Author's Note: Here you are, lovely readers, the last segment of Causalities! My apologies for the gap between the last update and this one; I got taken up by Firework, but managed to have both inspiration and time last night. Happy reading!

Bruce shut another book with an exasperated sigh and shoved it back into its place on the shelf. I've either read all of these a dozen times, or they're terrible, he bemoaned as his eyes tripped along the shelves containing the mysteries he adored. I could read something else, but…I wanted a good whodunit. Something new, not something I can quote from memory the way I do Holmes. Damn it. There were plenty of unsolved cases downstairs, he knew, but he was in the midst of one of his rare cravings to lose himself in a good story with his feet up, and he hated to let those moments pass him by.

"You look miserable," a familiar voice accused from the doorway. Whipping around, he found Dick watching him. "I would think you'd be in a better mood, considering. Unless," he raised an eyebrow, "Alfred failed to tell you that I have a week's vacation, and thought I'd spend it lounging around your pool and eating your food?"

"…He neglected to mention that," the billionaire bit back a grin. A whole week? I'll take that. "What about Bludhaven?"

"Ah, Bludhaven!" Dick exclaimed, coming fully into the library and sprawling out on a couch. "Bludhaven's down about a hundred and twenty nasties since last weekend. I think she's been bled enough that her remaining criminal elements will stay quiet for six or seven days, don't you? And if not, I'm only a couple hours away."

"Do I want to know what you had to do to nab that many by yourself in such a short amount of time?" he crossed his arms.

"Probably not."

"Then I won't ask." Reckless, he shook his head silently. Just like I was before I had a partner to watch out for. I wonder what Tim would say if I suggested he make himself present in Bludhaven more frequently…

"So…what was the evil glare for?"

"Was I glaring?"

"…If Uncle Clark looked at a bookcase like that, he'd set it on fire."

"Quality quandary. Move your legs for a second." He sat when a space was cleared, accepting the limbs back once he was settled. "I wanted something new to read, but everything I haven't already memorized line for line is schlock."

"I assume we're talking strictly mysteries?" the younger man asked, knowing the elder's tastes.

"Correct." His fingers detected something under the jeans stretched across his lap. "…Is this a bandage?"

"Meh. You take out ten dozen baddies in the course of a work week, you get a little nicked up. It's just a graze. Don't worry about it."

"Mm." Unconvinced, he pushed the fabric up until he'd revealed the binding midway up his son's calf. "…Stitches?" he asked as he unwrapped the wound.

"Nah." Dick lay still, long used to having every injury he came home with checked by his surrogate father despite the fact that he was perfectly capable of performing his own first aid. "…Satisfied?" he teased.

"Not really. Is that bone?" he peered closely at it. "Jesus, Dick!"

"It's not bone. I checked it. It's close, but there are technically a few layers of tissue between my shin and the air. Relax, it's fine. It doesn't even hurt that much anymore." Of course, the Vicodin is a big part of that, but if I tell you I'm taking those you sure as hell won't let me come out on patrol with you this week. Since that's half the reason I'm here, I think I'll keep it to myself.

"And I'll just bet you rode here with your leg like this, didn't you?"

"From Bludhaven to Gotham at nine on a Friday night in June? I wouldn't miss that ride for the world. Surprised you aren't out on patrol already, actually. It's a nice evening for knocking people out." Ow, he refrained from flinching as Bruce re-secured the gauze around his leg.

"Tim made a less-than-subtle suggestion that my mental stability was at stake if I didn't take a night off. Robin's running alone this evening."

"…Was he right?"

"About what?"

"Did you need a night off?" It was possible, he supposed, that Bruce had merely been indulging Tim by letting him guard the city solo; it would certainly fit the more cautious approach to overbearingness that the billionaire was taking with his third son after having seen where his need for control got him with his first years before.

"…Maybe." It was more of an admission than he would have voiced to anyone else, and both knew it.

Dick sighed, crossing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. "…Me, too."

They sat like that for a long while, not speaking, simply soaking in one another's presence. It had been a long time since they'd had a moment like this, uninterrupted, uncontentious, untroubled, and both savored it. "…Dick?" Bruce inquired finally, leaving off staring into the cold fireplace in favor of tilting his head back against the cushions.

"Hmm?"

"…Read any good mysteries lately?"

"The real ones, or the made-up ones?"

"I'll take what I can get."

"Got to raid a vivisectionist's house last month. As BPD, not Nightwing. That was…delightful."

"Sounds it. How was the chase?"

"Took ten detectives two weeks to put it all together."

"…If one of them was you, then that was a tough one."

"I wasn't just one of them; it was my team." A little grin slipped across his lips; he hadn't told anyone about his latest commendation and the subsequent rise in rank, mostly because what he'd done to get it could easily have gotten him killed, but he knew Bruce would be proud.

"…Another promotion?" Two in the last twelve months. That's my boy.

"Yup." A light squeeze to his foot relayed the other man's pleasure at the news. "Thanks."

"You earned it, I'm sure."

"Heh. Let's just leave it at 'yes, I did,' okay?"

…You scare me with things like that, chum. I hate it. At least if you transferred to GCPD I'd have a better idea of what I should be yelling at you for rushing into. "Is that an attempt to give me a mystery to solve?" he half-jested, half-threatened.

"Nope. I think we'd both prefer it if that one remained unsolved on your end." …I mean, my vest only took like five bullets, but you tend to freak out about things like that. He winced slightly, remembering how sore he'd been for a week afterwards. He still bore faint bruises from that incident; they were, in fact, the main reason he'd been avoiding Gotham for the past couple of months. Thank god for Kevlar. "…You're really stuck on this whole 'nothing to read' thing, aren't you?"

"Evidently. Don't ask me why. I'm craving it, apparently."

"…Have you tried reading something else?"

"I don't want to read anything else."

"Okay, okay. I'm good without the nine-year-old mode, thanks." …I wonder, he mused, remembering something that had been sitting on his computer for a long time. That might do the trick, but…no, I'd want to re-read it and do some editing first. Besides, I don't want to say something and then have it turn out to be awful. He swung his legs off of the couch suddenly and sat up. "Are you going to be horribly offended if I go to bed at a normal-person hour?" he asked, acting sheepish.

"Not if you agree to lend a hand on a drug bust tomorrow night." A corner of his mouth tilted upwards.

"Robin coming along, too?" he asked hopefully.

"It's a three-man job."

"Excellent." I love it when it's all three of us. I loved it with Jason, and I still do with Tim. "See you in the morning. If I don't crawl into bed with you later on," he semi-joked. "I'm not too old for slumber parties, right?"

"…Vivisectionists always have had that effect on you. And no, you aren't too old for slumber parties," he answered, giving him a look that indicated he shouldn't have felt the need to ask.

"Glad to hear it," he yawned. "Good luck with the mystery mystery."

"Thanks." The 'mystery mystery'? he thought as the younger man disappeared into the hallway. You and your language foibles. He frowned. …I miss them.

Safely ensconced in his old bedroom a few minutes later, Dick pulled his laptop from the bag he'd brought. …I haven't read this in ages, he fretted as the machine ran through its boot up. I hope it's as good as I thought it was when I was writing it…

He'd started the file several years earlier, in what seemed like a different life. He and Bruce had still been at odds, barely speaking to one another; Jason had still been the little brother he loved, not the vengeful figure who had returned wearing his body; Nightwing had still been a newcomer, fighting to clean up a dirty city while also making it clear to the JLA that his skills hadn't been shed along with his Robin mantle. He'd needed a distraction, something to occupy himself during the hours when he simply couldn't go any longer without a break from crime fighting. Remembering his former mentor's addiction to a good fictional mystery and having plenty of ideas, he'd begun to write one of his own as a way to pass the time.

At first it had been a sort of peace offering in his mind, something that he could offer to the man someday to let him know that he'd been at the forefront of his former partner's thoughts even during the darkest days of their estrangement. Before long, however, he sank into the project, not only because he thought he had a good story going but because it was delightfully challenging to approach a crime from all the different angles. Deciding which characters would know what, when, and how they would react if they had been living, breathing creatures, turned into a high of sorts. His natural love of words was stoked, and he played with syntax and vocabulary like a child in a sandbox. Even when he went to bed turning a writer's block over in his head, he did so passionately.

The crafting of the story did its work to distract him, and as it had reached its conclusion so, too, had his quarrel with Bruce. Jason's end had come on the heels of that, and shortly thereafter he'd realized that Bludhaven had become a different place under his care. His position in the superhero community solidified along with his reputation in his chosen town, and suddenly he'd had so much to do that the story – finished, but still very rough, he believed – fell by the wayside. Now, opening it for the first time in over a year, he trembled slightly. Please don't be garbage. I'm going to feel like a total idiot if I read this and it sounds like some angsty teenage diary… For all that he no longer needed to use the story as a bandage for his and Bruce's once-damaged relationship, he still wanted it to be good enough to submit to the older man's well-read and critical review.

…Well, he sighed, here goes nothing.

"…Hey," he stood in the entrance to Bruce's study a week later, a crisp bundle of papers practically clutched to his chest.

"Heading out?" the billionaire looked up, just a glimpse of unhappiness at the thought flashing across his features.

"Have to. I'm on duty in the morning. I'd stay and just ride back after patrol tonight, but it's a twelve hour shift. Frankly, Bludhaven needs Nightwing more than Gotham does, so…yeah," he shrugged, coming into the room and sitting down.

Not true, Bruce kept to himself. "What's that?" he indicated the thick sheaf of printer paper in his son's hands.

"Aaahh…" he started, trailing off. "Well, I got kind of sick of listening to you bitch about having nothing to read all week," he tried to say lightly.

"…Oh?" It was true, he had complained multiple times since the night of Dick's arrival about the ongoing dearth of good fictional mysteries accessible to him, and right when he was really craving one, but he didn't see what that had to do with this.

"So…well, shit, Bruce, I wrote you one." Blushing, he tossed the manuscript onto the desk, the large metal clip holding it together clattering against the wood. "I hope it isn't trash. It probably is, but…I don't know, maybe give it a try if you…you know…have a few minutes."

The billionaire gaped at it for a moment. "…You wrote all this this week?"

"No! No," he shook his head. "That's about twelve months of work. You know, just between patrol and…other patrol," he half-grinned. "Anyway, I wrote it a while ago, more or less for you, and I just never did anything with it. Then the other night when you mentioned that you couldn't find anything to read, I thought maybe I'd revisit it, clean it up a little. Um…I think I drained your black ink cartridge printing it. So…sorry."

…He wrote this…for me? the billionaire marveled, running his thumb up one corner of the stack. This is novel length, easily. "Dick…" he said quietly, legitimately moved.

"Don't thank me until you read it," he stopped him. "Like I said, it's probably no good, but…anyway, let me know, huh? That way if it is garbage I know not to waste my time with another one. On that note, if you don't like it, I don't expect you to force yourself through it. You, ah…you won't hurt my feelings any," he claimed as he stood up.

"You've never been good at lying to me, you know. Of course I'm going to read it all the way through. Especially if you…if you wrote it for me."

"I did," he ducked his head. "But…yeah. Anyway. Send me a text or something."

"You're coming home for the Fourth, right?" Bruce asked, brows knitting as he, too, rose.

"If I'm not on duty, yeah."

"…Okay." Coming around his desk, he pulled the younger man into a tight hug. "Be safe."

"You know me."

"…That's as good as a refusal, Dick," he frowned.

"Yeah, well…I do try, you know. It just doesn't usually work out."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm familiar with that problem myself."

"Damned inheritances."

Bruce chuckled, releasing him. "Get out of here. I've got a mystery to read."

"I'm going, I'm going. Love you," he tossed over his shoulder.

"…See you soon," he answered, watching him go before he turned back to the manuscript. A slow smile spread across his lips and rose into his eyes. I've got a new mystery to read, he repeated contently. Courtesy of my son. "…Thanks, kiddo."

Late the following afternoon, Dick let himself into his apartment, stifling a yawn. Sleep, then patrol. Sleep…bed… "Whoa!" he recoiled when he rounded the corner into the living room and found Bruce waiting on his couch. "What the hell?" While the billionaire did have his own key, he'd never before used it without being specifically asked to do so. What is he doing here? Unless… A sense of dread unfurled in his stomach. "Oh, god, what's happened?" he gasped, drawing near. Not Tim. Please, please don't say something's happened to Timmy.

"Calm down," Bruce stood, grabbing his arm and pulling him down onto the couch as he noted his panic. "Relax. Dick, everyone's fine, I promise. Or at least they were when I left Gotham a few hours ago. I didn't mean to scare you by showing up like this, I just…wanted to talk to you."

"Everyone was fine?" he asked pointedly. "Yourself included? Because I don't like the way this looks, you showing up here 'wanting to talk' when you just saw me for a week. What's going on?"

"I'm fine, Tim's fine, Alfred's fine. Everyone else that we both know is, to the best of my knowledge, also fine. The reason I couldn't talk to you about what I'm here to discuss," he explained, "is that I hadn't read it yet."

"…Huh?" he boggled, his tired brain trying to keep up. "Bruce, I'm confused," he admitted.

"I noticed. You didn't sleep last night, did you?"

"I couldn't," he shook his head. "Copycat vivisectionist. We know he's a copycat because we've got the original guy, but…he's still a vivo, you know? I happened to catch him in the act last night on patrol, and…well…she didn't make it, the victim. I found out this morning that my guys were chasing him all last week while I was gone. Boy, were they pissed Nightwing got him before they did." He shook his head. "I feel kind of bad for them, but it was pure luck. Anyway, he's in jail, but…he got to two people before I could put him there."

"Better two than three, or four, or twenty," Bruce soothed, reaching over to grip his hand briefly. "Considering that you didn't even know there was a copycat out there when you came back last night, I'd say you did very well."

"Thanks," he sighed. "…So why exactly did I come home to find you in my living room, again?"

"Like you, I also got no rest last night, albeit for a much more pleasant reason."

"That being?"

"This," the billionaire nudged the manuscript on the coffee table with his foot.

"…Oh," Dick looked at it. "…It was so awful it gave you nightmares?" he asked, only partially joking.

"It was so good that I couldn't put it down, Dick."

He stared at him for a long second. "…Bruce, you're kidding me. It's…it can't be that good. Hell, I wrote it, and the more I think about it the more I'm convinced it was a waste of time."

Why do you do this? the older man wondered miserably. Why do you have these moments of low self-esteem? I've never understood that about you. You have every reason in the world to be proud of yourself and your accomplishments, and to be fair you generally are, but then you just backhand yourself out of the blue, like you're doing right now. Did I do something to make you like that? To make you doubt yourself? Because if I did…I'm sorry. "Does the fact that I didn't go out on patrol make you reconsider that?"

"What, did you have food poisoning and that was the only thing in the bathroom with you?"

"Stop it," he said roughly, fed up. "Stop talking, and listen to me."

Dick blinked at him, then lowered his head. "Been a while since you pulled that tone on me," he commented. "But I'm listening."

"That," he pointed to the now well-thumbed packet, "was one of the best things I've ever read. You had me guessing right up until the end, chum, and before you ask, yes, I was trying to figure it out all the way through. I finished it at about three o'clock this morning, and do you know what I did after that?"

"…What?" he asked quietly, still not entirely believing it.

"I woke your brother up and made him read it."

"…Wait, what?" he straightened, looking puzzled.

"I got Tim out of bed, I handed him your story, and I told him to forget about going to school until he'd read it. To be honest, I wanted to know if he would figure it out sooner than I did," he confessed.

"…And? Did he?" …Huh. He…he pulled Tim from school today, just to read what I wrote?

"No, he figured it out on the same page that I did. But even after that point, Dick, it was a damn good read. Seeing all the little clues that you'd dropped along the way – including the false ones, which were clever enough that a couple of them got me – come together at the end to form the bigger picture…that was amazing. The best part, though, was that you showed how sometimes there are gaps in an investigation, questions that just plain can't ever be answered. What happened to Marguerite's body, in particular, and the way you demonstrated that that knowledge died with Carlton…that was brilliant. And I don't throw that word around, you know I don't. That," he jabbed his finger at the manuscript again, "should be on bookshelves other than my own. That was written by a man who knows exactly what he's talking about. That," his voice dropped, "made me so proud, Dick. I…I can't even tell you."

"…Really?" he breathed.

"Yes."

"…Oh. Um…" …I made him proud, something happy flared in his stomach. So proud, he actually felt like he had to tell me. His hand traveled to the back of his neck, rubbing disconcertedly. "Wow. I…I didn't think…I mean…huh. So…Tim liked it, too, or…?"

"Tim got in trouble with Alfred for reading at the table because he refused to put it down on his second read-through. He said he liked it even better that time, because he knew where it was going and could slow down to appreciate everything else about the story."

"Well now I feel like shit for getting him yelled at."

"Don't. As soon as I explained what it was, Alfred wanted to read it. In fact, the only reason it's here now instead of glued to his hands is that I insisted that you have the final say."

"…'The final say'?" Dick repeated.

"Yeah. You didn't seem to think much of it when you gave it to me, and I figured that was only going to get worse in the interim, so…" He sat back and gave his son a hard look. "That's the only copy in existence, isn't it? Other than what's on your computer?"

"It is."

"Well…if you still think it was a waste, even after everything I've told you about how Tim and I feel about it, I wanted to give you the opportunity to…" he glanced at the manuscript longingly, "destroy it. I'd rather you didn't – I'd prefer you made a clean copy and mailed it off to an agent, or a publisher, or however that works – but it's your story. It's your choice."

"…Alfred would kill me if I trashed it before he got to read it. Especially since you and Tim both did."

"Tim keeps texting me with new things he's connecting in his head. I've, uh…I've sent a fair share of my own realizations back." He leaned forward again, his face beseeching. "…It's good, Dick. I know you don't believe me, but…it's damn good."

"Bruce…I still don't think it's so hot, but…you and Tim have good taste, so if you both say it's worth keeping, then I guess…I guess it can stick around. I mean…technically it's your story, anyway. I wrote it for you."

"…I know. Thank you," he said sincerely. "That was exactly what I'd been looking for and unable to find."

"I'm just glad you liked it," he shrugged.

"Will you send it to someone who can take it to next step? I'm not suggesting that with an eye towards money, or fame, or any of that, for me or for you. I'd like to see that happen because it deserves to be read by a lot more people than just Tim, Alfred, and I. I think it will give a lot of people something to think about, along with the simple joy of a good story."

"I'll…think about it. I want to hear what Alfred says, first. And…maybe a couple of other people, too. Okay?"

"Sure," he nodded. "And Dick? One other thing?"

"What?"

"…You should keep writing," he said seriously.

"I…maybe I will. I don't know. We'll see." Although something with vivisectionists could be fun, he mused suddenly. Creepy as hell, but…interesting to write. Maybe, like, a vivisectionist cult…a ritual murder type thing. Set it in, I don't know, post-war New York. Give it kind of a noir feel, but with a modern edge. Throw in some Cold War politics, make it…make it almost a…why is he staring at me? "…What?"

"…Did you just get an idea?" the billionaire asked, peering at him closely.

"Uh…maybe," he blushed, looking away.

"Don't tell me," Bruce held up his hands, barely biting back a grin. "I want it to be all new to me when you've got it ready." His expression darkened. "You will keep using us as your test audience, right?"

Dick laughed at the insistence in the question. "I wouldn't trust anyone else to tell me if it sucked," he replied. "Except Wally, but…he's not quite the mystery fan that you and Tim are."

"Well, in that case," the billionaire rose, picking up the manuscript, "I'd better get this back to Gotham before Alfred comes after it himself. He was practically foaming at the mouth once he heard who'd written it," he smiled.

"You're all biased, you know. It'll probably never get published," the younger man said as he, too, stood. "If I even send it in. But…so long as you like it, that's all I really care about."

"Good," Bruce said brusquely, pulling him close. "…I hear about you taking too many risks with new ideas still rattling around in your head, and I'll chain you to your computer. Understood?"

"So when I run out of ideas…?"

"Don't," he growled, tightening his grasp. "Don't you dare." Don't even think it.

"…Sorry" he whispered.

"I know." He pulled away, then looked at him for a long, silent moment. "…Give me a call next time you have a day off. I'll drive over and we can get lunch at that place you like with the curdled milk. What is it, Tibetan?"

"Kazakh," the younger man laughed. "And I wouldn't drag you somewhere I know you hate. We'll have Thai or something instead. Something we both like," he amended as they walked to the door.

"Fine. Thai, Chinese…something. We'll do something." He stepped into the hall, then paused. "…I'll see you soon, son."

"Yeah," Dick breathed. "See you soon…dad."

Bruce made a pleased little sound that he thought only he could hear, then walked away. Behind him, Dick watched, enjoying the lingering hmph of happiness. When he couldn't see him anymore, he slowly shut the door. …It's funny, he thought. I'm not tired now. I was before I got home, but… He glanced to where his backpack sat, still packed from his trip home. Maybe I'll sit down with my laptop for a little while. Just…just to see what happens.