Warnings: Straight up murder in this one friends. It's a bit of a vengeance killing, but it's still murder. Discussion of the death of parents as well as the Holocaust/Porajmos (a single line mention).

Order of Chapters: The Doors We Open (Ch 9), How We Were (Ch 2 and 3), THE LIFE WE TOOK (CH 35), What We Say (Ch 5 and 7), When We Were (Ch 1), The Friends We Make (Ch 8 and 10), Family Trees (Ch 15 and 17), The Promises We Make (Ch 14), The Things We Forgive (Ch 11, 12, 13, and 18 (Aftermath)), The Roles We Play (Ch 16), Question Words (Ch 4), The Words We Can't Find (Ch 24), The Cables We Hang From (Ch. 22), The Punishments We Ignore (Ch 32), The Stories We Tell (Ch 6), The Names We Give (Ch 19 and 20), Translations (Ch 21), The Battles We Fight (Ch 33 and 34), The Ones We Lose (Ch 25, 26, 27, and 28), The Wishes We Make (Ch 30 and 31), The Pack We Protect (Ch 29)

Chapter 35: The Life We Took

Nearly eight months had passed since Batman was captured and sentenced to death by the Court and everything was different in Dick's life. He liked that he got to pick what to eat and when to sleep. He liked creeping downstairs in the morning to share a cup of tea with Alfred, and he liked the peaceful evenings spent in Bruce's study listening as Bruce read from the books that covered the walls in his measured voice. But, the biggest change in his life was that he no longer had to kill people. He never had to take a photograph and stalk that person, plotting the best way to end their life, the most appropriate message their blood could send. He liked that part most of all.

Of course, his life was also different in a thousand smaller ways. He had a bedroom, a real one with a four poster bed and a walk-in closet and everything. Bruce had let him to whatever he wanted to the room, so he had painted the walls a bright sky blue and shoved all the furniture into a ten by ten space by the largest of the windows. The bed had sheets made of the softest cotton Dick had ever felt and fluffy down pillows. He laid the large quilt he had stolen from a man he killed over it and the room was perfect. He spent entire afternoons laying on the quilt in the sunshine, feeling the way the rays warmed his skin, darkening it ever-so-slightly. Doctor Thompkins said he looked much healthier with a little color on his cheeks.

That was something else that was different; he had people in his life now. Alfred, who he finally fully trusted, Mrs. Haywood, who had been gentle and patient when he was still learning to sign, Babs, who had learned ASL and Signed English for him, and Captain Gordon who had sat him down the first time they met and pressed a crisp business card into Dick's hands. Dick always felt a weird warm thrill deep him his gut when he thought about their first meeting.

"Call me if anyone ever hurts you or tries to make you do anything you don't want to," the graying man had said. His voice was serious and gravely but his eyes were kind. Dick remembered glancing back at where Bruce stood talking with a man he had only called 'Mr. Mayor' in Dick's hearing. Bruce looked away from the other man long enough to give Dick a nod of encouragement.

Dick took the card.

"I also," here the Captain had broken off and scrubbed one hand through his already disheveled hair, "I want to apologize to you, son."

Dick knew Captain Gordon didn't know ASL or SE so he could only cock his head to the side in question, hoping that the man might understand that Dick had no idea what he was talking about. Luckily, the police officer was perceptive.

"I was one of the officers assigned to investigate your parents' murder." Dick appreciated that Gordon did not shy away from the word. So many people seemed to think that just because Dick was a child they needed to pad the truth around him. Gordon continued, "I'm the one who found your Great Uncle."

Oh. Oh. So that's why he felt guilty. The police might not have any idea that Dick was the wraith who had haunted Gotham for the last few years, but Bruce had needed to come up with some story about how he came to be in contact with the boy who had gone missing three months after his parent's deaths. The story, as Bruce had explain to Dick one morning a few days after the Court, was that Dick's Great Uncle had been abusive and cruel and Dick was injured so severely he lost his ability to speak- Bruce always said it was best to stick to the truth whenever possible.

Dick shoved the memories of his time in the Court down. He wished Gordon could actually understand him, because he needed to reassure the man. Dick might not be the best at interpreting human emotions, but he could tell that this was eating away at Gordon. He looked at Bruce again, this time his guardian seemed to understand that Dick needed him and he broke away from his conversation with the Mayor.

"Yes?" he said as he approached the two of them. Dick raised his hands and asked for a translation before Gordon could speak. "Of course," Bruce agreed.

Don't feel guilty, he signed and Bruce translated aloud to a slightly stricken looking Gordon. You thought you were finding my family. He hoped that was enough, because it was all the words he could find on the subject. Luckily, Bruce realized this and smoothly pivoted the conversation by asking Gordon about something to do with his recent transfer to the Major Crimes Unit. Bruce's hand rested heavily on Dick's head, warm and solid.

Even months later Dick still appreciated that Gordon had felt guilty enough to apologize and to give Dick the means to contact him if he ever needed help. The business card stayed on Dick's nightstand, though the contents had long ago been memorized.

Really, Dick had everything he needed to feel as close to truly happy as he could ever remember feeling. His life was finally moving towards something he could be content with.

Then, Bruce told him that Tony Zucco had been released from prison early.

The day started like any other in Wayne Manor. Gotham was doing its best impression of sunny day which meant that there were still clouds and a fog still tried to cling to the corners of the world, but it was warm at least. Alfred had pointedly suggested that it would be healthy for both Bruce and Dick to actually spend some of the rare nice day outdoors and so they were walking around one of the only decent parks in Gotham proper. Dick wasn't really sure he saw the point, there were much more productive things they could be doing, but lately he had found that he cared what Alfred thought of him. It was a disconcerting sort of sensation, but not an unpleasant one.

As they walked Bruce explained some of Gotham's history. Dick knew most of what he was saying already, the Court was very thorough in their education on Gotham's rise and fall. But, it was interesting to hear it all from Bruce's somewhat more positive viewpoint.

"Then, the Second World War started. My grandfather, Patrick, didn't fight but he became heavily involved in developing weapons and other technology for the soldiers at the front. My grandfather's brother Silas fought the entire war." Bruce and Alfred were very careful to never say 'Great Uncle' around Dick. He appreciated their care, but those words didn't bother him. It was the feeling, the gut deep shame and hatred he felt when he pictured the stone face of his Great Uncle that made him uncomfortable.

"Silas was a good man," Bruce continued, "He was an old man when I knew him, but always took the time to tell me stories about the war. He never talked about the bad times, only the funny or educational stories from the unit."

They paused for Bruce to buy two bottles of water from a vendor at the side of the path. The man looked a little star struck that Bruce Wayne was buying tepid two dollar bottled water from a stand in the middle of Founder's Park. Bruce gave the man a stellar smile along with a massive tip, and moved on before he could be caught in conversation. Bruce handed Dick the second bottle, waiting for him to drink a few sips before taking it back. Dick didn't like to carry things when having a conversation with someone because it made using ASL awkward.

How old were you when he died? Dick asked. He wanted to ask if Silas had ever helped to liberate a concentration camp, if he had maybe ever helped to save someone Dick was related to. But, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer. Dick knew that some of his relatives had survived the Porajmos and he liked the idea of a different generation of Waynes saving a different generation of Graysons. It felt right.

"Oh, probably six or seven," Bruce smiled down at him. "He was in his nineties and living in England with-"

His phone rang and Bruce gave Dick an apologetic smile as he shuffled the water bottles so he could pull his phone from his jacket. He answered the phone with a large, very fake, smile.

"Captain Gordon!" He had his the sickly sweet voice he used on other socialites on, "It's great to hear from you." Then, he fell silent as he listened to whatever it was Gordon was telling him. His face grew grimmer the longer he listened.

"I see," he said finally, "No, no, I'll tell him. Thank you for calling me." He hung up.

He looked at Dick. Dick resisted the urge to take a step back. He wasn't afraid of Bruce, he never could be, but there was something in Bruce's eyes just then that made Dick want to run.

"Dickie," Bruce almost whispered. He led them over to a fountain that was just off the path. A large bush would disguise them from passers-by. A sudden terror overtook Dick, he had never seen Bruce look like this, like someone had d-

"Kak?" he questioned quickly, too terrified to even lift his hands to sign.

Bruce sucked in a sharp breath. "No!" he said, "No, Alfred is fine."

The tight feeling in Dick's chest loosened. Okay, okay. So long as the family was fine, then Dick could handle anything Bruce was about to tell him.

"Do you remember anything about the night your parent's died?" Bruce asked the question quickly, as if he thought if he said it faster it would hurt less.

But, it didn't hurt. Of course, Dick had regained a few memory-like things about his parents, but he still didn't really remember. He thought back as far as he could, trying to find the night Bruce was asking about.

I think I remember the tent, he signed slowly as he forced himself to think about memories that were nebulous at best, It was red and yellow. My parents- But, he couldn't picture them and he couldn't remember anything past that, didn't even know if the impression of color and light and love was from the night they died or from the countless other nights before that.

"That's okay, Dickie," Bruce wrapped an arm around Dick's shoulders and squeezed tightly. Dick leaned into his side, more for Bruce's comfort than his own. Dead parents were a hard topic for Bruce, much harder than for Dick.

"The police were there," Bruce told him, "They suspected foul play. Eventually, Batman and the Police found the man who did it. His name is Tony Zucco. He was just released from prison."

Dick didn't respond. He was confused. If they knew the man was a murderer, why was he free on the streets? The insidious little voice in his head, the one that kept him awake at night and told him he wasn't worthy of the affection Bruce and Alfred and Barbara so readily gave, hissed that Dick was free and on the streets. If he could breathe free air, then why shouldn't Zucco? Something deep within him rebelled at the idea though. He might not remember his parents very well, but he thought that anyone who took them away deserved the worst of what the Court had to offer.

Okay, he signed, ripping himself from his thoughts. Bruce waited, seeming to expect Dick to say more, so he continued with, Can we go home?

Bruce's face grew soft when Dick called the Manor 'home'. He nodded.

"Of course, kiddo." He rested one hand on Dick's shoulder in silent support. Dick leaned into the touch, unsure how to parse the emotions roiling in his gut but grateful for the comfort all the same.

When they got back to the Manor, Bruce ensured that Dick really was okay (he didn't seem to believe Dick when he said he was) and then sequestered himself in his office to yell at people on the phone. Dick could see the ever so slight tremble in his hand as he walked away. He wanted to help Bruce, but something deep in his chest held him in place. The feeling in his stomach was stronger, all acid and bile and a strange sickly sensation. He thought it was maybe anger, but it felt different than the anger he had felt before, stronger, hotter, more dangerous than anything he had felt in a long time.

Alfred stood in the doorway of the entrance hall. He held a large dusting rag in his hands and looked at Dick with sad eyes. Dick turned away from him.

I'll be upstairs, he signed above his head as he walked away. Alfred knew better than to follow either of them just then, he would simply ensure a meal was waiting when they emerged, something light and comforting for nervous stomachs.

The night passed slowly. Bruce, furious at the entire justice system, threw himself into investigating every part of Tony Zucco's life to try and find something. All he needed was one slip up, one transgression against the people of Gotham and Batman would ensure that Zucco never again saw the light of day as a free man.

Over the next few days Bruce barely saw Dick. It wasn't that he was avoiding the boy, except, well, it sort of was exactly that. He knew that Dick didn't feel the loss of his parents in the same way Bruce endured the loss of his own, so he knew that Dick wasn't going to understand why exactly Bruce was so insistent about this. On the second day Alfred rapped at the door to the office Bruce had ensconced himself in to study Zucco's files. He had tried to work in the Cave, but the empty eyes of the cowl on his costume had felt like they were watching him and he found himself getting progressively more agitated. So, he decided to work in his study, where he had to be more Bruce Wayne than Batman and his emotions were always a little more under control.

"Come in," he called.

"Oh, good," Alfred said, observing the empty tray on the edge of his desk, "You ate your breakfast." Bruce looked up at Alfred's tone of voice.

"I take it Dick's not eating?" He should have known, he silently berated himself.

Alfred sighed, "I'm afraid not. He didn't touch his eggs this morning and refused to even look at his plate last night."

Bruce jammed his fingers into his temples, roughly pressing against the pain of a sudden headache. He closed his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to look at Alfred.

"Okay," he said, "Did he at least take a cereal box?"

Dick tended to hoard cereal in his room when he was feeling too upset to eat the food Alfred made. It didn't happen often, but Alfred always kept a few boxes of the sugary cereals Dick favored on hand for just these sorts of days.

"Yes, the cinnamon granola."

Bruce felt the corner of his lips curl ever so slightly, "Well, at least he took the healthiest option." Alfred looked disapproving, but then, he was always disapproving of sugary cereals.

"Quite," Alfred sniffed. He was looking at Bruce significantly, but Bruce wasn't going to give in to what Alfred was hinting at.

"I need to finish this, Alfred," he said by way of explanation.

"Bruce," Alfred looked over the papers, "The police are working on this. Perhaps it would be best if you focused on Master Dick."

Bruce didn't respond. He picked up his papers and pointedly began to reorganize them into the case he was beginning to form against Zucco. Alfred stared at him for a long moment before turned and walking away. Even without looking up Bruce knew his shoulders would be tight with frustration.

He resolved to check in on Dick later.

Later never came. Day slipped into night and Bruce eventually made his way back downstairs to the Cave. There he compiled the research he had done into the computer and started working to find a link between Zucco's movements and a racketeering scheme that had been haunting the GCPD for the last decade.

He never noticed the photograph of Tony Zucco slip from the pile of his papers to the floor of his office.

Alfred checked on Dick for the last time around midnight. He poked his head into the boy's room and, upon seeing that Dick was ensconced in the window seat staring out at the rain, bid him good night. Then, he made his way downstairs and settled in to sleep, content in the knowledge that Bruce would not be going out to haunt the rooftops of Gotham that night.

Tomorrow was a new day and he would tempt Dick to eat with his favorite breakfast. Alfred fell asleep quickly, for once unconcerned about his charges physical wellbeing.

Dick waited twenty minutes after his door closed behind the elderly butler to move from the window seat. He wrapped a heavy coat around himself, cold despite the warm air blowing from the vents in the floor. He entered Bruce's study on silent feet. The feeling he didn't know how to classify had only grown stronger over the last few days. He thought maybe if he could talk with Bruce it could be soothed away. Bruce always made these sorts of feelings make sense. Dick would come back from his therapy sessions, feeling loose and untethered from the reality of the world he lived in now, and Bruce would lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and Dick could tie himself back to the world.

He had started towards the grandfather clock that led to the Cave far below the Manor when he saw the small sheet of paper on the ground. Despite his strange mood he felt a curl of amusement. Bruce was always so structured, so put together, the idea of him allowing papers to fall as he walked was almost absurd. His fingers gripped the paper, turning it over as he lifted it from the floor.

His breath stopped in his chest.

He knew this man. He had seen him many times before, when Dick was working as a Talon and this man was threatening people out of their hard earned money. Dick had never cared much about the man, he wasn't on the Court's radar and so Dick didn't bother with him.

But now, well, now he had been going to therapy twice weekly and he had a few tenuous memories of his time before the Court.

Now, he could remember his parents' love of rehearsal. He didn't know what his mother looked like, not if he wasn't looking at a photograph, but he could recall her joy when she and his father succeeded in a new trick high in the air. He could remember his father's deep booming laugh when Dick first walked across the training tightrope, a mere two feet off the ground.

He could remember the face of the man in the photograph glaring down at his own, and the fear on his mother's shoulders.

For the first time in his life, he remembered the snap of the high wires that had killed his parents. The sharp crack fractured something in him.

His hands started shaking. This man, the man Bruce had tried to tell him about before, Tony Zucco. He had killed the Graysons. Dick had known it, intellectually, he had known the name of the man arrested for killing his parents. But, he had never before felt it.

The feeling in his gut solidified into something terrible. Tony Zucco was a bad man, the sort of man he had killed for the Court. Dick knew exactly what he needed to do. He also knew that Bruce would never approve. So, he turned from the entrance to the Cave and retreated to his bedroom. Bruce had been trying to discourage Dick from keeping his claws anywhere but the Cave, but Dick was uncomfortable without a weapon, so he had been collecting small knives and now had a rather large pile of them at the back of his closet.

Once in his room, he pulled out the form fitting workout gear that Bruce had bought for him two weeks previously. Since coming to the Manor Dick had grown two inches, his old Talon uniform would never fit. But, he had black pants and a black undershirt that were plain and indistinguishable enough that no one would recognize them. He chose to wear the shoes Bruce had bought for him to use on the trapeze set in the Cave. They were flexible and strong and would allow him to move silently. Then, he pulled out a set of soft leather gloves. After a brief moment of regret, he stabbed a knife through the tip of each finger. They were crude and clunky, but he had worked with even less appropriate materials just fine. Once the set of talons had been created he shoved them into a small satchel along with a black scarf. He wouldn't wear the makeshift claws until it was time.

Then, he slung the satchel across his back and slipped from the window into the night.

Timmy Drake was upset. His mom had promised to pick him up from school, she'd even told his nanny to take the day off, and she'd never shown up. He'd waited, shivering and sad, outside the school for nearly two hours until the already weak, winter sunlight had started to fade. Then, he had swiped his gloves across his face, wiping away his tears. His mom had forgotten him (again) but that meant he had time to do something he had been wanting to for a while.

The school for gifted youths that Timmy attended was on the edge of downtown Gotham. Next year, when he turned six, he would be moving to Gotham Academy which was high in the hills above the city. But, for now, his nanny braved the streets of the city to deliver him to the school every morning.

Timmy knew how to call a cab and he had a cell phone. But, he had a target in mind that he had been looking at for the last few weeks. Only two blocks from the school was a large, shiny fronted computer store. Timmy desperately wanted a computer all his own. But, when he had asked his mom for one she had procured a brightly colored children's computer with only limited access to the internet and no capability of coding at all. Luckily, she had left her pocketbook out and Timmy, easily ignored child that he was, slipped a credit card from the leather folio.

So, upset at being forgotten again and with bright-eyed dreams of a sleek, silver computer filling his mind's eye Tim set out. The night was falling swiftly, so he jogged the two blocks between the school and the store. His face burned with the chill wind that had started to sweep up as the sun sank lower in the sky. He made it to the store with no trouble, the trouble started when the teenage employee looked down his greasy nose at Timmy and rolled his eyes.

"Where's your mom, kid?"

Timmy drew himself up as tall as he could get and mustered his fiercest glare at the older boy, "I want a computer, please."

The teen snorted, "Right. No, we don't sell to babies."

Timmy stared, "I'm not a baby!" He was five years and six months old! He could remember the days just then, but it was a lot!

"Yeah, look kid, I'll get fired if I sell a computer to someone who can't even get dressed without mommy's help."

Timmy gaped at the injustice of it all. He had money, he wanted to use it buy something, that was how things were supposed to work. That's how they worked when he went shopping with his nannies.

"Go on," the teen said, turning back to the display he had been dusting, "Go find your mom."

Timmy tried to get his attention again, but the older boy couldn't be bothered to pay attention to him. When he realized that the boy currently ignoring him was the only employee in the store Timmy decided to retreat for the day. He'd be back, and next time he would get his computer.

He stomped out of the store into the night.

His anger carried him for a few blocks before the cold night cooled it enough for him to pause. He looked around. The streets were deserted, the cold having driven even the hearty Gothamites into their homes early. Timmy felt a sudden fission of fear. He wanted to be home now. He pulled out his cell phone to call a cab only to find that the battery had died at some point during the day. The fear grew.

He looked around, realizing that he had walked away from the roads he knew while trying to escape the computer store. Desperately, he looked around for anyone who might help him. The wind blew a sheet of paper across the deserted street. He tugged his coat tighter around himself.

Timmy thought over all the safety plans his teachers had talked about in school. If you were lost you were supposed to ask a friendly looking adult for help. There were no friendly adults around and he had ended up on a street with stores that were either closed for the night or permanently shut down. The one right next to him had a broken window. He moved slightly further away from the gaping hole in the glass, afraid without knowing why of the darkness inside the building.

Okay. Okay. He could figure this out. Everyone always told him how smart he was. He could get himself home without any bad people catching him. With this thought in mind he raised his chin and looked for a street sign. Gotham was on a grid system. Timmy knew that from his most recent tutor. He liked that the city was made up of all big squares and lines, it made something in him feel calm and clear. In his mind he pictured tracing his finger from his school to his house. He needed a long road that ran from the top of the map towards the bottom. Okay. He could do that. When he found the street sign he stared at it for a long time before deciding that he understood what it was saying and starting off.

The journey started off fine. He was cold and hungry and more than a little scared, but the road was sloping upwards and he lived on a hill so he was sure he was going in the right direction. The roads were deserted and Timmy hummed softly to himself to pass the time.

It felt like he had been walking forever the next time he saw a person. The man was huge and bulky in a way none of the adult men Timmy had ever seen were, his muscles strained against his tight shirt and his eyes were sharp and shiny under the knit cap he wore. Timmy shrank into the shadows next to a building.

"You lost?" the man asked. His voice was deep and booming and Timmy flinched away from it. The man stood from the stairs he was lounging on and started towards Timmy. He didn't wait to see what the man wanted, he just ran.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he managed to stop running. He only knew he was out of breath and the sky was getting darker and he really just wanted to be home. He looked around. He was in an alleyway, surrounded by trash that had spilled from torn plastic bags and frozen to the ground. He couldn't remember which way he had come from. The wind whistled through the alley. Timmy shivered in his coat. He was crying now and he wished he'd never left his school. He wanted his mom.

A loud crash sounded from the end of the alley. Timmy looked up, hoping for the friendly looking adult he had been told to find. What he saw was a man who was even scarier than the first man he had seen.

His face looked like it had cracked in the cold, deep ridges carved into his cheeks and dark shadows over his eyes. His shirt was large and loose and looked really cold to Timmy. He staggered into one of the walls, scraping his fingers against the frost dusted bricks. He was saying words under his breath that Timmy had heard one of the gardeners saying last week. Timmy shrank back into the shadows beside the pile of trash bags. He didn't like this man.

The man continued walking towards Timmy, lurching between one wall and the other, talking to himself the entire time. Timmy looked around for a better place to hide. The alley was pretty empty except… The ladder of the fire escape on the building next to him was down. Timmy was really good at being quiet and unseen, he could probably climb the ladder and hide before the man reached him.

The man bumped into another wall.

"Fuckin weather," he grumbled, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. Timmy took the chance. He darted forward the few feet to the ladder and scrambled up it as quickly as he could. It creaked under his weight, the screetch of rusted metal that sounded louder than anything in the world to Timmy.

The man paused, but seemed to be getting back his balance, not looking for lost five and a half year olds.

"Fuckin Gotham, fu-"

He was cut off with a strangled cry when a dark shape dropped from the sky on top of him. Timmy pressed himself into the freezing grate. The black thing snarled something incoherent. Timmy could see bright point of light on its hands, claws that hooked into the man's thin shirt.

"What the hell?" The man slurred. He raised the bottle and clumsily tried to hit the dark figure. One of the clawed hand released his shirt and slashed down his arm. Blood sprayed across the alley and the man screamed.

"Get off me you little fuck!" The man yelled. The figure did not get off him, it reached forward with its free hand and hooked the claws around the man's collarbone, causing more blood to drip down his chest to the dirty asphalt.

The figure leaned in close and it was suddenly silent in the alley. Even the howling wind had ceased. Timmy found himself straining to hear anything, his heart was pounding and he dare not breath for fear of being spotted by the monster below.

"Gray… son…." The figure hissed at the man. Timmy had no idea what that meant but it obviously was important to the man because his face paled.

"No!" He cried.

He never got to say anything else. The monster raked its claws across the man's throat, cutting off his cry with a strangled gurgle. Timmy's stomach lurched. The monster dropped the man's body; it made a wet squelch when it hit the ground. The creature stood up and Timmy realized the thing wasn't even that much bigger than Timmy himself. He closed his eyes, wishing the creature would go away. He wanted him mom. He wanted his dad and his nanny and his bedroom and-

It was a long time before Timmy heard anything else.

"Hey, hey kid," the voice was gravelly and kind, "You okay, kid?"

Timmy shook his head without looking up. If he looked up he'd see the body on the ground and the blood on the bricks and then he have to-

"Kid?" The voice said again. Timmy licked his lips but still didn't look up. The fire escape shook a little as the person shifted.

A hand touched his shoulder. Timmy jerked away violently and found himself face to face with the scene in the alley.

"Come on," the voice said, "Kids aren't 'pposed to see things like this."

Timmy agreed. He didn't want to see this. He didn't want to remember the way the monster had moved, the smooth line of his shoulders to his legs, and the glint of the claws at his fingertips. His lower lip trembled just a little. He really, really wanted his mom. The person scooped Timmy up and climbed down the ladder.

"I want to go home," his voice wavered.

The hands on his back were warm as the person made sure he couldn't see the body as they walked away.

"Let's get you inside and warmed up," the voice said, "Then, we'll see about gettin' you back to your folks."

Dick came back to himself standing in the middle of the Cave, covered in blood and panting. He remembered seeing Zucco and the feeling in his stomach surging through his limbs and then… nothing. Thinking hard he remembered the sensation of his claws raking against the rough connections between the spinal bones in the neck. His hands started shaking. He couldn't remember. What if he hurt Bruce or Alfred and couldn't remember that either? He needed to leave, needed to make sure-

Bruce was suddenly there in front of the computer, eyes dark and serious, shoulders tense.

"Oh, Dicky," Bruce whispered. He crossed the Cave in a few long strides, crouching in front of Dick with slow movements. "Are you hurt?" he asked, ghosting his hands over Dick's sides and chest, where most of the blood was concentrated.

Dick jerked his eyes from the walls to Bruce's face.

I killed him. His hands trembled. I killed him.

Bruce reached up and started to gently remove the makeshift claws from Dick's fingers. Dick wanted to clench his fists closed, he felt thin and frayed, like the slick leather of the gloves on his fingertips was the only thing grounding in in the current moment and without them he might simply vanish. Then, a tendril of cold air from the cave touched his fingertips and suddenly he couldn't get the claws off fast enough. He jerked his hands from Bruce and ripped the claws from his fingers, allowing them to fall to the floor with a clatter. The blood that had seeped through his gloves felt tacky and vile on his fingers and Dick scrubbed his hands against each other.

"Are you hurt?" Bruce asked again, reaching out to still Dick's hands. He was speaking slowly, but not in the manner that the other members of high society used to talk at Dick. When Bruce slowed down it was because he was thinking hard about what he wanted to say, not because he thought Dick didn't understand.

Dick shook his head. Zucco hadn't had time to even contemplate fighting back before he was bleeding out. Dick heard the soft gurgle of blood in the esophagus echo through the Cave. He pressed his hands to the sides of his head. He had a headache.

"Come on, Dicky," Bruce guided him to the locker room at the far side of the Cave. Alfred was waiting with a large grey towel and Dick's favorite lounge pants.

Three weeks after Dick killed Zucco he found himself seated in the plush chair of Leslie's office. She as seated across from him with a pad of paper and a gentle look on her face. Though he had overheard her and Bruce arguing not five minutes ago, there was no trace of her ire on her face now.

"Now, Dick," she started, playing with her pen as she spoke, "You know I'm not a psychologist or a psychiatrist, right?"

Dick nodded.

"Good," She smiled at him. "But, you're in a bit of a unique situation since you can't talk with someone who doesn't know about the Basement."

Dick nodded again. He would never want to risk Bruce's secret by bringing someone else into the fold, even if they were only informed to help him.

"So, I'll be doing my best to help you understand how you feel about and react to certain things. Are you okay with talking about what happened a few weeks ago?"

Dick wasn't sure. He thought about Barbara, who had greeted him with a tight hug and the whispered promise that she'd always be his best friend when her father brought her to the Manor to visit the day before. He thought about Alfred and the gentle encouragement of a tea service every day at 3:30. He thought about Bruce and everything that Bruce was, to Gotham and to him. Finally, he thought about himself. He thought about how it felt to sink his claws into the soft divot at the bottom of Zucco's throat, how he was scared to look at his own hands because what if they were covered in blood again? What if this time it was Alfred's? Or Bruce's? Dick still didn't really remember anything after he found Zucco. What if that happened again?

He thought about how happy his Great Uncle would have been at Dick's most recent kill.

Dick swallowed.

He raised his hands without looking at them.

Yes, he signed, I want to get better. Then, in the home-sign that he knew Leslie did not understand he swore, This will not happen again.

Never.

Leslie smiled at him. "Good," she said, "Then let's get started."

Nearly a month after his additional twice weekly therapy sessions started, Dick approached Bruce in the Cave. They were both wearing their workout gear, though Dick had carefully stayed away from all black or grey since the night he killed Zucco. Bruce stood in the middle of the largest workout mat, his chest heaving with exertion from the kata he had just finished. When he saw Dick he smiled broadly.

"Hey, chum," Bruce said, "How was school?"

Dick raised one hand and wiggled it back and forth in the universally ambivalent gesture that all middle-schoolers felt deep in their core. Bruce laughed.

"Yeah," he said, "I know the feeling." He eyed what Dick was wearing, "Would you like to spar?"

Dick hesitated for a long moment before nodding.

"Great, let me just get some water and we can go over a few new blocks." Bruce started towards the edge of the mat where he had piled up a few water bottles and a towel. Dick reached up and stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

I want to try something, he said, Please.

"Whatever you need, kiddo," Bruce looked vaguely worried, but not in a way that meant Dick was going to be denied what he asked. Dick held up one hand in the gesture that meant Bruce was to wait for him to return and dashed off to the safe located behind the computer. When he returned he saw Bruce's eyes widened at what he held.

"Dickie, are you sure?"

Dick looked down. Gripped tightly in his hands were the claws he had taken with him when he left the Court. They had been meticulously cleaned and cared for in the year since he came to live with Bruce and still fit his hands perfectly. He swallowed and looked up again, shifting the claws to one hand as he did so.

Yes, he signed one handed, I did something horrible. Something I don't want to do ever again, but I also want to help. Zucco didn't deserve to live free and you keep people like him away without killing them. I want to do that too.

Bruce stared at him for a long few minutes before he nodded.

"Okay," he said, "But, you will not go out until I am one-hundred percent sure you're in control. Is that agreeable?"

Dick nodded emphatically.

"And we start training immediately," Bruce continued, "I will not lose you out there."

The thought warmed Dick's heart a little. Bruce looked proud and worried and something else Dick didn't know all rolled into one just then and Dick knew he was making the right decision.

"Do you know what you'd like to be called?" Bruce asked, "I won't call you Talon."

Dick nodded again, Call me Nightwing.

"Nightwing, huh?" Bruce said, "Batman and Nightwing." His thoughtful expression shifted and he smiled, "I like it." He clapped Dick on the shoulder. "Okay then, let's get started." He took one last swig from his water bottle and tossed it to the side. Dick slipped the claws onto his fingers and flexed them.

Seven weeks ago Dick had murdered a man. Four weeks ago he started atoning for it with therapy. Now, he knew he would spend the rest of his life ensuring that it never happened again, atoning for what he had done for the last few years in the only way he knew how.

For the first time in seven weeks, his heart felt whole.