A few days before his debut with the Gotham police department, Dick stood in front of the triptych mirror in Bruce's room and examined himself. He had been surprised to learn that the Commissioner's Task Force for Violent Crimes had its own uniform, unique to any other worn in Gotham. Gordon had delivered several of the outfits to the manor himself the day before, staying long enough to sip a cup of Alfred's best tea blend and discuss Dick's new job. From the sound of things, he would be getting paid to do the exact same investigative research and assault planning that he would have spent his evenings doing for free as Nightwing. He'd wanted to call Bruce right then to reveal how much time they were going to save this way, having the information they needed for patrol come home with Dick every day, but he knew better than to discuss night work on an unsecured line.

In the end, he'd relied on an intense round on the uneven bars to keep himself from picking up the phone. Alfred had fretted the entire time he was gliding and flipping, he knew, but his stitches were out and there really wasn't much the butler could say to stop him as a result. It had felt good to stretch muscles that had been lax for almost two weeks, reminding them what they were there for. Glancing over at one point to find Jason staring up at him, completely entranced, Dick had really started to push himself, determined to give the kid a show. By the time he'd come back out of the fog a good go on the bars always put him in, Bruce had arrived home and was watching, too.

"Still got it?" he'd asked, panting as he hung upside down with his hands dangling towards the floor.

"That was so cool," Jason breathed, looking truly impressed. "Teach me how to do that!" Dick smiled at him before turning his questioning eyes towards a pensive-looking Bruce.

"You were a world-class gymnast before you left, Dick," the older man said slowly. "Now…I can't imagine that anyone could even come close. You've far outstripped anything I taught you in that realm."

"Thanks." Glowing, he dropped to the floor and rolled easily to his feet. "That's how you should be tucking," he pointed at Jason. "Tight."

"Can I try?"

"No," Bruce had said immediately. "You, young man, are still very grounded. You're lucky I don't extend your punishment for sneaking down here."

"I was just watching! I didn't do anything! Dick, help me out here!"

Dick had given the child a sympathetic look, but only spoke to acknowledge that all he had witnessed him doing was sitting and observing. Jason was grounded for a good reason; Alfred had found the squirrel within 24 hours of its demise, and it hadn't taken long for the truth of the matter to come out. He still had several more days to go on his punishment, which included a prohibition on training as well as on television and video games. While Gotham PD's newest detective felt for him, he knew how important it was that the lesson about killing become firmly rooted in the boy's head before it was too late. He was willing to tell things like they were, but he wasn't going to push for laxer treatment. Not when killing was involved.

"I'll let it slide, but only because Dick vouched for you. Understand?"

"Okay. I get it." Jason had trudged upstairs after that, anger writ large on his face, and had stewed for the rest of the evening and up through the afternoon of the next day. So far as Dick knew, the boy was still holed up in his room, seething.

"It looks good on you," Bruce intoned from the doorway, breaking into the other man's thoughts. It was funny, he considered as he took it in, how the job that would essentially let Dick be Nightwing during the day even came with clothes in the right shades. The blue piping, department insignia, and – Dick's favorite part, he knew without asking – Lieutenant's bars stood out brilliantly against the black of the uniform body, combining with his hair and eyes to make a stunning picture. "You were born to wear those colors."

A flash of white teeth. "Thanks, dad," he whispered. Bruce bit his lip; he knew Dick would never make a habit of calling him anything other than his given name – he wasn't sure he would want him to, to be honest - but that just made the rare instances when he was awarded the more familiar title all the more special.

"Patrol tonight?" he asked around the block of emotion in his throat.

"Definitely. It's time to introduce Gotham to Nightwing." He paused. "I've been thinking about Bludhaven."

"Oh?" Bruce wasn't fazed; he knew Dick was home to stay. "What about it?"

"Well, the one thing that's still been bothering me is the thought of leaving the city without any protection."

"It didn't have any until three years ago, and it survived just fine."

"Yeah, but that's not the point. I don't want to just abandon those people."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well – and I know he's not ready yet, but just hear me out – I thought that maybe once Jason was able to patrol we could kind of mix things up. You know, some nights Batman and Nightwing could chill in Gotham, other nights I could go to Bludhaven and Batman and Robin would be here, or Batman could take a night off and Robin could run with Nightwing. Maybe Nightwing and Robin could even do a few evenings in Bludhaven, once he's got a little experience under his belt. That way, Nightwing maintains a presence in Bludhaven, but Gotham still gets the combined forces more often than not. I've still got the apartments, so there's no reason why I couldn't overnight there if I had to. We could even put in an emergency line back to the cave, in case there was ever a serious problem."

"Hmm…" he nodded slowly. "That's good, Dick. I like that. I think it will really keep people on their toes, never knowing who might show up where or when. It adds an even greater element of surprise."

"Good. I'm really glad you like it."

"On the topic of Bludhaven…" he raised an eyebrow.

"Oh. Yeah, that was hell," he said flatly before outlining the events of his day. He wasn't overstating things when he used the term brutal; his final decision had not been accepted graciously. After chewing him up one side and down the other for twenty minutes, Lagrange had insisted on calling Delaney downstairs. The Captain had done his own weather best to change Dick's mind, his attitude one of fatherly advice until he realized that he had lost. At that point he'd unleashed a string of epithets that would have sent Alfred running for the soap had they come from Dick or Jason's mouth (and, quite possibly, from Bruce's), among them a denunciation of his former officer as an "ungrateful, spoiled rotten, bastard punk of a rich kid." After offering up that opinion and slinging more than a few choice words at Bruce's reputation, he had stormed from the room, leaving him alone with Lagrange again. Apparently deciding that all of the really good insults had been voiced, she merely informed him that he was an idiot before following her supervisor.

His farewells to his fellow patrol officers, at least, had been much better. It had only taken him a few minutes to grab his personal effects from his desk – coffee cup, the Waterford pen Alfred had given him on his sixteenth birthday, the picture of himself and Bruce grinning at the camera, arms over each other's shoulders, during the last ski trip they'd taken together – but in that space of time almost a dozen people had stopped to shake his hand and wish him luck. Lagrange, he learned from them, had done more than just tell everyone about the promotion he'd been offered, going so far as to claim that he'd already accepted it and started working in his new department. Many of people he had worked the closest with had looked disturbed by her blatant untruths; once they heard that he was in fact leaving Bludhaven, several of them had stated that if he was going over to Gotham PD, they might try to do so as well. Dick had encouraged all of them, interested in anything that would help him keep up his friendships with the folks whose antics had helped distract him from the pain of his estrangement from his family over the last three years. Knowing them to be good cops who would be assets to his hometown had only made his promises to stand as references for them all the easier.

The desk girls…he felt guilty about the girls. Cecelia's face had crumbled before she broke out into loud, obnoxious bawling that earned him scathing looks from a couple of passersby. Danielle, at least, had held together, patting her wailing coworker on the shoulder while she asked about his reasons for leaving. Once he explained about his desire to go home and the position he'd been offered, she agreed that he would be a fool not to go. The sadness hadn't left her eyes, though, and that look had cut him deeper than Cecelia's heartbroken petitions for him to reconsider ever could. As soon as he'd been outside of the station he'd texted her to see if she wanted to grab a coffee next weekend; after all, it wasn't like Cecelia would know, so long as Danielle didn't tell her.

"I'm sorry to hear that." They both looked towards the bed as Dick's phone buzzed in the khakis he'd stripped out of in favor of his new uniform. "Sounds like there wasn't much pleasure in it for you."

Reading the message he'd just received, Dick grinned. "Well, I dunno now, Bruce. It looks like I at least got a date out of it." He wouldn't mind driving to Bludhaven if it meant that he could finally have the date with Danielle that he'd been hoping for all these months.

Bruce smiled at the obvious happiness on the younger man's face. "Please tell me it's not the blonde one. I don't think I could handle having anyone that…emotionally charged…for a daughter in law."

"Whoa, hey, it's just coffee. Don't get ahead of yourself. And it's not Cecelia, I know better than that. Can you imagine the look I'd get from Alfred the first time she got excited and her voice broke the crystal?" They both laughed at that, and Dick cast a final look at his reflection. "Okay, I'm done being vain in these clothes," he announced, eyes locked to his own rear in self-admiration. "I wonder if I can find an excuse to wear this on my date with Dee…"

"I wouldn't go there. Not on a first date, at least. Now, would you like to go down to the cave and spend twenty minutes staring at yourself in your Nightwing costume?" Bruce ribbed.

"Yes, yes I would," Dick played along, loosening his collar and cuffs as they walked into the hallway. Nearing the stairs, they were met by a rather disgruntled-looking Jason. "Hey, bro, what's with the look? Math giving you fits again?"

"I want to come with you."

"You're grounded, Jason," Bruce growled.

"I know, but…please? I'll be really good, I swear. I'll just hang back, I won't even talk."

"No. Even if you weren't still being punished for what you did to that squirrel, you aren't ready to go out. Not even with two people to watch your back."

"C'mon, Bruce! Dick, you talk to him!"

He sighed. "Sorry, Jay. I have to agree with Bruce on this one."

The boy's eyes instantly narrowed into a glare. "Well of course, you would side with him. You're the fucking golden child, after all. Bruce's favorite, Alfred's favorite, everybody's favorite. Who needs me when they've got you?"

Bruce had the child in the air by the back of his shirt before the last word had faded away. "Don't you ever use language like that towards an adult," he instructed, his voice the one that struck fear into the bowels of Gotham's nastiest hoods. "And if I hear you speak to Dick in that manner again, you will be grounded for the rest of your natural life." He dropped him into a shaking heap on the floor. "Go to bed, and go to sleep. I'm adding a week onto your punishment."

"What?! No! I'm sorry, okay?"

"Now, Jason, or I'll keep going!"

With a scream of rage, he stomped back down the hall towards his room, trailing a black cloud of discontent. Dick watched him go, arms crossed protectively around himself, his good mood completely flattened.

"…He doesn't mean what he said, Dick," Bruce tried to reassure him. "He's just acting out."

"Sure." It still hurt, though. He and Jason had managed to have a few pretty good bonding moments over the last two weeks, working on things like stealth that could be practiced without disregarding his punishment and just generally getting used to one another. To hear the boy talk like he just had, though, made Dick wonder if he'd really gotten to know him at all, despite all the effort he'd put into the task.

The billionaire sighed, seeing that nothing he could say right then would help. "Let's go. Maybe taking down a couple of lowlifes will make you feel better."

"…Sure."

Several hours later, he had to admit that he felt a little less awful. The slight breeze lifted his hair, cooling his forehead as he fingered the still-sensitive spot on his side. It was closed up and healed enough that Alfred had merely raised his eyebrows when he heard that they were going out, but the flesh remained tender and bruised. Pushing on it helped distract him from his increasingly strong concerns about the child he'd already come to love like a brother.

The issue of killing aside – Jason still maintained that he had done nothing wrong, at one point even stating that the squirrel had deserved to die – there was the problem of his moods. If he was alone with Bruce or with Dick, he was generally a fairly happy kid. Put him in a room with both of them at once, however, and before five minutes had passed he transformed into a seething ball of discord. Dick had tried to talk with him about it, explaining that his being back in Gotham didn't change Jason's place in the house in the least, but the response he'd gotten had been disbelieving at best. Now, tonight, with that "golden child" comment…he grimaced and shook his head, lost as to what more he could do to show the boy that he belonged, too. Maybe it would get better once Jason's grounding was complete and they could start training again, he thought.

"Are you alright?" A growl from behind him.

"I'm fine."

"You looked as if your injury was painful."

He shook his head again, this time with a muffled laugh as he considered the dichotomy standing beside him. Bruce was just as bad as Jason; put a cowl on him and anger was the only emotion you could get the man to evince without almost killing yourself in the attempt. If he had touched his side and made a face back at the manor, he probably would have been forced into a chair or bed with an injunction not to move. Out here, on the other hand, it was almost a miracle that it had even warranted Batman's notice. "I was thinking about Robin, that's all."

"…And?"

"I don't know. I think he resents me. He seems so bitter."

"He's young."

"The old Robin was never like that, though…was he? So…so ugly, at times? So hateful, so filled with rage?"

Batman looked at him, eyes unreadable in the shadows. "No, Nightwing. He most definitely was not any of those things."

He held that black gaze for a second, then nodded and turned his attention back to the street. "Down," he whispered sharply, dropping into a crouch to keep from being silhouetted against the night sky.

"Where?" Batman queried, kneeling beside him in an instant.

"Three o'clock. Coming up slow." The box truck pulled up to an old storefront and stopped, flashing its lights once. The driver jumped out and ran around to the back as three others appeared from the building. "Gun runners. The driver is the one who slipped past us last time, after he tagged me."

"They're heavily armed again," Batman informed him, passing over the binoculars.

"Yeah, well, they're fixing to be even better equipped, if they get that truck unloaded. Them and half the hoods in Gotham. There's been some chatter about another attempt to bring in armor-piercers; I'd bet money this is that load."

"Ready?"

"Let's go. I call the driver, I owe him."

Even wielding guns, three of the four were down in seconds. The driver was a slippery bastard, though, and darted down an alley the instant Batman and Nightwing hit the pavement. Leaving Batman to deal with securing the shipment and alerting the police, Nightwing gave chase, determined not to give the man a third chance to import the deadly ammunition he seemed to specialize in.

He cornered him at a dead end. "You're done," he informed the smuggler, watching him closely. If their last encounter was any indication, the man's gun was sure to be loaded with some of the same ammunition he was trying to sell.

"Didn't I already shoot you?" he sneered.

"You aren't a very good shot. All you did was piss me off. Give it up."

"Or what, you'll sic the kid on me?"

Nightwing's eyes widened as a familiar flash of color ghosted through his peripheral vision, running to his side. "Robin," he whispered. Oh, Jason, what are you doing? Seizing his opportunity while Nightwing was distracted by the new arrival, the gunrunner drew his weapon and fired.

He caught the telltale flex of muscle as the driver reached for his pistol and reached out on instinct to grab the boy. He pulled the child to himself, spinning as he did so that he was between Robin and the oncoming bullet. The spin, he would reflect later, probably saved him, as it put his arm in the path of the projectile rather than his back.

He'd known it was going to hurt like hell no matter where it hit him, but there was no way to prepare for the feeling of his humerus cracking as the shot plunged into his arm directly above the graze he'd been dealt in his last encounter with this dealer. He tried to brace himself against the momentum of the hit, not wanting to fall over as he waited for additional rounds to tear through his armor. No doubt they would be aimed at more lethal areas this time around. He just hoped that his presence might buy enough time for Batman to arrive, might be enough to save Jason's life.

Finally he could no longer hold himself up and had to let himself fall to his knees, gasping around the agony coursing up and down his arm, into his shoulder, and down his side to aggravate the last injury he'd received. Robin tried to move around him, but Nightwing forced him to the ground too, still operating under the belief that the gun runner would be shooting again in moments. Had he been able to concentrate on anything other than breathing and keeping the child in front of him out of the line of fire, he would have been able to hear the thick, meaty echoes of the blows Batman was pouring down on their quarry.

"Nightwing," Robin whispered, terrified by the awful grimace of pain on his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Stay down," was all Nightwing hissed back.

Less than ten seconds after the trigger had been pulled, the boy was yanked away from him. He looked up, a snarl on his face as he supposed the shooter had come to finish the job execution style, and found himself confronted instead with a cowl. "Robin," he managed through clenched jaws.

"Isn't hurt," Batman stated, reaching for his arm.

"Don't!" Nightwing exclaimed sharply. "It's broken. Bullet hit the bone."

"Damn it." He shook his head. "I told you not to get shot again."

"Wasn't…exactly…how I pictured the encounter going, either. How'd you know…to come?"

"I saw Robin watching us from behind a dumpster, back at the truck. You never had a chance of seeing him, he was behind you the whole time. I don't know how he followed us here, maybe he saw our route for tonight up on the computers and got lucky. I lost track of him when you took off after the driver and assumed he'd chased you."

"Good thing."

"He shouldn't even be here. It is not a good thing."

"No, I meant…you following. Probably be dead."

After a moment's pause, gloved hands reached up and cupped his face. "Don't move. Robin!" he barked, standing up. "Get over here."

The brightly clad boy looked back at them from where he stood over the battered and hogtied gun runner. Taking in the ramrod straight posture Batman was pulling and the puddle of blood steadily growing beside the half-collapsed Nightwing, he hesitated. He knew that it wouldn't help his cause to delay obeying what had clearly been a direct order, however, so he trudged over. "He's not dead," he said, speaking before the figure towering above him could. "Why don't you kill him?"

"What?" Batman's voice was dangerously quiet.

"He shot Di-Nightwing," he argued. "He would have killed us both. I saw the file you have on him," he said to the bleeding man. "He's been in prison three times already. He's never going to change. We should just…you know." He ended his monologue lamely under the stares of the two adults.

"That isn't how we do things, Robin." The words were said in the Batman growl, but Nightwing thought he could detect a measure of deep disappointment behind them.

"He would have murdered us! How can you let him live?" The boy was talking to Nightwing directly now, pleading. "Do you want him to get a third chance to try and kill you?"

"No," he panted, staring into the child before him's eyes and trying not to vomit. "But that isn't how…we do things."

Robin shook his head. "You're crazy," he whispered.

"Mostly just bleeding, actually."

Batman swore at the reminder, digging in his belt. "Send the car," he spoke it his cowl, knowing Alfred would be listening for just such an order. "Here." Producing a tourniquet, he wrapped it above the wound and tightened it. "Lie down."

"…It's kinda gross here."

"Nightwing-"

"I can wait," he insisted.

"Fine," he silenced him. "Robin!" he bellowed, seeing him heading back towards the downed gun runner. "Here. Now."

Nightwing had jumped at the unexpected noise right next to his ear, and he couldn't keep a small scream from escaping as the ends of his broken arm jammed together.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." The cowl bent down towards him, and as Nightwing stared into it he would have sworn he saw a tear escape its wearer's eye.

"It's fine," he managed as Robin rejoined them and stood, shifting from one foot to the other. His eyes moved back and forth between the bound man at the end of the alley and the injured hero in front of him, his anger becoming more and more palpable the longer they waited.

When the car swung in and stopped, Batman ordered the child into it before he pulled the wounded man to his feet. "Steady."

"…Yeah." He slumped into his seat, holding the ends of the tourniquet so that they would slow the blood flow to his arm without stopping it. Everything fuzzed as they drove, but he didn't care. Got to think of an excuse for this, he fretted. I start work in three days, I have to have something to tell them…

"…Again?" was the next word he recognized. Opening his eyes – he hadn't even realized that they'd closed themselves at some point during the drive – he found Alfred bending over him. The butler gently took the tourniquet ends from his icy fingers, murmuring something soft that he didn't quite catch. Too tired to ask for a repeat, he let his eyes close again and just listened.

"Well, he's done it right this time."

"Is it broken? He said it was." Bruce had stripped off the cowl and chucked it somewhere, not leaving Dick's side as he yelled at Jason to get changed and get to bed inside of ten minutes if he ever wanted to see the inside of the cave again.

"Even without an x-ray, I would say that it is most definitely broken, Master Wayne. It will heal so long as we can stave off infection, but it will need to be immobilized for at least eight weeks."

"How's he going to explain this to his work?"

"Motorcycle accident," Dick murmured.

"What?" Oddly, he wasn't sure which of them asked that.

"Crashed a bike. Asshole drunk ran me off the road. Way back from Bludhaven. You know…lots of fences? Maybe I hit one. People do that. Piece of it went in my arm. I can still work, just…" he made a face, "…all desk duty."

Bruce laughed miserably. "You're too good at this, Dick. That's how I know you've had to do it too often."

"…It's okay?"

"I'll arrange the necessary props first thing in the morning," Alfred told him as he slipped a needle into his arm. "Press release, all of that. It's an admirably simple and believable story, Master Dick."

"I had him, Bruce. I…I had that guy, until Robin came out of nowhere."

"I know. I know you did. It's okay, we got him, and the shipment. There won't be any armor piercing bullets on the streets of Gotham, at least not tonight."

"Dick?" the boy popped up beside the table, throwing a cautious glance towards Bruce before he said anything else. "I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean for you to get hurt, honest."

He gave him a faint smile. "It's okay, Jay. I'm not mad at you."

"I am, however," Bruce broke in. "You're lucky he moves as fast as he does, or-"

"Or I'd be dead," Jason interrupted him. "I know. Thanks," he mumbled, not quite able to meet Dick's eyes as he said it.

"…Any time, bro."

Bruce exhaled loudly. "Go to bed, Jason. We'll talk in the morning."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"Jason-"

"He'll recover, Master Jason," Alfred cut the billionaire off with a look. The last thing the child needed right at that moment was a tongue lashing. That could wait until everyone had gotten a solid night's sleep. "Now please go."

He backed away slowly after that, eyes not leaving the table until he reached the stairs and disappeared from sight.

"He's not going anywhere until he gets this killing thing straight in his head," Bruce declared once he was gone. "He's lucky his bonehead move didn't get you both killed."

"…Worried about him."

"Let me do that. You rest." Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, staying there long enough to hear his son's breathing even out into morphine-induced unconsciousness.

"…Master Wayne?" the butler inquired when he straightened.

"To keep a long story short, Alfred, no one who saw what happened out there tonight could ever question why my son has two bravery citations on the way. Jason owes him his life."

"…I feared that might have been the reason, sir. And Master Jason…?"

"Still seems to think killing is okay, so long as you feel the person in question deserves it."

"…I see."

"He's not allowed down here until I'm satisfied he's over this penchant for causing death. Not even with supervision, yours or Dick's. He also owes him a much more contrite apology and thanks than what he gave a few minutes ago."

"Of course, sir."

"I can't believe he snuck out after us."

"I assure you that I will monitor him more diligently from here on. I feel that this is partly my own doing, for not having kept track of him more closely this evening."

"It isn't your fault, Alfred. It isn't really mine or Dick's, either. It's just…Jason."

In the shadows midway up the stairs, crouched in the spot that Dick had jokingly advised him was a good place to hear things you weren't supposed to, Jason listened, and planned. Bruce wanted an apology and gratitude to Dick? He could manage that without difficulty, seeing as how he really did feel bad for what had happened. Dick was on his side, after all, and had literally taken a bullet for him tonight. Plus, he did genuinely like the guy. The other thing, though, coming to terms with the idea that killing was always wrong…that would be a harder hurdle to jump. He could learn how to hide that particular belief around the others, but he knew in his heart that it would never be a credo that he could accept. When it came to learning Batman's, and now Nightwing's, secrets, though, Jason would do whatever was required, even if it meant operating as if scumbags like the ones who had killed his parents and had tried tonight to kill himself and Dick didn't deserve death.

Once he was out on his own, though, he swore to himself as he crept the rest of the way up the stairs, all bets were off. Then the criminals of the world would really have something to fear.

Author's Note: Well, wonderful readers, this is the end of it. The epilogue went a fair bit longer than I had anticipated - evidently I wasn't quite as ready to finish with this story as I had thought - but with any luck you all enjoyed it. Many thanks to all of you who have come this far with me, and especially those of you who have been so kind with your reviews and private messages. I hope to hear from you all again when I post further stories that I have planned for this fandom. I can promise that you won't have to wait too long!