Warning: Possible Language and Violence . . .

"Find the lights and contact Bludhaven PD," Batman told Robin hoarsely. "Be careful. Some may regain consciousness, and we don't know that Nightwing had the time to strip them of weapons. I'm not certain he carries enough zipcuffs on him to contain eighteen men."

Robin made the call while he searched for the lights that would illuminate the carnage in front of them. Batman pulled out his batlight and moved quickly into the shadows.

I have to find him, he thought. There may be time to save him this time.

There was at least one of Angel's men that was obviously dead; done in by a bullet from a weapon belonging to one of his own. In the dark and the chaos of the fight, they were probably shooting at any shadow that moved. Batman found one of Nightwing's escrima stick lying along in the center aisle. The fear in his gut multiplied.

Why? Why send me that dream if I'm not going to be able to do anything about the outcome? Bruce wanted to scream and hit something, but fate wasn't a physical object that he could pummel into submission or hang over the edge of a fifty foot building in order to force an answer that he wanted to hear. Lacking a suitable target for his fear and frustration, Batman kicked one of the gunmen in the head with the heel of his boot, sending him flying back off into oblivion when he began rousing.

Batman's light darted quickly, searching out all the darkest corners for a familiar figure. Desperation made him call out for his ex-partner. He found the crates that Nightwing had pried open and the abandoned rocket launcher. His fingers grazed the wood; it being the last thing he knew that his son had touched.

This was wrong! All wrong! They were supposed to be at the manor celebrating the end of Dick's favorite holiday; not freezing their asses off, dodging bullets.

Suddenly there was an echoing 'thunk' as the overhead lights came on at last. The real devastation of the evening became abruptly apparent to them. Bodies were everywhere; some bleeding, some just battered within an inch of their lives. The fight had climbed to the top of a couple of stacks of those crates; he could tell because of fallen guns and broken wood and the occasional birdarang or wingding embedded near the top.

Batman leapt onto one of the stacks and began scaling it. Perhaps he would find what he was looking for from a better vantage point. At the top, he discovered the second escrima stick, a knife, and blood. He didn't know for sure if the blood belonged to Nightwing or to one of the gunmen, but it didn't look good being in such close proximity to Nightwing's weapon of choice.

"Robin! Have you found anything?"

Robin appeared on the stack opposite where he now stood. "Not exactly," the teenager said.

"Explain!"

"I've only counted seven men, so far. If Nightwing faced down eighteen; where are the other eleven men?"

Batman scowled. He glanced around him. He saw another six that Robin couldn't possibly have included, but that still left five gunmen and Nightwing unaccounted for.

"I have six others over here. Recount, and search out every nook and cranny while you do it." Batman ordered. "I'm going to check the rafters first, and then look for another possible escape route."

Robin looked up at him. "But we didn't find any doors or windows from outside. Even the roof was bare of any access panels and the only vents we found could only hold someone the size of a child; certainly not a full-grown adult."

Batman looked at Robin. "You were fighting in front of the warehouse door. Did you somehow miss seeing Nightwing or the five missing gunmen leave?"

"Uh, okay," Robin said. "Point taken. If they aren't here, then there must be an exit somewhere that we missed."

There are too many of them!

It wouldn't have been an issue if their weapons and ammo weren't capable of cutting him in half, but if wishes were horses, heh, even beggars would ride.

Just get it done . . .

Nightwing spun into a flying tornado kick, taking out two of the gunmen who were trying to rush him. Were they hoping to take him alive? That would be a stroke of luck. A bullet slammed into his side in the wake of that thought, knocking him off of his feet.

Okay, so, that would be a no . . .

Grunting, he rolled to his feet and scrambled around another stack of crates. He took a second to assess his wound. More than a flesh wound, but not much more than that. It hurt, but he could deal with it. The bullet went straight through and, happily, the exit wound wasn't as big as he had expected it to be. It was bleeding freely, but not to the extent that he should be concerned . . . yet. He still had some fight left in him.

C'mon! Is that the best you can do?

Uh, yeah. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't be yelling that out loud. No sense in building them up into some kind of frothing-at-the-mouth, killing frenzy. Besides, silence worked best in this case. Sneak up and take them out one by one. And hope he didn't leave such a huge trail of blood that everyone knew where he was.

Nightwing crept around the stack and saw two men; one standing on a stack of two crates beyond the center aisle, and one on the ground coming around his much taller stack cautiously. They knew he had been hit; they just didn't know how badly. Was he dead, they were wondering, or injured badly enough that they could just walk up and casually plant the next bullet into his temple? He hated to disappoint them . . . He really did.

Not.

Smiling, he pulled his escrima sticks out.

One well aimed throw later, the escrima stick hit the guy on the stacked crates in the temple. He fell without a word; down for the rest of the night. Nightwing ran forward as the gunman in front of him turned to look at his buddy, startled. He knew what hit him merely because Nightwing struck him first with two savage blows to the kidneys that dropped him to his knees, followed up by a blow the back of the head. The gunman slumped over with naught but a grunt. He might not remember it later, though. His kidneys and headache should work to remind him, however.

He climbed atop one of the stacks of crates. It was taller than any around it. He kept to the shadows, creeping around the highest crate. He spotted the escrima stick he had thrown. One of the gunmen stood next to it. He glanced down and then looked around expectantly. Nightwing saw other shadows moving in the darkened corners as they searched for him. They still weren't positive where he was. Nightwing preferred to keep it that way.

As he prepared to leap from his perch and take out the gunman below, another shot rang out. This time his shoulder burned, but the bullet hadn't done more than slice him. But he was spotted, so he retreated as he decided where that particular shot had come from. A hand grabbed his ankle, trying to drag him down or simply make him fall.

Nightwing spun around, kicking the guy in the head with his other foot. When he refused to let go even then, Nightwing flicked on the power and slammed the now electrified baton into the juncture of the gunman's shoulder and neck that attached to the arm that held him. The gunman immediately let go and fell back onto his companion who had just came up beneath him. The sharp crack, he heard, sounded like the noise a skull made when it connected with concrete. He doubted either would be getting up soon, and turned his attention back to the room at large.

The others would have heard the scuffle, he was certain. They would know his approximate whereabouts. He had to move. It came as no surprise when the knife hit him. Didn't he just decide that he had to move?

Have to move faster!

The force of the knife striking him nearly knocked him off of his perch. In an effort to catch his balance, he stepped into the center of the crate he was on rather than the edges that had the strength to hold him. As a result, his foot went through the board, and the sharp edge of the boards ripped into his boot; bruising his lower leg, but not breaking the skin, thank God! He was bleeding out of enough places, thank you very much!

The knife had hit his shoulder blade, but it was a a glancing blow. It hurt like hell though, and Nightwing could feel the spreading warmth down his back. But the damage, like that of the bullet wound, was slight. Unfortunately, it had caused him to drop his remaining escrima stick from the sudden numbness that shot down his arm. After that initial reaction, Nightwing noted that he still had use of the limb, but his strength in it was zapped. It was all he could do to clench his fist.

Height was not his friend tonight. Without contemplating his next move further than reaching the ground in a controlled fashion, Nightwing leapt off the stack; doing two tight, fast flips in order to make a smaller, faster target, and make him less likely to receive more devastating damage than he currently could afford.

He ran in the direction of the door. He might need back up after all. The memory of that morning's conversation with Bruce flitted through his head and his initial reaction that Batman didn't trust him to handle the situation. Damn! Bruce had been right! He wasn't even having to tackle the entire company of men; Batman and Robin taking on the gunmen still outside. Nightwing wondered if he would have been stupid enough to attempt this alone. He hoped to God not, but even before the reconciliation, Nightwing recognized that he was still struggling to impress Batman; hoping that the man kept up with his exploits even if it were only the occasional mention on the news. It was pitiful, but apparently it was also ingrained into his DNA at this point.

Three men headed him off; stepping from around another stack of weapons and ammo almost simultaneously. Nightwing didn't hesitate, but instead picked up speed. He leapt up kicking the first man in the temple with a spinning roundhouse and then using his back as a springboard to push off in the direction of the second man. He plowed into the second gunman's chest with both feet and followed him to the ground to roll forward and regain his feet. He grabbed the second gunman's rifle as he went. The third man was the only one of the three gunmen to have time to fire his gun. The deadly spray of bullets missed his skull by inches.

Nightwing flung the gun in the third man's direction; knocking his weapon upward and away from him. He sprinted toward him and went into a front flip; catching the man around his neck with his legs as he twisted around his body. The gunman was pulled off of his feet. Nightwing released him and the guy was flung into a neighboring stack of crates violently. Nightwing rolled gracefully to his feet and glanced behind him. Nine down, but it hadn't been pretty.

Another three men came at him from his left. He needed to go right, but if he did that now, it would be open season on Nightwing. So, he went left. The stacks here were close together and varied in height. He darted toward one stack using it to shove himself up and over; flipping and twisting in midair as he tossed a couple of tear gas pellets from one hand as he shoved his rebreather into his mouth. The gas would burn his nostrils a bit on contact, but he made certain to breathe through his mouth to avoid most of the gas from entering his system, and his mask protected his eyes.

Nightwing landed on the second stack of crates and jumped up onto a higher set as he used it to jettison himself down onto the third gunman in the trio. By now the men's eyes would be tearing enough to hide his movements. He flipped around so that he came at the man feet first; landing a rapid volley of kicks to the man's face and chest. Pushing off into a backwards flip, Nightwing landed on the side of a large wooden crate and propelled himself in a slide across the floor on his hip. He slid between the legs of the second gunman, who was stumbling about, effectively blinded between the semi-darkness and his own tearing eyes. As he passed through the man's legs, Nightwing kicked the back of his knees and the gunman fell onto his back; firing his gun by reflex. The bullets hits the boxes above them and sent splinter raining down of the two of them.

Nightwing ignored the sharp, needlelike, pieces of wood to ram his elbow into the fallen gunman's streaming nose. He felt the satisfying snap of cartilage vibrating up his arm. He rolled onto his knee and struck the man with a hard punch to the face. If there was anything left of the man's nose after that, it would take a talented reconstructive surgeon to enable him to use it for its intended purpose. The guy just became a mouth breather for life.

The first man was spinning around and around, searching for a target. A fourth gunman came skidding around the corner with a shout, and was promptly shot for his effort. Nightwing came up behind him and spun the man face first into the stack of crates. He yanked the dangling weapon from his dazed hands and tossed it to the side, where it wouldn't do anymore harm. The man could barely stand up, and yet he threw a punch in Nightwing's direction. Nightwing caught the arm, twisted it around, and struck the stiffened arm with his elbow. The man screamed as the bone shattered. He knife-handed him in the back of the neck and the guy fell to his knees with a groan. A pinch to the nerves found in the juncture of the neck and shoulder brought him the comfort of oblivion.

How many more were left? Nightwing finally risked his grapple gun. Anyone left in the warehouse had to know his location with all the gunfire and screaming. He needed to get gone, like, now. He shot the grapple at the rafters overhead and hit recoil, allowing the line to propel him upward at all speed.

He used his feet to swing himself up and over. He landed on his feet, but a wave a dizziness nearly had him diving off the other side. He dropped down onto his knees and gripped the girder for dear life. From this height, he would be extremely lucky to survive the fall, and if he did, he certainly wouldn't be walking on his own any time soon thereafter. His knee slipped on blood that was still dripping steadily from his side, but he caught himself a second later.

He gasped for breath as he scanned the area below him for any other gunmen. Between the three wounds, he had lost a lot of blood; enough that it was beginning to affect his balance. Not a good thing when you were hovering on a beam only five inches in width and forty feet above the concrete floor below.

He spotted five moving objects below him; all moving quickly in a single direction. Nightwing frowned. Where were they going? There was no other exit in the building, they had checked. They disappeared around the last stack of crates and didn't reappear. Curious, Nightwing sat up and waited as the world righted itself. Aiming carefully, he shot another grapple line across the building and into the back wall. He didn't swing using it only because of the many rafters still between him and his destination. He wanted it instead in the event that he fell.

He started leaping the six foot distance between the girders using his grapple as a safety line; retracting the extra line with each jump he made, until he reached the area where the men disappeared.

Where did they go?

The answer came when he saw the lid to one of the crates move. He blinked behind his lenses. What the hell? Why would they try to hide in a crate and why that one in particular? Didn't they know that they would get caught as soon as the police arrived and began going through the place with a fine-toothed comb? That was even if Nightwing chose not to snitch on them.

Suddenly another thought crossed his fuzzy mind. What if there was another exit? What if there was a tunnel beneath the warehouse? He knew he should follow them down and stop them from escaping, but the recent exertions were dragging him down.

He would follow them in another minute, he decided, after he took a short rest just for a minute or two. He just needed enough time to catch his breath. That was all he needed . . .

Another wave of dizziness struck and Nightwing lowered himself onto the girder to prevent himself from taking a header if he were to suddenly black out. Just another minute more and he would have caught his second wind. Another minute more and he would follow the remaining gunmen to wherever the tunnel led.

That was the last thought he had as a far deeper darkness swept over him.

Batman walked the center aisle looking upward. The girders were above the lights and hidden in shadow. Nightwing had either left the building via some secret passageway, or he chose not to announce himself . . . Or, as was becoming more and more likely, he couldn't answer them.

"Nightwing, report," he barked for the tenth time in the past two minutes.

He paused near the back wall. He would use his grapple to gain the rafters, and continue the search from up there. He was pulling his grapple gun out when he felt something drop onto his shoulder. Batman frowned and touched his shoulder. His fingers came away wet. His black gloves made seeing the color impossible, but the liquid was too thick to be water. He raised it to his nose. Pennies . . .

Blood.

And he knew, without guessing, whose blood it was.

Batman whipped his grapple out so fast he almost fumbled it. He shot it up into the ceiling, and hit recoil. The mechanism pulled him up at its fastest speed. He halted the recoil and stepped onto the girder smoothly. His eyes found Nightwing immediately. He hesitated for only a second and the terror of his nightmare washed over him.

"No," he whispered. "I just got him back."

Was Nightwing destined to die tonight? Did the dream only warn him so that he could fix what was wrong before it happened so that he wouldn't have to live with that kind of regret and remorse?

How was this any better? He wanted to howl to the heavens!

Batman stepped forward and kneeled down next to his son's head. He hadn't even gotten the chance to finish the paperwork to make Dick his son legally! The young man was already his son in his heart, and he guessed that he should be thankful that he had the opportunity to make that clear to Dick today.

Today. Christmas Day . . . This had been both the best and worst Christmas of his life.

He pulled his glove off and his hand slid through the silkiness of Nightwing's hair. It was the shortest it had been since he was a boy. Life as a police officer had forced certain concessions on Dick's part; one being his hair couldn't touch his ears or his collar. But the top was still long, Batman's lips twitched.

His hand traveled across his son's jaw. And he paused.

He was still warm!

His hand searched for the boy's pulse . . . Batman's own pulse had started pounding in anticipation and fear. Anticipation that he would find it and Nightwing would live; fear that he had missed the chance to save him once again.

Where was it? Batman's fingers tracing the cords of Dick's neck; searching . . . searching . . . Hoping, desperately! Please!

Please!

He couldn't do this again. He couldn't lose another person. He couldn't lose what was left of his heart . . .

There? He moved his fingers minutely.

There!

The beat was too fast, but it was still strong! There was time!

Thank you . . . Thank you, God!

He flipped a hook hidden on his belt and secured his line to it. Carefully reaching under Nightwing's arms, he pulled the younger man toward him; lifting him into a hug so that his boy's head was cradled on his shoulder. Holding his son close to his body, he released the grapple; simultaneously stepping into space. The two of them were lowered to the warehouse floor.

"Batman, I found how the other men escaped," Robin met them as their feet touched. "There is a hidden tunnel that can be accessed through one of the crates!"

"Not now," Batman told him. "Help me."

Robin suddenly realized that Nightwing was not merely injured, but unconscious. He moved around so that he could release the grapple line, enabling Batman to lower Nightwing to the ground. Robin leaned over them nervously.

"Will he be alright?"

Batman searched his son's body for wounds and injuries. He found three. The crease on his right shoulder was the least of his concerns. Blood still seeped from it, but sluggishly. The gunshot wound to his side was far more worrisome. This, he was sure, was where the majority of Nightwing's blood loss originated from. It hadn't hit any organs. The younger hero was incredibly lucky in that.

Gently, with Robin's help, he rolled Nightwing onto his side. The bullet had exited back here. The exit wound was larger than the entry wound, but not as bad as it could have been had the gunman been using larger caliber rounds. It was while examining the exit wound that Batman found the wound on his back.

This explains the knife I found on the crates, he thought.

The blow had been a glancing one; hitting Nightwing's scapula. Painful, certainly, but not especially damaging. But it was another source of his blood loss. None of the three wounds were worrisome on their own, but together . . . And the amount of blood scattered throughout the warehouse bespoke of the fact that much of the fight had occurred after the wounds had been inflicted. It was little wonder that Nightwing had passed out.

Batman's stomach clenched at the reminder of where exactly he had found his boy. Had he fallen from his perch, he and Robin would be dealing with a very different situation, and he would be, even now, grieving.

"Batman?"

"He'll be fine." If Batman's voice was more gravelly than usual because of repressed emotions, Robin didn't mention it.

"We're not going to follow the tunnel, then?"

"No," Batman growled. "There are more important things to deal with right now. We need to get Nightwing home. He'll need blood sooner rather than later. I don't want to risk it."

Sirens sounded in the distance. Bludhaven PD were only now arriving on the scene. Dick's precinct was the only one in the city that had more than two officers that weren't corrupted in some way. His son had his work cut out for him. Maybe with fences now on the mend, Batman and Robin could afford to spend a night or two helping Nightwing out on occasion.

Batman finished packing Nightwing's bullet wound and stood up with his son cradled in his arms. Had the younger man even an inch more height on him, Batman wouldn't be able to carry him in this fashion. But he wasn't. Dick barely reached five foot ten inches. It was a close thing; questionable even if he were not in shoes at the time of measurement.

"Let's go," Batman said. "You can tell the officer in charge about the ship and its cargo in the bottom of the harbor and show him the tunnel you found. I would be surprised if Angelopoulos is where we left him, however."

Robin followed him out and helped him get Nightwing tucked into the passenger side of the Batmobile. The backseat was cramped; more of an afterthought really than an actual seat for a third occupant.

"After I give them the rundown, I'll locate Nightwing's cycle and meet you in the Batcave," Robin told him. He was a little excited about that. He knew that Dick would have put a lot more horsepower into his ride than the R-cycle had.

"Don't linger," Batman told him as he strapped the wounded hero in. "And resist the temptation to put Nightwing's cycle through its paces on your way back. I have no desire to come back out tonight in order to scrape your hide off of the asphalt."

Robin sighed. "Okay."

"I mean it, Robin. I want you back safe and sound tonight." Batman turned to him. "You're welcome to stay at the manor if you don't feel like heading home."

Robin smiled. "Sounds like a plan. Can't beat Alfred's breakfasts."

Robin waved as he trotted back to the carnage that was the dock and warehouse. Batman climbed back into the Batmobile and strapped in. He glanced over at his boy and felt relief wash over him for the first time since he woke that morning. Dick was going to be all right. He didn't die tonight after all, but a shiver passed over Bruce all the same. It had been close . . .

Far too close.

He almost ruined everything. He pulled off his glove and felt Dick's pulse again. Still fast, but still strong. Unable to resist, he ran his hand over his son's head once more. This time the younger man stirred.

"It's okay," he reassured him. "You're not alone. I'm here."

He couldn't really tell the moment that Dick opened his eyes behind the lenses, but as he watched Dick's lips twitched up. Bruce squeezed his good shoulder gently.

"You're not going to be alone again. You'll call me from now on if you need back up." It was a proclamation; not a suggestion.

"Sure thing, Bruce," came the whispered reply.

Then in a much softer voice. "You scared me, tonight. I thought I had lost you, again."

Dick's hand came up to lay atop Bruce's. "You've never lost me. I'm right here."

Bruce pushed his cowl back and looked at the man sitting across from him. Dick hesitated a moment and then followed suit; peeling his mask from his face and laying it in his lap. A ghost of a smile played at the corners of Bruce's lips.

"And I thank God for that. I love you, Dick," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. He squeezed Dick's shoulder once more. "I love you, son."

"I love you, too, Bruce . . . Dad." A faint pink blush stained Dick's cheeks, reminding Bruce that his boy still needed to replace some of that blood he lost over the course of the evening.

Dick hadn't called Bruce Dad since he was fifteen, and that had been while in the midst of a fever. Bruce had always thought he had been talking to John Grayson in his delirium. Now, he wasn't so sure. Something akin to contentment slid over him. Something almost resembling happiness; most definitely relief washed over him like wave of warm water. All's right with the world.

"Let's get you home."

The End . . .

. . . Until Next Time, that is.

REACTIONS? OPINIONS? COMMENTS? I'm anxious to hear how you liked this.

It took a while, but here it is . . . I was thinking about doing an epilogue, but this chapter managed to wrap everything up nicely. You know that everyone's going to be okay, Bruce retained his newfound ability to tell Dick he loved him, and . . . Well, "All's right with the world". (For a few hours, in Gotham, at least) And you can't get much better than that.

Thank you all that have been waiting patiently and following this story from its inception, and thank all of the new readers that have just discovered this story. I hope it has been everything you could have wanted. Merry belated Christmas!