for questioning, the glances that Batman was currently shooting him from all the way over by Robin's cot. It was simultaneously a relief but also really mortifying, since even if they only killed her, then Timmy would be—

(Timmy wasn't the best in the head. Neither was she, so not like she was judging. They balanced each other out okay, until Tim started feeling confident around the Bat, and she'd known her little dude wasn't the best judge of character, but Timmy, holy fuck, pick someone better to click with—)

—if they only wanted to kill her, Timmy would probably be fine, but that didn't mean Steph wanted to die or leave him in the stupid, damp cave all on his own. Maybe someone was offering reward money for Tim Drake now. Maybe Batman needed money to move to a slightly less damp cave. She'd believe it. She'd believe anything at that point.

But just because she believed it didn't mean she wanted to be a part of it in any fashion, especially if it involved dying or leaving her little dude to an uncertain fate.

They were left relatively on their own in the center of the cavern, close to the medical area and its white curtain. Batman was standing there, in the gap of the curtain, when they'd arrived. He hadn't moved much, though Steph was certain he was very much aware of their presence. Robin was still making small croaking noises, as best as she could tell, and it was distracting the Bat. For the meantime, it seemed like Nightwing was in charge of holding them still.

So basically, there wasn't any getting out.

Except that one moment Nightwing was there, and the next, he'd muttered "stay put," and there was only air behind her.

She cased the place quickly, taking in the cave as fast as she could—it was lit by floodlights and suspended lamps, and well lit by them, at that. Long, lumpy shadows were cast over the rocky walls by all the weird paraphernalia that was just sort of everywhere. A huge Toy Story dinosaur, a giant penny, junk piled up on desks and out-of-place shelves, and it looked like there was an alligator skeleton hanging from the ceiling? It may have just been a heavily shadowed airplane. She wasn't focusing but so hard on those details, because the most important part was the staircase not far from their left, looking like it descended in the direction of a wide, well-lit garage. Where there was a garage, there was an exit.

She was willing to bet at least one of those motorcycles or cars had keys in their ignition, ready to go.

She swallowed again, glancing at Timmy beside her. He hadn't moved a muscle since they were told to stay put—damn it, Timmy—but that could've meant he was entranced by what was in front of him or he was terrified, and neither was going to help if she let him keep it up.

She spot checked Batman and Nightwing again. Batman was still by the cot, one hand on Robin's shoulder, the other looking like it might've been holding an IV bag. Nightwing reappeared next to a huge hunk of metal that vaguely resembled a computer, his back to them and apparently looking something up. His fingers hit the keys at a ridiculous rate.

Both looked like they were just another few moments away from turning around and dealing with her and Tim in whatever way they were going to deal with them. It was now or never.

She grabbed Tim's arm, gave an almighty tug, and they were off. Tim nearly fell off his feet, but thankfully didn't make any sound louder than a startled gasp, and quickly started running along with her.

"Hey!" Nightwing didn't have footsteps, but he appeared in her peripheral vision a moment after she heard his voice. "I just turned away for a second, now, come—"

He bent and stuck one leg out as if to trip her, and in that moment, Stephanie struck.

Nightwing yelped.

It was pretty clear he had a cup and wasn't nearly as hurting as she'd hoped he would be, but the shock of having a knee straight to the crotch was enough to make him roll a good ten feet back and get them that much more space to run to the vehicles.

'That much more space,' didn't really seem to make much difference, though. A few second's difference, at least. Maybe this was sort of like going feet-first into a black hole. It only got you a teeny bit more time of consciousness before you were spaghettified, but you went in feet-first anyway.

Nightwing recovered from being kneed in the nads just as Steph was a few steps from the staircase with Tim right on her heels.

Until he wasn't.

She felt Tim's hand being wrenched out of her own, heard the quiet sound of distress the kid made. Then, Nightwing was on her.

She landed harshly, her chest taking most of the blow. At least it wasn't her chin, but she let out a strangled yowl all the same, even as he arms were jerked up and pinned behind her back. Her stomach bounced up to her throat and back down again, leaving her feeling like she was one bad turn away from throwing up.

"Impressive," a voice said.

A deeper one than Nightwing's. Steph fought down the nerves threatening to come up her throat. Maybe it was the nausea of hitting the floor so hard. Yeah, that was it.

Still, she twisted her head around to look and try to get her bearings. She'd been tackled from the side and landed next to the guard rail between the current level and the garage. On one side, down the steps, she could see what might've been her getaway vehicle, in another life. On her other side stood Batman. Not the best dichotomy. Especially when Batman was standing over Tim.

Not in the very literal way that Nightwing was currently on top of her, but Batman just seemed very much on top of Tim, despite not touching him at all, and Tim not even being on the floor. And Tim just stood there. A few feet away from Batman. Completely dwarfed.

She really couldn't tell if Tim was experiencing the 'deer in headlights' or a strange and misplaced form of admiration.

"'Impressive'?" came Nightwing's strained voice from above her. "'Impressive,' he says! Really?"

"She saw the opportunity and took it," Batman said, impassive. "You were distracted."

"What, like I can be on guard twenty-five hours a day?" said Nightwing, making some sort of motion that tugged at her arms.

"You usually are," said Batman. "Yet she managed to achieve a point of contact."

"Ignoring the fact I wasn't actually trying to hurt her," said Nightwing, huffing.

"Yes," said Batman, "Ignoring that."

"…you do these things just to bug me, don't you?"

"Not everything is about you, Nightwing."

Back in the medical ward, now fully obscured by a white curtain, Robin began making sounds of distress all over again. Without another word, Batman turned and swept around, his cape trailing behind him as he returned to his position by the bed.

Nightwing watched him go, staying still and rigid on Steph's back. She coughed. He jolted and looked back down at her. "…yes?"

"Uh," she said, not entirely believing she was even trying this. Was she concussed? "Before I die, I'd really like circulation back in my arms."

"Oh!" She hadn't actually believed it would work, but it totally did. The steel grip holding her arms behind her back loosened and he picked himself up, entirely removing the weight holding her down. "Sorry about that, habi—"

She swung her fist at his face.

Let it be known that Nightwing was forever banned from limbo tournaments, because with only one foot on the ground, he bent backwards, ducked her arm, and flipped back to standing in the time it took for her to sit upright and reset her swing.

"Okay," he said, holding up a hand. "I kind of deserved that, even if you missed. Now please stop trying to hit me."

It took her a moment to reply, since she was busy sprinting over to Tim. She planted herself between him and Nightwing, fists raised, and said, "Not unless you let us go!"

Nightwing smiled.

Having the smile focused on her wasn't nearly as creepy as she'd expected it to be. When people said he would dispatch you with a smile, she'd always, well—

She'd always sort imagined Joker.

Nightwing's smile was serene on his face. Not particularly nice, but not… not what she'd thought it would be. Though she really didn't think it would matter much when he inevitably pulled out a weapon and started to—

A small hand laid on her shoulder.

She flinched, almost jumping away entirely before realizing it was only Tim. Even when he was right in front of her, she'd been convinced Nightwing was already at her back.

"Timmy," she hissed, not hardly daring to blink as long as Nightwing was standing in front of her, arms loose at his side, not looking at all concerned about being attacked. "When I say go, you run for the stairs, okay?"

"Can't we just talk?" Tim said.

He said it loud enough that Nightwing heard. Damnit, Timmy.

And Nightwing held up both his hands in surrender and said, "Yeah. That's basically what the plan is, honestly. No killing involved. Promise."

Steph did not mean for her shoulders to relax so much just from hearing something like that, because there was no guarantee at all. Just because she really wanted to believe it when people said they weren't out to kill didn't make it true—at least the whole time, she never dropped her fists, even though she was pretty sure fighting Nightwing when he was ready for her wasn't really a good idea at all. But every day was an adventure, right? A horrible nightmare of an adventure.

Nightwing studied them, head bobbing up and down as he looked them over, his slightline clear despite the obscuring mask. "I promise. If it makes you feel better, assume Batman really hates messes. He does."

Stephanie swallowed the massive lump stuck in her throat and forced her voice to be steady. "No torture either?"

"Absolutely none," he said, forming his pointer finger and thumb into an 'ok' symbol.

Even though Steph's nerves were still frayed from two days of confinement, surely under close observation by people she knew carried out assassination contracts, apparently Tim's nerves were not. He kept his tiny hand on her shoulder and took a few steps out from behind her back until he stood beside her. The hand on her shoulder gave one squeeze, and before Steph could tell him to not be stupid, he said, "What did you want to talk about?"

And Nightwing was smiling. Keeping his distance, hands still where they could see them, and smiling. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and said, "Well. Batman's gotten pretty interested in you two, so now you've got a choice."

000

"Timothy, come closer," Batman said.

The cowl was down, but he was using The Voice, so Tim came skidding forward, ignoring the look Jason was shooting his way. Jason didn't look capable of doing much expect glaring at the moment, though. He was propped up on a gurney in the rigorously cleaned cubical of the cave that made up the medical area, Batman in front of him, Steph as Robin to one side, and now Tim on the other. Jason's face was twisted up in barely-repressed pain and his arm was held tight in Batman's grip as the final preparations for sutures were finished.

"He is not practicing on me," Jason said, his teeth clenched. A localized numbing agent had already been applied to his arm, but the did nothing to improve his mood or care for the tens of other small hurts that littered his body after taking a bad dive into the side of a dumpster. As battered and bad as his mood was, though, he seemed otherwise relaxed with Batman hovering over him, despite the horribly curved needle, a pair of pinchers, and an already-used bottle of saline solution. Maybe the clenched teeth were simply an instinctive reaction borne of knowing what was about to come in a few moments. Stephanie seemed to be having a similar reaction, and she wasn't even the one who needed stitches.

"You're right, he's not," Batman said, head slightly inclined, "But he will be observing."

Jason hissed something that Tim couldn't catch, or might not have been a word at all.

"Better to have them observe now while I'm available, rather than later, in a more dire situation, and have to orchestrate your own medical care," and the way Batman said that left Tim absolutely no doubt that he fully expected such a situation to arise. "Tonight already would have been much worse without Robin present."

Stephanie fidgeted, glancing at her feet, still seeming a little off-balance about everything. Jason grunted again, but didn't protest the words, either. He just closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and stayed that way while Batman took what looked like a tiny pair of pliers and used it to hold the needle in place. "With a wound this shallow, we'll be doing skin stitching. Tapered needle, nonsoluble thread, size 0-4; both are labeled in your suture kits, I'll prepare a more thorough overview of the various thread sizes later. Grasp at the center of the needle. Avoid grasping by the tip, or you'll blunt it. Never touch it with your fingers, or you'll contaminate it. Enter at a 90o degree angle. The wound isn't bleeding badly, so I'm making single stitches and tying each suture off individually. Single stitches are stronger and easier to remove, but take a more time to apply than a continuous stitch. To tie this sort of suture, take your forceps and—"

While Steph seemed to be steadying her stomach and Jason kept his breathing even and slow, Tim watched carefully as Batman continued to calmly explain how to stitch someone up, demonstrating at the same time—a feat which only paused as a low rumbling shook the cave.

"Nightwing's late," Batman said, tying one of the last stitches with a deft hand.

"Can I…?" Tim began.

"He'll be here in a moment," Batman said, not even shaking his head. "Wait."

Sure enough, Nightwing emerged from the hanger a few minutes later, still fully masked and in costume, carrying a bundle that appeared to be his brown jacket under the other arm.

"Hey, guys!" he said, perking up as he came into the room and saw everyone in one piece—or at least, recently sewn back together—"Batman told me. Steph—"

He dropped everything. Steph was promptly enveloped in a smothering hug. She all but disappeared beneath Nightwing's body armor, the only indication of her continued presence being a few shocks of blond hair that had rebelled from even the confinement of the embrace.

"I heard the basics," Nightwing said, grinning down at her. "You did good."

Two green-gloved hands hesitantly escaped his grasp and wrapped around his torso in return. She mumbled a reply, but Tim couldn't hear it properly. Whatever it was, it made Nightwing smile wider and give a low, fond chuckle before ruffling her hair and returning his full focus to the hug. Stephanie didn't even argue the hair ruffle.

"And he doesn't have a scratch on him," Jason muttered from his place on the cot. "Figures."

Nightwing laughed. "Yeah, well, I aim to impress."

Tim watched him smile. He had a split lip. The left side of his face looked somehow odd, and he kept out of direct bright light, keeping to the edges of the medical area when his face was towards them. Tim would… have to figure out if Jason couldn't see the injuries, or if he were being sarcastic. It was really hard to tell sometimes. He was a terrible liar, but even worse at being honest.

"So what happened?" Nightwing said, glancing around the room as he pulled away from Stephanie, one arm still slung over her shoulder. "B just said you had some trouble and Steph swooped in to save the day?"

"Totally what happened," Steph said.

"No it fuckin' ain't," said Jason, scowling.

Bruce sighed deeply, and they all felt a little bit guilty. Jason muttered an apology for cursing.

"But really," Nightwing broke the short uneasy silence first. "What went wrong?"

"Joker goons," Jason revealed at last, after glancing back and forth between Tim, Steph, and Bruce, before finally resigning himself to telling the story while Bruce wrapped a loose bandage around his arm. "Set up that informant meeting as an ambush. One got a lucky hit in. Steph went ballistic."

Stephanie blushed and hung her head. Nightwing patted her between the shoulder blades.

"You get anything from tonight besides a new nasty scar, then?"

"Don't make me throw the saline at you," Jason said, holding his good arm up in warning.

"I'm really not that concerned right now."

"Sorry," Steph said, fidgeting with her hands in front of her, "if I'd come in a little sooner or hadn't—hadn't h-hit so fast, we'd maybe have gotten something."

Nightwing squeezed her around the shoulders with one arm. "Hey, hey, it's okay! The info isn't a big deal, I was just asking. You're both safe, and that's the important part. Having to save Jason's butt from stupid situations is basically a family tradition at this point, you know?"

"I motion for a new family tradition," Jason said, raising his uninjured hand while Bruce edged away, clearing the area and stowing the still-usable supplies. "Beating up Timmy."

"Hey!" Tim said, turning bright red even as he clenched his fists at his side.

"No beating up your siblings," Batman said. They quieted once again. The last drawer slid shut after Bruce's quick cleanup of the area, and they refocused onto him again. "Red Hood and Robin received some minor, repetitive information before the assault. Do you have anything to add, Nightwing?"

"Uh," Nightwing said, stepping away from Steph, replacing both his arms by his side. "I… yeah. The bugs were successfully planted, but there were complications."

Bruce's face tightened.

"I wrote up most of the report on my way over, but the important information is, uh," Nightwing glanced around the small group. He still hadn't sat down. His back and legs were held with an unfamiliar stiffness, as if he weren't comfortable moving. Which was. Not good. "There were superheroes in Central. More than expected."

Batman watched him wordlessly.

"Kid Flash was present, but the real issue were two others. One was an archer—not Speedy. It was a girl. The other one… had an S-shield on him."

"Wait," Jason said, sitting up sharply. "The S-shield? You fought the big enchilada?"

"I don't think so?" Dick said, shrugging bringing a finger to his cheek to scratch, looking a little confused himself. "There is a possibility he was in fact a tiny taco? A very angry tiny taco. A very strong, angry, tiny taco. I'm surprised he didn't try to melt my face off."

"Did he get a good look at your face?" Bruce leaned in suddenly, voice full of urgency. It snapped Dick back to attention in a moment.

"Uh. No, I tried to avoid looking right at him, so at worst I might've exposed some of my profile, but I don't know if he used x-ray vision on me or not. If he even had it. If he's even alive."

There was a long, stony silence that fell over the group. Nightwing took a deep breath.

"He jumped onto the Batwing. I assumed he could fly and shook him off a few hundred feet up. He didn't fly. I didn't stop to see if he made it. If he couldn't fly, I don't know what else he may or may not've been able to do. Or if he's even connected to the League. I don't know."

"We'll know soon, I'm sure," Bruce said, scowling. He laced his fingers together in front of himself and frowned down at the floor below him. "In the meantime, I'm modifying your masks and we'll proceed with things as planned, with the assumption this will bring us to the League's attention. That means curfew's in place; get to bed and get ready for tomorrow."

They all nodded, now quiet and staring at their feet or the blank expanses of cave floor in front of them. Jason slid off the cot and held out his uninjured arm.

"Pipsqueak, c'mere with me real quick," he said, holding his hand out to Steph. She nodded quickly and took it, following Jason out of the medical area and up the stairs to the second story, by Dick and Jason's tattered old uniforms.

Nightwing shifted a bit before beginning to move after them. "I'm going to—"

"—Nightwing," Batman said. Nightwing stiffened. "See me privately before you retire."

After a moment of eye contact, Nightwing gave a single sharp nod, and said, "I'm going to upload what I have of my report before coming up."

Batman made a tiny sound and swept out of the med area towards the changing stations, leaving Nightwing and Tim on their own.

Nightwing looked down at him. "Wanna head straight to bed, or hang out with me a bit?"

Tim moved to Nightwing's side right away, smiling faintly. "Do you want any painkillers?"

Nightwing shook his head, looking a little startled. It was one of those things that was hard to tell from behind a mask, but the tensing of the mouth gave it away. "Nah, I'm fine. Just need a hot bath and a good night's sleep, and I'll be fine."

Tim nodded, "Okay," and was the last person out of the medical area, turning off the lights and shutting the door without locking it as they made their way towards the computer.

It was a slow walk. Whether Nightwing was trying to disguise his injuries anymore or if he was just tired, Tim didn't know, but it was a slow walk from the medical bay to the computer deck. When they arrived, Nightwing slid into the chair and ignored the small squeak it made. It had squeaked ever since Tim first arrived in the cave. He wondered if Bruce would ever get around to fixing it, but had never asked.

"So, what's up?" Nightwing asked. Tim startled a bit, looking over. The computer was on and glowing, but Nightwing was turned away from it, focusing on him instead. "You look like you've got something on your mind."

Tim pursed his lips. "It's not a big deal."

"Then it won't be a big deal to lemme know, right?" Nightwing smiled.

Tim snorted.

He… he was never really sure what to think about Dick, exactly.

Jason was a terrible actor and could only lie by omission. Steph hardly saw the point in lying most of the time. He was making a catalogue of Bruce's tells, so that even if he wasn't sure why or what Bruce was lying about, he would always at least be aware that there was some falsity occurring. But it was always kind of hard for him to tell what Dick was thinking.

"Timmy?"

…but even if it was a lie, Dick was nice.

"Why's Jason like that to me?"

Nightwing's smile faded, replaced with startled concern. His mouth opened and then closed again, once, twice, and he sat back from the computer, sagging into the chair.

"Well," he began, scratching the side of his head. "It's… it's like when parents bring home a new baby; the kid already there is upset, because he's used to having all the attention, and now it's more split than he's used to, and there's just this… rough adjustment period full of resentment and anger."

Oh. Parents and siblings. That was an analogy Tim could… sort of work with. On an intellectual level.

Nightwing grimaced. Tim cut him off before he could try to modify his analogy. "I get it, it's fine. But—" he sighed. "If that's all it is, why wasn't he sniping at Steph just now, too?"

Nightwing pursed his lips again and continued after a moment. "Well, uh, building on the baby metaphor…" he looked to Tim for permission, and continued after a nod. "There's actually two babies. And one of them can play video games with you, and the other one can't, so you put all the misplaced anger on the baby who can't."

"Except instead of video game, it's the not-hiding part of the job." Tim crossed his arms and tried to pretend it didn't look like he was hugging himself.

"Something like that." Nightwing looked sad. Tim didn't think he was projecting. "You'll get there eventually, though. You're already really good, anyway."

Tim shifted his weight back and forth. He needed to stop that. "…did you hate Jason like he hates me? Back when he first showed up?"

Nightwing laughed. "Are you kidding? I wanted to kill him."

"But Batman wouldn't let you."

"Do you really think Batman could've stopped me if I wanted to go through with it?" Tim suspected not, and didn't really care. Not when Nightwing reached up a gauntlet, ruffled his hair, and smiled at him again. "It'll get better. Promise. He'll warm up to you soon enough. Maybe you just have to personally save his butt, first."

"I think he'd just get more resentful that it was me saving his butt," Tim said, but smiled all the same.

"Haha, maybe. It's hard to know with him. He'd probably act all huffy to your face and in the middle of the night throw a fruit basket through your window, or something."

"The bunker doesn't have windows."

"Drill a hole in your ceiling and lower it down, then. Could be anything."

The silence they fell into after that was comfortable. Dick turned back to the computer and Tim leaned against the chair, watching the screens flashing in front of him the same way he might watch a movie. "I guess I'm last, then?"

"Hm?" Nightwing said. He sounded tired, more-so than before, like he might've been falling asleep in costume where he sat.

"To kill."

"Oh." Nightwing took a deep breath then, humming. "If you want to try and keep pace with Steph, I can arrange something for you. It'll take a bit, though. Especially if there's someone in particular you want to get back at."

The silence after that felt very different than the last one had. Expectation. But also—if Tim bothered to look up, if he dared look up, he knew he would see Nightwing watching him carefully, looking for a hint of something, though Tim wasn't sure what. Instead, he did what he'd been doing the whole time he found himself doing when he found himself lost in the company of the Bat and his birds—he took a deep breath, and told the truth.

"No, anyone's fine," he said. "There's no one I really care about."

Nightwing stilled for a moment—went more still than he had been—before reaching a hand down and giving Tim's arm a squeeze. His lips were pursed, and he seemed to be thinking very hard about something. "Your dad…"

"I don't want to kill my dad." Tim shook his head sharply. "There's still a chance he might wake up. There's things I want to ask him."

Nightwing gave his arm another squeeze and let out a breath.

"Okay," he said. "I've got the opening on Sunday night, and Monday for prep and recon, so let's say Tuesday. I'll have you someone by Tuesday. Does that sound good?"

Tim nodded and took a half step away from the chair, no longer feeling very much like resting with Nightwing. "Yeah, that's fine. Thanks. I'm gonna head to bed, now, I think."

"Okay," Nightwing said, watching him. He stopped Tim long enough to stand and pull him into a quick, one-armed hug. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," Tim said, leaning into the contact. He managed another smile, briefly, before excusing himself once again and shuffling across the cave, towards the bunker staircase.

Back to the room he shard with Stephanie. He would stay up and wait until Red Hood was done talking with her, and once he wasn't alone, he could go to sleep. Maybe they would talk, first. Maybe?

But there would be time before then. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a few hours, depending on what Steph and Jason were talking about. That was enough time. He shuffled up the stair and passed Jason's room, into his and Steph's, just down the hall from the bunker's kitchen and bath.

The room was small. Modest. Big enough for two, or at least, they'd made it work. Painted cream-colors, with a generous carpet. Two beds on opposite walls. Two dressers. A mirror on each wall. Steph had requested a stereo weeks before, and there one sat, nestled at the foot of her bed, pastel-colored and pristine. Tim still had a hard time listening to music. Too loud. Too cluttered. It felt like trying to hide—not hiding to gain something, but just to hide.

The bunker and cave were naturally quiet, though there may have been an element of soundproofing in their designs—he knew there was soundproofing in the ceilings, or rather, the manor's floors. Unless something got very loud, it was unlikely the manor above would be aware at all—but despite that, there was still the hum of electricity and whirring of machines in the walls. The faint, distant rumble of the waterfall. When he booted up his three-month-old tablet, it buzzed. Connecting it to Gotham General Hospital's security system meant that the faint murmur of traffic, both hospital traffic beyond the door and the motorized traffic out the window, reached him from miles away.

He lay on his bunk above the covers, one arm behind his head and the other propping the tablet up on his stomach as he watched a room far from his own and listened to the quiet words just beyond his walls, whose forms he couldn't quite make out.

It was nice. To have company.

000

The study was a spacious area, filled with an antique hardwood desk flanked by two plush green couches atop a Turkish rug. The hidden entrance to the Cave was just behind the desk, obscured by a false wall. There were many hidden entrances to the Cave throughout the house; this one was not the most private, but late at night, with the curtains drawn over the left wall's windows and an old domed lamp as the only source of light, it was adequate cover. It wasn't as if there was anyone else in the house to see Dick exit a room he'd never entered.

No. No one really existed in the upstairs mansion besides Bruce Wayne and his ward.

There were times, true, when Jason had been brought upstairs into some of the interior rooms, far from windows, but that had been in the interest of not locking a boy alone in a subterranean level for days on end. Jason still ventured up occasionally, sticking to pre-approved rooms and avoiding windows like a plague, but it was an occasional thing, and always forewarned. Most of the time, socialization took place in the bunker or batcave, in a common area renovated not long after the decision to train Jason as Robin arrived.

Because of the relaxation and living spaces already available in the bunker, Stephanie and Timothy had been introduced to the library entrance and the quickest escape routes out of the house, but little else thus far. They were still unfamiliar enough with the building that Bruce planned to use Wayne Manor to teach them how to read and use floorplans efficiently.

Those were the plans Bruce had in his hands at that moment. Tapping the stray pages on the desk until they lined up evenly—multiple levels required multiple sheets of paper. Shuffling them would simply add an extra layer of challenge, to teach them attention to detail and quickness to order—he opened the top drawer of the desk and placed the papers inside a short moment later. There was nothing too unusual about storing copies of floor plans in a desk, especially when there were rumors he planned to remodel, soon. Old house, tired house; old style, tired style. He could call it a flight of fancy, if he pleased. Just putting in a new indoor pool.

That was how he stood when Dick approached him, silent and slow.

Bruce slid the drawer back into place and locked it shut, just as Dick's head fell against his back.

He didn't jump. He didn't react much at all, truly—the moment the air currents had shifted in the room, he'd known the door was open, and no matter how quietly Dick moved, it was hard to mask one's presence from another who'd grown so used to it.

Five years alone in a house together could do that to you.

Five years alone in a house meant Bruce no longer flinched away from the boy's contact.

He'd been that way with Alfred, once.

Dick made a small, tired grunt of a sound as he shifted where his forehead rested on Bruce's back. It had started at the shoulder blade, and now seemed to edge a bit closer towards Bruce's shoulder in general.

Bruce made a barely-there sound deep in his throat, not turning or shifting away as Dick rested more weight on him.

"She's taking it a bit worse than Jason did, his first time," Dick said. His voice had a rasp to it that he couldn't seem to bother keeping out. "She'll pull through with positive reinforcement."

Bruce nodded, hrm'ing, and lifted his hand to touch at the base of Dick's neck. Like he had when the boy was a child. At his touch, Dick's tense neck muscles unwound and he leaned all the more heavily into Bruce's shoulder. Bruce stood, unwavering, his hand clasped on the base of Dick's neck, on the juncture of his collarbone.

They stood like that a while. Dick on Bruce's shoulder, Bruce's hand on Dick's neck. Saying nothing. Breathing deeply.

It had been a long night.

Bruce gave a squeeze to Dick's neck. "You've handled your injuries?"

"Yep. It's all superficial. Worst is a small crack. I'll be better in a week."

"Then get to bed." You're exhausted.

It was terrible, really, that he felt the shift against his shoulder and knew in his gut that Dick was smiling.

"Yessir," he said, the words slurring intentionally as Bruce's hand dropped away and Dick's head lifted up. He stayed long enough to loop his arms around Bruce's middle and squeeze. "You too, Bruce. Get some sleep."

"I'll be fine."

Dick released him and took a step back. He was probably still smiling. He was probably shaking his head. "Don't make me drag you again."

"I'm not the one with a biology project due Monday."

"No, you're the one with a grand opening tonight and a multi-billion dollar corporation to run on Monday." Dick was definitely shaking his head, and the worst part was that Bruce had long since given up arguing with him. "Also, that biology project might just be mediocre at best. Sorry, B."

Bruce sighed and pinched his nose. "At least you're turning it in this time."

"When did you say they stopped teaching genetics?"

"When you get out of biology."

Dick made a thoughtful but displeased sound at that.

"It's bedtime," Bruce said again. "Is there anything else you needed?"

"Keep an eye on Tim," Dick said. And of course, now was the moment that he chose to start walking around the desk and heading towards the door to the hall. "He asked about killing. I'm gonna hunt down the guys who hurt Jason and turn one over to Tim. I don't know if this's a way to try and feel connected or something else, but just keep an eye on him, okay? He's still waiting for his dad."

A quick mental tally meant Bruce knew he did not like the sound of that, yet was equally relieved that whatever had gone wrong was apparently not immediately urgent. He found he lacked the words to share that comprehension. He grunted instead. Dick understood. He generally did.

Dick paused at the door, leaning against the frame and looking back out at Bruce—the mask was gone, now. Dick's face fully visible. One of his eyes was ringed with a bruise, presently light enough that it almost blended in with the eternal darkness of the bags under his eyes. A much larger, darker one crawled up the collar of his shirt from his back. They reflected the dim light of the room just well enough that Bruce understood he'd already put a cream on it, recently enough that the salve was not yet fully absorbed into the skin. His lip was still split, but cleaned. He held his wrist gingerly.

His face was growing sharper, and it was only all the more obvious in the low light. He'd looked young for his age as a child; now it seemed he'd look too old for his age, and some of that may have been Bruce's fault. Dick needed a long rest, a shave, and a hot meal. And Dick paused at the door, looked at Bruce, and smiled.

"See you in the morning, B."

Bruce nodded once, stiffly, and looked back down at his hands, resting on the edge of the antique desk. "Goodnight."

And like that, it was done.

000

On Sunday morning, Barry Allen was released from his shift early. He went directly home. With a life as hectic as his, it usually paid to take his breaks and snatches of time at home whenever he could, even if the house was empty and Sunday morning wasn't exactly prime crisis time for Central or Keystone. And he was happy about that.

That said, he was pretty surprised to step in his front door to find his nephew sprawled on the living room couch; one foot propped up on the coffee table, the other leg balancing an opened laptop, a massive mixing bowl of macaroni and cheese tucked awkwardly under his arm, and—where those chunks of ham mixed into the mac?

"Hi, Uncle B," Wally West said around the fork, face mildly smeared with bright yellow melted cheese. Did he look ashamed? Nope. Not one bit.

"Hey, kiddo," Barry said, shutting the door with his foot and smiling. "There's not any more of that somewhere, is there?"

Wally jerked his head towards the kitchen, smiling right back, and reported, "Aunt Iris said to tell you to look in the oven."

In a span of time a little bit longer than the flicker of a lightbulb, Barry had set down his shoulderbag on the coffee table, hit the kitchen, discovered the incredible vegetable lasagna hidden away in the oven, and returned back to the couch with a fork in hand, settling in next to Wally.

He didn't exactly slow down after that. It was just him and Wally in the room, and while he usually kept a steady, non-meta pace out of consideration for those around them, right then there was no one but the other speedster in the room, and falling into a comfortable pace was as easy as shifting a muscle.

"Slow morning?"

"As hell. Mom and Dad are out at church and I told them I wanted to sleep in. They let me slide, but they might take me to the nighttime service later this week. Not looking forward to that. You?"

"Crazy morning. Well, for everyone else, anyway. We've just been trying to ease up our backlog, but it turns out local vigilante Kid Flash interrupted a robbery last night, and that's got the whole station going a little crazy. They're all hoping you're all right, by the way."

Wally groaned, but he was smiling. "I'm fine. Cut's've already healed up, it's just a couple of bruises, now. They'll be gone in, like, a day or two."

Barry hadn't gotten a chance to see Wally's bruises himself, but he didn't want to think about how bad they must've been if the kid was giving such a vague answer.

"Well, that's good to hear. Especially since Kid Flash's description of a costumed thief vaguely matched up with someone in a national database of wanted criminals."

Wally blinked, eyes going owl-wide. "Who?"

"It's possible that Kid Flash went toe-to-toe with Gotham assassin-thief-slash-possible-mobster, Nightwing," Barry said, voice low and steady. He lifted his eyes and stared into Wally's own, so that Wally knew right then and there that he was so totally grounded. "It's a tenuous connection, mostly based on the descriptions of his movement, his getaway vehicle, and the bird comment, but he's the closest match they could find."

"So what's this mean?"

"It means it's officially out of my hands. The crime crossed jurisdictions. Central City might be sort of involved for a bit, but ultimately it's not up to us to deal with him anymore. This isn't big enough for Justice League intervention, either. It sounds like they're mostly going to be on the lookout for the tech that was stolen and see if it surfaces anywhere. Otherwise, the CCPD's had Gotham on the phone for the last hour, trying to coordinate and figure out as much as they can."

"What've they learned? And why'd he want that little gauge thingy?"

"I don't know everything, hotshot, I'm just the CSI guy," Barry smiled a bit, but lost it fairly quickly. "Look, Kid, I don't want you going after this guy, okay?"

Wally frowned. Barry set his lasagna aside and leaned in closer, putting a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "It's dangerous, Kid. I know you've been in a lot of rough situations before, but—he almost seriously hurt you and Superboy, and Artemis is certain if he weren't so stuck on running, it might've been a lot worse than it was. Promise me you're not gonna go after this one."

Wally snorted and brushed his hand away, rolling his eyes. "Geez, Uncle B. Chill out. I'm not going to do anything. Besides, we don't even know who he really is. What'm I gonna do, magically google him or something?"

000

….i can't believe I forgot to mention the ages in the A/Ns. I've been complaining about the age chart so much I actually forgot to share it. I aged everyone up so the Team would be fighting the Batfam instead of just, like the Bat Babies. So here's the rundown of current in-universe ages as of ch 8:

Wally is 17 and a senior in highschool. Artemis is 16. Dick is 15 and will turn 16 in December (three-ish months from present.) Jason is 15 and has been for a handful of weeks, since late August. Tim and Steph are both thirteen going on fourteen. Sir Not Appearing in This Chapter (Damian) is currently seven, and tiny. All other ages are irrelevant. If in doubt, assume everyone is roughly 2-3 years older than in canon.

Updates: I am back in the country, and newly inducted into the Undertale Bandwagon if anyone else wants to join me here in hell. The Bruce+Dick+hellamorality fic is completed, but set aside for rereading because it's ((TOO LONG)) glorious to my sleep deprived eyes and I need to give it breathing room before I realize it's a piece of trash and can remodel it. non timebo mala has gained another chapter that'll probably hopefully be up soon. I am so tired I can't feel my eyes.

It's gonna be snowmageddon 2.0 where I am. If I'm radio silent for a while, it's probably because my internet (and possibly I myself) am buried under two feet of snow.

I wanna be back in Bolivia. It was like. 70s there. :(