a-sin-to-be-rin

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

everything is as it seems (if what it seems is wrong)

A stakeout goes horribly wrong, and the only person Dick can rely on is the annoying little snot that replaced him.

---

“I get the sense that you're not thrilled to have me here.”

Dick lowers his binoculars, glancing back at the figure of red, yellow, and green. (His colors. His family's colors.) “You’re fine,” he says flatly.

Jason snorts and sits cross-legged on the rooftop. “Yeah. Uh-huh. And to think B says you're a better liar than me.”

Dick ignores him, back to watching Blackgate’s security entrance. Another long, awkward minute passes. Dick almost believes that tonight will be tolerable. But then Jason opens his mouth again, completely incapable of just leaving him alone.

“C’mon, man. I know you're mad at B, but we're brothers. Don't take this out on me.”

Something hot burns in Dick’s chest. He chews the inside of his cheek, trying to breathe through the haze of red.

It's incredibly ineffective.

“We are not brothers,” Dick hisses, scowling at Jason. “You are Bruce's son. Robin is Bruce's son. I’m just…” He shakes his head, dismissing the thought. “The only thing we have in common is Robin, and I don't even have that anymore.”

Dick can see the way Jason shrinks at the tone, curling inward with guilt, but he can't bring himself to care. His soul was crushed when Batman ripped the title away from him - ripped his whole identity - from him and gave it to the next orphan he saw. Jason can handle a little guilt.

They don't speak much after that. Dick watches the entrance. Jason paces and kicks the ground impatiently.

After another seventy-two minutes, Jason speaks again. “I don't have to stay. I know B wants you to watch me while he's away, but I don't have to be Robin tonight. I’ll just hang out with Alfred.”

Dick considers this. It's… extremely considerate of him to offer. Unreasonably reasonable, even. Jason is a kid. He should be mad at Dick for taking his anger for Bruce out on him, but instead, he's offering to hang up the cape for the night.

That, or Jason is sick of the awkward stakeout and would rather spend the night in the firelit manor than watch a door from their freezing perch. But whatever.

“It's okay,” Dick says, heart softening a touch. “I’m just… I’m sorry. I’m taking it out on you again. I’ll quit it for tonight.”

Jason tips his head. “Just tonight?”

Dick smiles, and he's surprised when he realizes it's genuine. “Well, it’d be ridiculous to promise to never get mad at you again. You do tend to grate on the nerves.”

“Yeah, right. My teachers say I’m a pleasure to have in class. A pleasure. Mrs. Dobson said you gave her migraines and an ulcer.”

“Huh. Thought she didn't mind me so much.”

Jason snickers but doesn't push further. He motions for the binoculars, and Dick passes them over, giving an abbreviated version of events.

“Intercepted messages said that the Inzerillos have an inside man in Blackgate security. Their plan is to bust Boss Inzerillo out tonight, so we’re here to run interference.”

“Why are we out here, then?” Jason frowns, binoculars still pressed to his face. “If they’re busting him, shouldn’t we stop them before he can exit the cell?”

Dick sighs. “Logistic issues. We could get inside without detection, but if we attack the undercover agent, the other guards are going to see us as a threat. We’ve got fewer guards and more escape routes out here.”

“Lame,” Jason mutters, handing back the binoculars. “We could take a few guards.”

“I’ve done the math. Odds are better outside.”

“If you say so,” Jason says in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t care what Dick says. “It’d be faster though.”

“Yeah,” Dick agrees. “But there’s a difference between-”

“‘-speed and efficiency,’” Jason finishes for him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got that lecture too.”

It’s strange to have a shared experience like this. All his life, Dick has only found one common event in someone else’s past: watching his parents die. Circus training just isn’t something other kids in Gotham schools related to. And being trained by the Batman? Definitely unique to him and him alone.

Until now.

“Right. He still get pissy about radio chatter?”

Jason groans. “Don’t I know it. How am I supposed to get any enjoyment out of using a radio if I’m supposed to ‘maximize my meaning to word ratio?’ Sometimes I just want to talk.”

Dick smiles despite himself. “Yeah. You get it.”

There’s a flicker of movement from the security gate. The door buzzes, the locks hiss, and two men slip outside.

“That’s our cue. Stay close.” Dick dives off the roof catching a fire escape and then a drain pipe to slow his descent. He rolls through his landing and immediately takes out the guard’s knees. The guard pitches forward, but this gives Boss Inzerillo an opening. He fires at Dick, who easily dodges out of the way.

There’s a whoop of excitement as Jason knocks two guards, attracted by the noise, to the ground. Another guard approaches from behind, and Dick rushes to back Jason up. He slams both escrima sticks into the man’s suprascapular nerves and kicks out his legs. He topples to the ground.

“I said to stay close!” Dick yells as he just barely dodges another bullet, feeling heat whip past his head. Inzerillo and the inside man had recovered while Dick backed Jason, shooting at the pair as they approached the outer gate.

Refusing to give them an inch, Dick manages to avoid the bullets (machine guns do pose a larger challenge than pistols). The false guard starts shooting erratically, an indecipherable pattern that leaves Dick with a bullet in his gut and blood trickling down his temple. But for the amateur goon, injury is as much of a distraction for the attacker as the attacked. The guard sees blood and lowers his gun an inch, gunfire easing up to conserve bullets.

Using the second of reprieve, Dick kicks the man’s arms to the side, the gun rattling off shots into the dirt. Then he throws a solid punch under the fake guard’s chin. The man chokes on spit, stunned for long enough for Dick to bust his nose and knock him out.

“Nightwing!”

By concentrating on the false guard - on the automatic weapon rather than the pistol - Dick took his eyes off Jason. He took his eyes off Inzerillo. Inzerillo, who managed to grab Jason while Dick’s back was turned.

Stupid. Way to watch his back. Dick can practically hear Batman’s rebukes. But Batman isn’t here. Dick is. So it’s up to him to fix this.

“Another step, and it’s bye, bye, birdie,” Inzerillo chuckles. Like it was a clever, original joke. He presses the gun against Jason’s temple, one arm pinning the boy like a tiny, very ineffective human shield. Red stains the green of Jason’s shirt sleeve. Dick can’t be sure how bad it is, but Jason’s breathing is already uneven and shaky. Nothing at all like how Batman trained him.

“Okay,” Dick says, hands up. “Easy. Think about it for longer than a second.”

“Drop the sticks,” Inzerillo hisses, and Dick complies without argument.

“That’s the Batman’s kid, yanno,” Dick insists. “The last time the Bat busted you? That was a good day. But when he’s ticked-”

“Shut up. I’ll do it. I swear, I will.”

Begrudgingly, Dick doesn’t reply. But then Jason’s expression, already a poorly-masked mix of anger and embarrassment, widens with fear. “NIGHTWING!” the boy cries.

Dick turns too late. The fake guard has already pulled the trigger. Bullets have already hit their mark. The world is already going dark.

And in his last seconds, all Dick can hear is the boy’s - Jason’s - voice.

“Nightwing!”

“Nightwing!”

“Nightwing!”

“Nightwing, c’mon. Please, please, please wake up. I… I can’t do this by myself.”

It takes effort and time to pry his eyes open, and the moment he does, he feels the tantalizing pull to shut them again. But he doesn’t because there are the colors. Red. Green. Yellow.

His family’s colors.

“M-Mom?” The world is still too blurry. Dick can’t see anything but those colors. Red. Green. Yellow.

There’s a dry laugh. “Dude, that’s so not funny.”

Okay… not Mom then. But… surely not…

“Dad?”

“You are so bad at this. Why does Batman always compare my deductive skills to yours when you can’t tell the difference between your mom and a guy in a cape?”

Dick blinks a few times more, and slowly, the world begins to take shape. The hazy white blobs are fluorescent lightbulbs screwed into concrete. The red, green, and yellow are a vest, shirt sleeves, a cape. And the featureless face above him is-

“J-Ja-”

A hand clamps over Dick’s mouth. “Dude!” Jason whisper-shouts. “Names!”

Dick nods, if only to get Jason to let go. “Wh- Wh’s goin’ on?” He tries to sit up, only for the breath to be choked from his lungs and his vision to turn to static.

“You got shot, that’s what,” Jason scolds.

Dick takes a moment to reorient himself. He licks his lips, wiggles his fingers, and finally replies. “So… So did you.”

“No!” Jason insists immediately. But another second of silence makes him backtrack. “Well… yeah. Okay. But it’s a graze.” He gestures to his left arm, covered in dried blood and bandaged with part of his cape. “You’ve been… Dude, how aren’t you dead?”

“Cat-like reflexes,” Dick murmurs, and he’s only half-joking.

“Did Batman teach you some kind of psychic healing thing? Are you just… mentally giving yourself blood transfusions or something?”

“Definitely n-not a thing.”

Jason sighs. “Darn. I really wanted to learn that.”

“Wh’re we?” Dick tries to sit up again, and he’s half-successful this time. Jason grabs him and helps prop him against a wall before he can smash his head against the cement flooring.

“Oh. Right.” Jason sits beside him, hugging his knees. “Basement of Inzerillo’s front business. I’m pretty sure, anyway. They…” He rubs the back of his head. “They knocked me out before moving us, so I couldn’t keep track of the direction we were headed or anything. Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Dick mumbles, digging the nails of his now-gloveless hands into his palms. If he can just stay awake, he can figure a way out and get Jason safe. But he needs to stay awake.

“You were out for a long time,” Jason continues. “Not sure how long, really, but… it was a while. I thought you were brain dead for a while.”

“Not sure that’s off the table yet.” Dick blinks furiously, fighting off what is probably hypovolemic shock.

Jason swallows hard, head bobbing in absent-minded agreement. “D’you… D’you think Batman’ll come for us?”

Dick wants to give the kid good news. He wants so desperately to tell the boy, Yes, of course. Batman just called me from the Batmobile, speeding to our rescue. He says hi.

But Dick can’t say that, because it’s patently not true.

“B is… He’s not s’posed t’be back for… for a few days.” Dick watches the boy shift uncomfortably. The colors of his uniform mock him, but they also paint a grim reenactment of his own life.

The little boy in green and red. The kid who soared through the air. Dick Grayson, the one whose wings were clipped and whose soul died on the ground next to his parents. Robin. The Boy Wonder. The first Robin. The first Boy Wonder. Batman’s first failure.

“It’ll be okay,” Dick promises. “It’ll be-” He winces. Something in his body just broke down. Something is dragging him to the floor again. Something is scaring that little Robin. Something is making him scream again.

Dick isn’t sure what.

---

It’s hot. The air is sticky and cloying. It brushes the sides of Dick’s throat and clings to the inside of his lungs. The humidity is so fierce that it may as well be hot steam, burning every cell in his body.

Dick wrangles his eyes open. He’s still here. Wherever “here” is.

But the more immediate detail of Dick’s surroundings is the company he keeps. Someone is pressed up against his side, their cool hands limply draped over Dick’s stomach. Like they were keeping pressure on his wound but fell asleep mid-first aid. Slowly, gently, Dick tilts his head to the side, trying to identify the person beside him.

“J- J- Ja-”

A small, tired hand finds his mouth and once again, Dick is silenced.

“Names,” Jason groans. He sits up, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and presses the back of his hand to Dick’s forehead. “How many times do I need to tell you that?”

“D- Dunno. How many times’ve you said?”

“At least nine. But I lost track a while ago.”

“How long-?”

“A week. Maybe. Hard to say.” Jason rests his arms on his knees and his head on his arms. “Guess I did a pretty decent patch job, considering you’re not dead. But those’re definitely infected. You look like a dead rat.”

“S’cuse you. I look like a possum at worst.”

Jason makes a noncommittal sound, shaking his hand in a “so-so” gesture.

Silence lapses. For a long time, Dick stares at the ceiling, glad that, at the very least, he’s got Jason to keep him company. Even if he kind of resents Jason. Sort of.

“Batman isn’t coming, is he?” Jason finally asks, shifting so Dick can see his eyes through the broken mask lenses. “He… He would’ve been here by now.”

Something tugs deep inside Dick’s heart. He reaches over and squeezes Jason’s hand reassuringly, ignoring how just moving makes his whole body ache. “I dunno. But we could still… You’re not alone, Robin.”

Jason squeezes his hand back.

They stay that way until they both drop off to sleep.

---

“Get up. I said, get. Up.”

Dick has no strength left. His body is breaking down. His mind is barely there. Even the tiniest breath feels like he’s tearing himself apart, piece by piece.

“Come on. Nightwing, help me out here.”

Dick isn’t sure if he manages to help pick himself up or if Jason suddenly gains super strength. Either way, the world flips, and Dick stumbles over every step. Jason holds him steady, but he’s got to be exhausted. Dick finds himself appreciating the boy, perhaps more than ever, to compensate for all the years that he hated him for taking Robin.

“Wh- Wh’s h’p’nin’?” He barely has the breath to ask.

“We’re getting out of here,” Jason grunts, pulling harder on Dick’s arm. Dick winces, but the boy ignores it. “Keep moving.”

Dick doesn’t reply. He just forces himself forward, stumbling over his own feet and clinging to Jason for dear life. They’re shaky, but Jason holds strong, dragging Dick up stairs and down sketchy hallways until they reach the exit. Dick barely has the strength to stay awake, but the cool night air on his skin prods his eyes open. Glass shards and broken asphalt dig into their bare feet, and Dick thinks that if the bullet wounds didn’t hurt so badly, he’d be cursing out their kidnappers for stealing their shoes.

“Almost there,” Jason promises, grunting as the weight on his shoulders doubles. “Stay awake.”

Another four steps, and there’s a hissing sound. Dick’s eyelids have drifted shut again, so he’s left guessing as to what the noise is. A snake, maybe. Or a hydraulic press.

And then Dick is dropped unceremoniously. But rather than land on the ground, he drops onto a hard leather seat. With all the strength he has, he opens his eyes again.

“Wh… Where’re we?”

No response. Dick is alone. There are a multitude of buttons laid out on the control panel in front of him, but it’s too dark to tell what their purposes are.

Another hissing makes Dick jump, but without the strength to do so properly, he just flinches, smacking his head against a window.

“It’s just me,” Jason says, half annoyed and half worried. “Relax. And would you-?” He cuts himself off, reaching over and pulling a seatbelt across Dick’s chest.

“Is this…?” Dick frowns thoughtfully. He isn’t sure what he wants to ask, but Jason seems to get it.

“The Batmobile. Yeah. Stay awake.”

Dick hums, dropping his head against the passenger door. It’s occurred to him that maybe Jason isn’t old enough to drive, but then it occurred to him that he can’t bother to care. It’s not like he’d be any better behind the wheel right now.

“Dick, I said stay awake.”

“Hmm?”

“Eyes open, dammit.”

“M’okay.”

Jason growls. “If you’re okay, prove it. Wake up.”

“M’tryin’.” But Dick isn’t trying hard enough, apparently, because the next thing he knows, they’re in the Batcave, and Jason is holding him up again.

“Dick, c’mon. Do not check out on me.” Jason jostles him slightly, dragging him towards the med bay.

“Wh’- Wh’s happenin’, Jay?”

Jason stiffens, stopping dead in his tracks. “... what did you just call me?”

“Sorry, sorry. No names. Robin,” Dick corrects himself.

But Jason doesn't relax, turning as best he can to see Dick’s eyes. “I’m not Jason.”

Dick’s stomach drops to his feet. He blinks twice, and the illusion shatters. “You…” The breath is stolen from his lungs, heart slamming against his ribs.

“Okay. That's okay. This is… fine.” Bruce adjusts his grip on Dick’s arm and takes long, fast strides across the Cave, screaming for Alfred. Dick can't even try to keep up, chin on his chest and legs dragging bonelessly behind him. “Keep talking.”

Colors explode behind Dick’s eyes. The ground rushes past him, an endless treadmill of water-weathered stone. It's hot, he remembers. So horribly suffocating.

“Dick. C’mon.”

But Dick isn't sure what Jason wants of him.

… Bruce. He doesn't know what Bruce wants of him. Because Jason isn't here. Jason is-

“One, two, three-” On their count, hands under Dick’s arms and knees lift him off the ground. A few moments of weightlessness, and then he lands on a hard bench. No, not a bench. A cot.

“Keep talking to me.”

“Master Bruce, get him on the monitor. Dr. Thompkins is on her way.”

“B… B, where’d Jay go…?” Dick doesn’t want Bruce to answer the question. Not really. They both know the truth. It’s not a pleasant truth to admit to.

“Keep talking, chum,” Bruce murmurs like a prayer. “Keep breathing.”

“B, I’m… I’m tired.”

“I know. I know. Stay awake a little longer, okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Dick. DICK. Talk to me, damn you!”

Bruce’s panicky (Panicky? Bruce?) orders fade away, and Dick embraces the dark emptiness. It’s cooler in here. It’s calmer. He can even imagine Jason is right beside him, alive and unbroken by the unforgiving steel of a madman’s crowbar.

---

Senses return slowly to Dick, almost like they’ve been muffled with cotton. Or drugs. And judging by the IVs sticking out of his arms and neck, he’s on a lot of them.

But even on heavy painkillers, Dick recognizes the sterile white bedsheets and impossibly high ceiling. Someone rubs his arm gently and speaks to him, though it takes him a moment to make out the words.

“Dick? Can you hear me?”

Dick coughs, and four distinct spots on his body ache numbly. Gunshot wounds, he realizes, but he can’t remember exactly who put them there.

“Chum, you there?”

“Yeah,” Dick rasps, eyes finally focusing on the fatigued eyes and worry-creased forehead of Bruce Wayne. “‘m here.”

Bruce smiles weakly, but his shoulders remain tense. “Good. Good, I’m… glad.” His expression goes stony, and he drops his hands in his lap, leaning back. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I…” Something strikes Dick, and it’s so glaring that he can’t help but address it. “I’m not supposed to be here. You fired me.”

“No. You’re not supposed to be here.” Bruce stares at his hands.

“Why… Why am I here?”

“You tracked an uptick in Bludhaven mob activity to Gotham. Inzerillo was expanding his empire. You interrupted a weapons deal, but the mob captured you. They kept you hostage for eight days before I was able to track you down and break you out.”

Dick blinks. He definitely does not remember it happening that way. “No. No, Jason saved me-” The moment he says the words, he wishes he could take them back. Now that he’s said it aloud, it’s so obviously impossible, it’s embarrassing.

Bruce swallows hard before leveling Dick with a sharp, bitter look. “You were septic and barely conscious when I found you. You were seeing things.”

The pair falls into an uneasy silence. Dick focuses on the internal, preferring the pain of multiple infected GSWs and the cloying heat of a raging fever over Bruce’s quiet judgment.

Bruce scratches his neck, stands, and leaves the med bay. Dick doesn’t stop him.

---

“I appreciate it, Alfie, but I can’t stay here.”

Alfred crosses his arms, eyeing Dick critically. “I’d argue it’s the opposite, sir.”

Dick agrees, but he isn’t happy about it. He’d give anything to get out of here. Bruce’s presence has been silent and invisible yet painfully obvious over the last twenty-four hours. He’s swept into the med bay seven times, only to turn around and leave upon seeing Dick awake. Dick doesn’t want to know how many times he did it while he was asleep.

“I know,” Dick sighs, hugging his legs and pressing his face into his knees. “I just… I can’t stand to be… here. You know?”

“I’m aware of your quarrel with Master Bruce, yes. However, I wouldn't say I understand it.”

“Great,” Dick mutters, and a feverish chill leaves him tightening the blanket around his shoulders. “I didn't come here for a lecture.”

“And I didn't come here to keep a reckless adolescent vigilante from dying of sepsis. But it seems neither of us have the luxury to refuse.”

Dick leans back, letting his head fall onto the pillow with a thump. “Yeah.”

“I don't deign to understand precisely why Master Bruce does what he does,” Alfred explains, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Dick’s arm. “I do know that he cares a great deal for your safety.”

“Don’t tell me he fired me to keep me safe. He let me do it when I was eight. Why would eighteen be any more dangerous?”

Alfred inflates the cuff, pauses to listen as it hisses down, and then removes it from Dick’s arm. “I assure you, I don’t know, sir.”

“And then two weeks later, he’s got a twelve-year-old replacement following him around.” Dick slams a fist against the cot, but the thin cushioning leaves his knuckles stinging. “Like Robin is a job. It’s not like I created it or anything. It’s not like it was my identity.”

For a long moment, neither speak. Alfred replaces Dick’s old bandages with clinical efficiency. Dick stares heavenward, trying to pretend like it’s the pain of the dressing change and not suppressed frustration misting his eyes.

“Since Master Jason passed,” Alfred begins, saying the name like one treads around a landmine, “Master Bruce has been… fretful. There was a period where he debated pulling you from the field.”

“He doesn’t own me,” Dick bites out. “He’s not even in charge of me anymore! He can’t pull me.”

“I told him as such, sir. But he blames himself for Ethiopia, and I believe… I believe he blames himself for your current condition.”

It’s believable, but Dick doesn’t really care. He’s an adult now. He’s responsible for himself. Bruce’s concern is not only excessive, but unwelcome.

“Bruce needs to mind his own business.”

Alfred’s hands still momentarily before resuming their task. “We weren’t sure you’d survive. And if you’d died, Master Bruce would, in part, be responsible. Your denial of the fact doesn’t change its validity.”

Dick blows out a short, frustrated puff of air. He understands it from a logical standpoint, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss him off. “If he cares so much, he does a horrible way of showing it.” He gestures at the empty chair by the bed.

“And I’m sure if he was here, you’d greet him with that pleasant hostility you’ve pointed my direction,” Alfred reasons. “Perhaps he wishes to keep things civil, even if that means giving you space.”

“Yeah,” Dick sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

---

When Bruce returns to the med bay, he takes one glance into the space, notes Dick’s consciousness, and walks away. He only returns when Dick yells at him.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks, cautiously approaching Dick’s side. Almost immediately, he turns to leave again. “I’ll get Alfred-”

“No,” Dick says. “No, I wanted to…” He chews his lip before amending the request. “We need to talk.”

If Bruce looked uneasy before, now he looks downright horrified, but he sits down anyway, hands carefully resting on his knees. “About…?”

Dick’s fever screams at him, and he kicks his blanket off. It lands on the floor with a thump. “Um, I guess I’m apologizing. Maybe.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, faint amusement on his lips. “Then you might be forgiven.”

“No, I mean…”

God, why is this so difficult? Why can’t it just be simple?

“Alfred said I scared you,” Dick settles on. “Might’ve been a reminder of… y’know, him.”

Bruce takes a breath but nods slowly. “Yes. The thought crossed my mind.”

“I want you to know that I’m not him.” Dick shifts on the cot, fiddling with the bandage on his right arm. “I’m… I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

“Except not this time, apparently.”

Dick chews on his tongue, biting back an instant rebuttal. “I’m an adult, Bruce. You said it yourself; I’m not Robin anymore.”

In a rare show of self-awareness, Bruce replies, “But you understand that I’m still going to worry about you. No matter what age you are, I brought you into this. And I’m going to hold myself responsible every time.”

“That's stupid.”

“Dick, I…” Bruce grimaces, jaw tightening. “Is this about me adopting Jason?”

“He was the son you always wanted, Bruce,” Dick sighs, picking a piece of lint off his t-shirt and flicking it onto the floor.

“How can you be jealous of him when he's-?” Bruce cuts himself off abruptly and shakes his head.

There's something hot in Dick’s chest, but he's pretty sure it's not the fever. “He was your son. I never have been. He died a hero. I got kicked out. We’re… We’re not the same, Bruce. You've never treated us the same before, so why now? Why suddenly act like this bothers you?”

“This isn't about him.”

“Bullshit,” Dick hisses, an angry finger pointed at Bruce. “You think he was only your responsibility? You think you’re the only one who misses him?” He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “He was Robin. Robin was my creation. How do you think I feel, knowing that the identity I used to honor my parents got another person killed? A kid killed. And he… he was the only other person who… who got it, Bruce. He was raised by you too. You think I’m jealous of him for being your son? You're wrong. I’m ticked at you for not letting me be his brother.”

Silence, tense and fraying, lapses between the two. Dick falls back on his pillow, feeling overwhelmingly furious and only the slightest bit drained. Bruce sits stick-straight and motionless in the chair, eyes unreadable.

“You could have come back,” Bruce says slowly. “At any point, you could have come back.”

“Dammit, Bruce!” Dick hisses, digging his fingers into his hair. “It wasn’t that simple, and you know it! You made it very clear you didn’t want me around after Robin.”

“Alfred asked you to come back. Frequently.”

Dick narrows his eyes. “Alfred wasn’t the one that fired me. The only times I ever felt safe to visit was when you were away with the Justice League. That’s when I met Jason. That’s when I realized that we might have been a family in a different world.” He looks away, arms crossed over his chest. “God, Bruce. I know it’s hard for you, but… Would it be so horrible if you had a real family again?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruce insists, a growl at the edge of his words. “Jason is dead, and it’s my fault. I’m trying to keep the same thing from happening to you, but if you’re too damn stubborn to get that, then maybe you're not adult enough for this conversation!”

It stings. Over these last couple years, all Dick has wanted - perhaps without even realizing it - is for Bruce to acknowledge him. He wants Bruce to realize that he’s a capable, competent fighter. That he's not a little kid anymore. So this only makes his chest ache.

“You can't shelter me forever, B.” A chill runs through Dick, and he reaches pathetically for the blanket on the ground.

Bruce takes pity, grabbing the blanket and draping it over Dick. “I know. I’ll… I’ll try to remember that.” He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. Then presses a cold hand to Dick’s forehead. Shocking himself, Dick doesn’t swat him away. “You look tired,” Bruce observes. “You should rest.”

And Dick hadn’t noticed, but come to think of it, his eyelids are pretty heavy. “Yeah. A little.”

“You’re still feverish,” Bruce furthers. His hand slips down to Dick’s cheek, and despite himself, Dick leans into the touch. “Get some sleep.”

For the first time in quite a while, Dick falls asleep in the Batcave without the nagging urge to escape it.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

With all my heart

this blog hates donald trump

Look how many people hate him. I’m pretty damn happy about that 😁😁😁😁😁😁

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Cold (Part 2)

Selina is a simple woman. She likes pretty gems and a glass of merlot at the end of a long day. She’s never tried to play hero, and she’s never cared much for complicated relationships. But Batman seems intent on saddling her with everything she’s never wanted. Part of her wants to boycott anything vaguely Bat-themed. But the other part of her is pretty sure that only a monster would leave a kid to freeze to death.

Part 1

---

“You took off his mask.”

Selina jolts from her sleep, body curling protectively around the boy beside her. Her eyes search the room for threats and weapons. Her hand is reaching for the lamp, ready to crack it over the intruder’s head, when she spots Batman in the darkest corner of the room.

She jumps again, accidentally waking the boy.

“Wh- What’s…?” His glossy gaze fixes on Selina, and she shushes him softly.

“It’s nothing, birdie. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t require much convincing, already back to drooling on her sleeve.

“You took off his mask,” Batman repeats, walking into the light.

“Yeah. Hard to tell if he’s conscious if he’s got a mask covering his eyes,” Selina counters. “A ‘thank you’ is customary here.”

But Batman offers nothing of the sort. “You compromised his identity, and you want me to thank you?”

Selina takes a slow, calming breath. “I don’t even know who he is. Never seen him before. Never got a name. And-” She huffs in frustration. “And I took off my mask too.”

“I know who you are, Miss Kyle,” Batman growls. “I’ve known since last December.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course you have. Look, that really shouldn’t be your first concern here.”

“Oh?” Batman steps closer, crouching so he’s at eye-level with Selina. “Please. Tell me how my priorities are skewed. Please tell me how to do my job.”

But Selina matches the Batglare with her own scowl. “Aren’t you worried about the child that was hit by a cold blast meant for you?”

Batman stands, folding his arms. “Of course I am.”

“Are you? You didn’t even try to catch him. You left him alone and injured for hours. He would have died if I wasn’t there.”

“Hn.” Batman stays where he is, completely unbothered. “But you were there.”

“And you trusted me - a rogue - to keep him alive,” Selina counters. “I could have just as easily taken the gun and left. Actually, that would’ve been easier.”

“You’re not any rogue. You’re Catwoman. A known cat lady sympathetic to the plight of children.”

“You just made that up. I hate kids.”

“Oh? So who’s that you’re hugging?”

A growl simmers in the back of Selina’s throat. “I’m keeping a child that you recklessly endangered alive. Don’t you dare pretend like you planned on my help. It doesn’t make it okay. He is your responsibility, Batman. And you failed him.”

And that does something. Batman goes quiet. He pauses for a moment and then takes off a glove, pressing the back of his hand to the boy’s forehead.

“I’ll take it from here,” he says softly. “You did well.”

“‘Well??’” Selina sputters. “I kept your child alive while he could have been dead for all you knew. And you say I did ‘well??’”

Batman’s lips trend downwards. “He’s not my child.”

“Oh my god, Batman,” she breathes. “That’s even worse. Who is he?” Selina can recall quite a few rumors about Batman stealing Robin from off the streets. Or worse, from his real family. But Selina had always assumed that Robin was Batman’s son.

But that’s evidently not the case.

“It’s none of your concern. Let me take over, Selina.”

Selina feels her shoulders tense. Her hold on the boy tightens. “I don’t think I should. You clearly don’t have his best interests in mind.”

“Robin,” Batman says, tone hardening and nudging the boy’s arm. “Robin, get up. We’re leaving.”

Robin drags his eyes open to half-mast. He’s still too cold, shaking too hard to say much of anything. And if the vacant gaze is any indication, Robin doesn’t have any clue what’s going on. “B?” he mumbles. “S’cold.”

For a fleeting moment, Batman’s expression twists into something… kinder. Is it pity? Remorse? Guilt?

Before Selina can decide, Batman’s jaw tightens, the sympathy fading from the lines in his face. “That’s an order, Robin.”

And Selina can’t take it anymore. “Would you cut it out?” she hisses. “He doesn’t even know what’s going on. Do not make me kick you out. Because there’s nothing I’d like more right now.” Her eyes narrow. Who is he to make demands, anyway? In her home? To a barely conscious child?

No way. Not happening.

“Hn.” Batman doesn’t speak right away. Selina gets the distinct feeling that he’s staring at her from behind the cowl. “Fine.” He reaches for the boy, but Selina holds him tighter, her fierce glare keeping Batman at bay.

“He almost died, Batman,” she growls. “And you want me to hand him back over to you? When you obviously don’t care what happens to him?”

“You don’t know me,” Batman counters. “Don’t pretend you do.” Then he sighs, motioning for Selina to stand. When she only gives him a quizzical eyebrow raise, he sighs even more heavily. “Look, if you’re not going to let me take him, then bring him yourself.”

“Bring him where?”

Batman runs his tongue over his teeth, cracking his knuckles absently. “You’ll see.”

Selina hates Batman. She hates how secretive and possessive he is. She hates how detail-oriented he is in his work but how neglectful he is when taking care of Robin. She hates that Robin is associated with him at all. But on the off-chance that Batman does have the means to treat ice blast-related injuries, she has to go with him. The kid deserves as much.

“Fine.” She adjusts her hold on the boy, murmuring to him softly.

“Hang on, okay? We’re gonna go out for a bit.”

Selina tucks the blanket around Robin before standing. The boy is heavier than he appears, but Selina spends her free time running around Gotham in a spandex suit. She has to be strong, or the GCPD would have caught her ages ago. And she’s plenty strong enough to carry a kid.

Batman leads her outside without another word, holding doors and picking up the blanket every time it slips off the boy.

The Batmobile is sitting right outside her apartment building, engine still humming and steam billowing from under the hood. Batman nods, and, as if by command of the nod itself, the passenger door slides open with a hiss. Cautiously, Selina sits inside, hugging the increasingly colder boy to her chest. The door clicks shut behind her, and Selina is left staring at the array of switches and dials and flashing buttons on the console. She can’t imagine a car being able to do so many different things that it requires so many controls. Maybe Batman drives an ultra-manual; not only is he shifting gears, but he’s also controlling every valve and piston.

But Selina doesn’t ask about the buttons when Mr. Grump slides into the driver’s seat. He grunts and slams on the gas. Selina could swear her organs are left behind.

Batman’s gloved fingers twist a dial all the way up, and hot air blasts through the car’s interior. Selina is already sweating, but if that’s what the boy needs, so be it. Then Batman passes over her thermometer. (He must have grabbed it when she wasn’t looking. It only makes Selina more uneasy. What else has he done that she hasn’t noticed?)

“Hey, kiddo,” Selina murmurs, patting Robin’s cheek. “We need to check your temp.”

The boy blinks at her, eyes glazed over. He doesn’t understand, and it makes Selina’s stomach flip.

“Open,” she says sternly, holding the thermometer up so the boy can see it. Then she gently pokes his lips with it, and reflexively, he opens his mouth. Selina sighs, sticks the thermometer in his mouth and then manually pushes his jaw shut. He immediately turns his head away, knocking the thermometer out. He’s shaking harder, teeth chattering and lips decidedly bluer than they were before.

Selina has had enough of this nonsense. She looks up at the Bat. “Batman. Do something.”

And for a moment, the steely, all-business guise cracks. Batman’s lenses widen, jaw clenched. “What? How am I supposed to know what to do?” His voice shakes in a very un-Batman way, pitching up from a growl to a rasp.

“I don’t know!” Selina hisses. “You’re Batman! You always know what to do. And it’s your kid!”

Batman takes one breath in and out of his nose. His grip loosens on the wheel. And then the deep voice is back, steady as ever. “He’s not my kid.”

“God, that is so not the point!”

Another heavy pause. “... we’re ten minutes out.”

Selina looks at the boy and then at Batman. He hasn’t looked away from the road for a second.

“Make it five, Batman.”

And the car, amazingly, goes faster. They make it to their destination in four-and-a-half minutes.

Batman gets out without a word, and Selina is quick to follow. The boy’s shivering has lessened, but Selina gets the feeling that that’s not a good sign.

“Here,” a man says, waving them towards a cot surrounded by medical equipment. Selina rushes over, guiltily relieved to put the boy down and transfer the responsibility to someone else. The mystery man takes over, putting in an IV and attaching wires and cords to the boy.

Taking a step back, Selina finally notices her surroundings. She finally notices that she’s in a cave.

It makes sense, in a strange, Gotham sort of way. He’s Batman. Of course he lives in a cave. Selina had just assumed that the rumors of him being part bat were just bar gossip. But it must be true, because what self-respecting human would live in a cave?

“Batman, what is this place?”

Batman throws warm blankets over Robin and then murmurs something to the other man. The man nods, and Batman leads Selina a few steps further from the cot.

Selina plants her feet in the ground. “I will not let you kick me out. Not when Robin clearly needs a responsible adult around.”

“Relax,” Batman says, and it’s strange. His voice is no longer the rumbling, chesty growl. It’s still deep, but it’s night-and-day with Batman’s usual voice. It’s lighter and higher. Easier on the ears and, if this is Batman’s true voice, easier on the throat. “I’m just giving Alfred space.”

“‘Alfred?’” Selina folds her arms, not sure what game Batman is playing at, suddenly giving her information about him.

“My butler.”

At first she thinks Batman is joking. And why shouldn’t she? What half-man, half-bat freak of nature living out of a cave would have a butler? “What do you even have a butler for?” she demands. “To polish the stalactites?”

“Sometimes. But only if he's in a really good mood.” The Batman voice is gone, but the tone hasn't changed. He's still dead serious. No hint of a smile. No change in his severe intensity.

“So you, Batman, live in a cave with your butler who also specializes in emergency medicine? And Robin isn’t yours but you won’t take him to a real hospital because you’re scared of the world figuring out your identity? Did I get that right?”

Batman shrugs one shoulder. “I’m more worried about his identity getting out, but… yeah.”

“God,” Selina mutters. “His parents don’t know??”

“They’re dead,” Batman bites.

Selina’s stomach drops. She pauses, takes a deep breath, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Do not tell me you kidnapped an orphan. I swear, if you-”

“I’m Bruce Wayne.”

The words are fast and jumbled. Selina needs a second to replay the sentence in her head, trying to parse out the meaning. And then she scowls.

“You’re joking. You kidnapped a child, and you expect me to-”

Batman pulls the cowl off. And standing before her, clad in the body armor and cape of the city’s most feared vigilante, is billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. Bruce-goddamn-Wayne.

“I didn’t kidnap him. Robin is my ward.”

The Gotham Gazette’s web page flashes in Selina’s mind.

BILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE TAKES IN ORPHANED ACROBAT

The news outlets had a field day with that one. There were full podcasts discussing Bruce’s capabilities as a father. Articles asking why he could take custody of a child in mere days while any average person could go years before being cleared to foster. Some even speculated that it was a PR move, with petitions urging the Gotham courts to take back custody of the boy.

Now, Selina isn’t sure whether the petitions were right or not. Bruce Wayne is far more competent than he lets on, but he’s also putting a child in danger every night. He abandoned the kid when he needed help.

“Fine. So you didn’t kidnap him.” Selina folds her arms, scowling up at Bruce. “But you put him in danger, Bruce.” She spits the name like a curse. “He might die, and you’re relying on your butler to fix things.”

“Alfred has it handled. We’ve dealt with Freeze before.”

Selina doesn’t believe him. Why should she? All he’s done since the day she met him was lie.

“Sir?” The butler has returned, gloved hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve implemented active rewarming. The boy’s core temperature is on the rise. The effects of glacialus appear to be aggressive but reversible. I’ll run blood tests, but he isn’t exhibiting any signs of chemical exposure. If you can watch him, I’ll take care of his lab work.”

“Of course,” Bruce says with a nod. He crosses back over to the boy on the cot, and Selina will be damned if she leaves the boy alone with this irresponsible, egotistical excuse of a guardian. She pulls up a chair, and that’s when things get strange.

Well… stranger, anyway.

The boy is still pale, teeth chattering with renewed strength, even huddled under odd-looking heated blankets and with a fogged-up oxygen mask over his face. Bruce shucks the gloves from his hands and brushes the hair from Robin’s eyes. Without the cowl, Selina can see everything on Bruce’s face. She watches as he knits his brow, something dangerously close to worry in his eyes.

“Br-Bruce?” Robin’s voice is muffled under the mask, but Selina would have heard him if he was speaking ten miles away. “Wh-Wh’s-?”

Bruce shushes the boy, one hand resting firmly on Robin’s forehead. “You’re safe.”

“Wh’z g-goin’ on?”

“Freeze got you. Catwoman brought you home.” It’s a very abbreviated version of events. Selina resists the temptation to elaborate. To explain that Robin had been left alone. That Batman hadn’t even asked her to help.

“O-oh. I don’... don’... ruh-remember that.”

“Memory loss is a symptom of hypothermia.”

“Oh.” Robin’s eyes slowly roam the area. “I ‘member… a lady… Dunno w-who.”

“It’s okay, chum,” Bruce hums, his thumb rubbing circles between Robin’s eyes. His voice is so… so fond that Selina almost forgets that this is Batman. This is the man who abandoned this boy. “You’re okay.”

“D-did we get ‘im?” Robin blinks faster, like he’s staving off sleep.

“Dropped him off at the GCPD an hour ago.”

“Good,” the boy sighs, sinking deeper under the blankets. His eyes flutter shut, but Bruce continues to rub circles into his brow.

There’s a long moment where Selina doesn’t know what to say. When it was just her and the boy, the truth was obvious: Batman is a horrible person. An awful guardian.

But now? Now, she’s not so certain.

“Why?” she finally asks.

Bruce jumps slightly. (Batman. She made Batman jump.) He recovers quickly, but not quickly enough to go unnoticed. “Why what?”

“Why’d you leave him?” She folds her arms, watching Bruce with a deadly glower. “If you care about him so much, why didn’t you help him?”

“Robin is my partner, Selina,” Bruce says calmly, eyes fixed on the boy. “We’re equal. And we swore an oath. If I hadn’t stopped Freeze, he would have killed others. Robin knows the risks just as well as I do.”

Selina can’t believe her ears. “He’s a kid!” Her voice echoes through the cave, making Robin stir, though he doesn’t wake. Taking a deep breath, Selina reminds herself to keep it down, no matter how much Batman deserves to get chewed out for this one. “He’s a kid, Batman.”

“No.” Bruce sighs. Something in his eyes breaks. “He’s not.”

Selina balks. “He can't be over twelve,” she growls.

“He watched his parents die, Selina,” Bruce says simply. He won't look away from the boy. “That… Trust me when I say that changes a person. It's a cruel shortcut to maturity, but it's reality. He may be young, but he's not stupid.”

“But as his guardian, it's your responsibility to keep him safe.”

“I have a responsibility to Gotham too.”

“You betrayed him,” Selina insists. “He may act older, but he is still a child. And you were going to let him die.”

Bruce’s eyes snap up to hers, fury searing into her skull. He steps back from the bed, hands coming to his sides as fists. “I took a calculated risk, Selina. I left because Dick had a greater chance with you than Freeze’s next victims did alone.”

“Potential victims,” Selina corrects, chest and face growing hot with ire. “Robin was dying then, and you were more worried about imaginary future casualties.” She does everything in her power to keep her voice down. She isn't all that successful. “How can you say you care when you're putting nonexistent victims over him?”

Bruce walks around the cot, boots silent but cape rustling. “Don't say I don't care. Don't you dare say that.” He remains a few feet from Selina, but his presence is intimidating enough to make her want to step back.

But she doesn't step back. She steps so far forward that she has to look up to glare at him. “He almost died, Batman,” she hisses. “No matter what I did, he just kept getting colder. I was thirty seconds from taking him to a hospital when you showed up. You say that you took a risk, but I was the one dealing with the aftermath.”

Bruce huffs. His breath is hot on Selina’s forehead. “I’m sorry you were inconvenienced. This was the best option for everyone.”

Selina snaps. “I wasn't inconvenienced! Robin was dying! I don't want an apology; I want you to put him first!” Her breath catches in her throat. This is hitting a bit too close to home. If she closes her eyes, she can hear her own words coming from her mother’s mouth. She can see her father lashing out at her mother. She can feel her father take it out on herself.

“You promised to protect Gotham,” Selina continues shakily. “But you’re legally obligated to protect Robin. You swore to care for him. So take care of him, goddamnit!”

And for the first time ever, Selina watches Bruce’s expression muddy with guilt. “I’m trying to make this work,” he says in a small voice. “I’m not… I thought having similar backgrounds would be enough. I… I treated him like I’d want to be treated. Like an equal. But he’s…” He swallows hard, glancing over at the boy. “I’m trying to help him the only way I know how to. But I guess that’s… that’s not enough.”

Selina shakes her head. “No. It’s not.”

Bruce sighs heavily, mops his face with a hand, and turns to face the sleeping boy. “He needs Robin. I can’t take that from him.”

“Why not? You’re just putting him in danger.”

“You don’t get it. He’ll… He’s already tried going out on his own. Even before he was Robin. Letting him work with me is my way of keeping him safe. So I can keep an eye on him. But Gotham has always been the main mission. If I can’t treat him as an equal, how am I supposed to work effectively?”

“Adjust your priorities.” Selina stands, placing a hesitant hand on Bruce’s shoulder. He doesn’t brush her off. “If Robin is your way of protecting him, you can’t put Gotham first.”

“That’s not how this works.”

Selina spins Bruce to face her, nails digging into his armor. He doesn’t push her away. “Listen to me,” she growls. “You know what it’s like to have an absent father. I know what it’s like to have an abusive one. Don’t subject him to both.”

Bruce steps away, folding his arms and letting his cape swallow him up. “I’m not his father. I’m just here to help him.”

“Apparently so,” Selina agrees, tone sharp. “But that’s not what he needs, Bruce.” She spits his name like a curse. “He needs someone to protect him. Someone to raise him. You had the butler. Robin has an angsty teen drill sergeant that sees him as expendable.”

“Don’t say that,” Bruce seethes.

“I don’t need to. Your actions proved it.”

Bruce huffs. Silence lapses for a moment. Then he speaks up, as an afterthought, “I’m not a teenager. I’m twenty-two.”

“So barely an adult. That’s so much better.” Selina rolls her eyes. “Look, here’s what I’m saying, straight up. You need to take better care of this kid, or I’ll be tailing you every time Batman goes out. You will never know a moment of peace because someone has to protect the kid.”

Bruce scowls, eyes so intense that he must be trying to fry a hole through her skull. Then he gives a petulant sneer, further convincing Selina that he’s too young to be in charge of a child. “Fine. You’re… You’re right or… or whatever. I’ll… I’ll do better.”

“Oh, I know you will,” Selina replies, smirking and reclaiming her chair at Robin’s side. “Because until I’m certain you’ve changed, I will be watching you.”

“A criminal stalker,” Bruce muses sarcastically, sitting in his own chair. “How wonderful.”

They sit in silence for another minute. As if sensing the tension, Robin - Dick - winces, dragging his eyes open. “B?” he mumbles.

“I’m here,” Bruce promises, taking the boy’s offered hand. “Right here, chum. Not going anywhere.”

He certainly won't. Selina will make sure of that.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

the thing about many comics is that they will list female characters at the VERY edge of underweight for their height (or just straight up underweight) and then list male characters at the edge or well into overweight for their height and blame both on “muscle.”

Dick Grayson at 5 ft 10 and 175 lbs (general canon average) is overweight by BMI. Cassandra Cain at 5’5 and 110 lbs is underweight by BMI. and I’ve seen female characters as tall as 5’9 getting down to 110-115 lbs in canon estimates.

carrying extra muscle rarely means carrying less weight overall. Dick Grayson might be a BMI outlier for having more muscle than the average human (making his slightly overweight BMI arguably healthy) but being underweight and carrying a higher proportion of muscle than the average human rarely benefits women.

time to get real, DC. I want my 5’5+ women ripped and somewhere between 130-150. If they’re carrying more muscle, it just makes sense. if it’s for “agility” then why is Dick Grayson allowed to be overweight by BMI?

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

No one:

Ohio: let's put speed bumps in a 35mph zone

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

I love the phrase "made it from scratch." Because it's like, "yeah I made this cake from dirt and tumbleweeds. I ground flour out of garbage and stole an egg from the elitists' chicken coop. Enjoy"

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Medication instructions read like the magic rules from Gremlins

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Children Shouldn't Gamble With Dead Things (Part 3)

When Bruce warned Dick about Two-Face, he set one inflexible rule:

Don't make deals with the devil.

But with the stakes this high, Dick has to do something. So here he is, flipping a coin with Harvey Dent.

Part 1

Part 2

---

“Well?”

Master Bruce hands the letter back to Alfred and turns away, staring out the window.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

The following silence is deafening.

“I expected better of you, Master Bruce.”

Still, he says nothing.

“The lad is injured, upset, and missing. Aren’t you going to do something? Do you even care?”

Master Bruce turns back to Alfred, shoulders tense. “Harvey Dent escaped tonight. Two-Face is free.”

Alfred feels sick.

“Man the comms,” Master Bruce orders. “Watch for Two-Face sightings. I’ll find Dick.”

Heart in his throat, Alfred nods. He’s immediately on his feet and headed for the Batcave. Master Bruce isn’t far behind, silent.

In all of Alfred’s years of caring for him, Master Bruce has expressed three distinct forms of silence. The first is companionable, reserved only for those he’s closest with. The second (and most common) occurs when he’s thinking. He takes in new environments. He picks up little details and forms an analysis with it, like life is simply a logic puzzle, begging to be solved. And the third is for when Master Bruce’s head is filled with something other than thought. It happens when his emotions rampage in his mind like a herd of carnivorous rhinos. He becomes overwhelmed, stuck inside his head as he desperately tries to control the situation.

Today, Master Bruce’s silence is of the third kind. And Alfred is silent too, giving Master Bruce the space to wrangle his thoughts.

And to be honest, Alfred’s mind is raging a bit too. So the silence isn’t unwelcome. It’s the closest thing to relief that either of them will feel until Dick is found.

---

Dick left too soon. He was barely ready to walk, much less sneak out of the manor and roam the streets of Gotham. He should have waited - let himself heal a bit more - before he ran away.

But Dick needed to get out immediately. He couldn’t stand to be some useless little kid, staying in Bruce’s home and eating Alfred’s food without providing anything in return. If he had to stay in that bed for another five minutes, he would have lost his mind.

But now Dick’s out on the street, slinged arm tucked inside a red hoodie. His ribs are still a horrific shade of purple, though it’s beginning to yellow around the edges. He aches and he’s tired and his head spins a bit, but he keeps moving. He doubts Bruce is looking for him - and why would he? - so he’s not concerned about Batman catching up to him. The police, however, are bound to see a kid wandering around at 10 AM on a Tuesday and get suspicious. And that’s a one-way trip back to the manor.

Or…

No. Bruce would probably send him back to the youth center. What’s the point in keeping him? He’s not Robin. And Bruce doesn’t want a son.

So Dick keeps moving, even as his injuries wear on him. Even as his torso shrieks in pain. Even as his arm begins to throb and he gets lightheaded. The pain medicine must be wearing off. And Dick didn’t take any with him, so he simply endures it.

Doing his best to be discreet, Dick hops on a bus and rides it to Old Gotham. He hides behind a tall man during the ride, doing his best to keep his face covered (Gotham buses have more security cameras than the White House), but no one calls him out. The tall man doesn’t turn around and say, “Aha! You’re runaway Dick Grayson! I’m sending you back to the youth center!” He minds his business. Dick is just paranoid.

Gotham Public Library is a short five-minute walk from the bus stop. Dick makes it in fifteen. His body is starting to shut down, which is absolutely not in the escape plan. He musters all his strength and slips in through the library side door, sitting down at one of the computers. Dick doesn’t stay long. Just long enough to google “Haly’s Circus tour dates.”

Haly’s isn’t close. Not even a little. They’re currently in Tampa. But that’s okay, because Dick could stand a few days on a Greyhound bus. To be honest, it sounds like a relief. Dick could get a little sleep. He could definitely use a nap-

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” An elderly woman is gently tapping his good arm, concern cemented in the lines of her face.

Dick sits up. He must have fallen asleep at the computer. He blinks a few times (the lights are getting unbearable, and the painkillers have definitely worn off), trying to get his bearings.

“I… I’m okay,” he replies, trying and failing to give her a charming Flying Graysons smile.

But the woman isn’t convinced. “Did someone hurt you?”

And it’s a fair question. He is sporting a fair number of bruises and bandages.

“No,” he lies. “I fell off my bike.”

She's still frowning, expression reeking of concern. “Are you here all alone?”

Dick resents that question. Because first of all, Dick is plenty old enough to be in a library by himself, thank you very much. And secondly, if she thinks Dick is alone, she's probably going to call the police.

And Dick won’t let them take him back to the center. Never again.

“No. My, uh, my dad’s in the car. Our wi-fi went out, and I have an assignment due today. Online school, yanno?” Dick doesn’t know if online school is even a real thing, but the woman doesn’t call him on it. She just frowns deeper, eyes flicking to the computer screen, still open on Haly’s Circus tour dates.

“Can I talk to him? I want to make sure you’re safe.”

Darn it.

“Um… yeah. Yeah, he’s in the, um, the white Honda in the parking lot. But, um. I really need to use the bathroom, so I’ll catch up with you?”

The woman smiles sadly. “That’s okay, dear. The bathroom’s right there. I’ll wait for you.”

Dick almost cries. He’s in so much pain, and he’s so tired, and he’s so through with fighting people that he almost collapses on the floor and has a full-on toddler tantrum.

But he doesn’t, because Dick was Robin, once. He’s smart and capable and good at what he does.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, shuffling over to the bathroom. The minute the door shuts behind him, he searches the walls, trying to find a window. But Dick isn’t lucky enough to find one. The room is completely boxed in without an escape route in sight.

Dick sighs, splashes water from the sink on his face, and towels off, feeling stray drops hit his forehead. Then he returns to the woman.

“Let’s go see your dad, okay, hon?”

Dick nods, blinking away stars. “Yeah.”

They leave through the library’s main entrance, and (as expected) there are at least three white Hondas in the lot.

“Which one is it, dear?”

Dick picks the one at the far end of the lot. “That one.”

The woman’s brow furrows, worry sparking in her eyes. “That’s my car.”

Aaand that’s Dick’s exit. He turns and sprints away, his body screaming with every jolt. Each stride threatens to disappear beneath him, spilling him onto the concrete. But Dick really can’t afford this right now. He needs to get out of here before the librarian calls the police.

He runs for as long as he can. It isn’t nearly as long as he’d hoped. Busted up like this, he can’t do much of anything for too long. He can’t go down alleys either, which is proving to make his life more and more difficult each second that he spends out in the open. He needs a place to hide.

Now.

---

Bruce doesn’t usually patrol during the day. He’s done it once or twice before, but it’s always done out of necessity, not habit.

And today, it’s definitely a necessity.

“Penny-One, any hits?”

“Negative on both counts.”

“Not even the trackers?”

“No. It seems Master Dick took it upon himself to dig the trackers out of his trainers.”

“How did he even know they were there?” Bruce mutters, more to himself than Alfred. Alfred replies anyway.

“He was trained by you, sir.”

Bruce never should have taken him on as Robin. Truly, genuinely, if he hadn’t done any of this, Dick would be safe and healthy. As usual, the blame lands solidly on Bruce’s shoulders. (Or he believes it does, anyway.)

Bruce arrives at the apartment building at Gibson and Schwartz. He doesn’t waste time getting out of the car, instead popping the top of the Batmobile and grappling to the apartment roof.

It’s an old building, rife with the city’s infamous Gothic architecture. This includes, of course, a wide array of gargoyles. Dick’s favorite gargoyle is up here, and Bruce has found him hiding behind it more than once. Unfortunately, this is not the case today.

Bruce had suspected as much. Unless Dick had made a heat-of-the-moment decision, he wouldn’t have come to such an obvious spot. But still, Bruce had to try.

And now that the gargoyle is safely ruled out, Bruce can use the current facts to guide his investigation.

Fact: Dick is injured.

So Dick is either close to the manor or took some form of transportation. A bus or a taxi. The subway, possibly, but less likely due to the distance between the subway station and the manor. 

Fact: Dick said that he was going to “move on” and that he wasn’t sure what he was “supposed to do” if he wasn’t working as Robin.

Meaning the boy intends to go somewhere where he will know what to do. Where he does have a purpose. This could be anything, really, but as a nine-year-old, he knows very few ways to live his life. One is Robin. The other is the circus.

Fact: Dick didn’t take anything with him. His suit, equipment, and phone were left behind.

Though it’s not certain, Bruce feels comfortable inferring that Dick doesn’t intend to work as Robin on his own. At least until proven otherwise. If he really was going to be Robin, he would have taken at least some of his gear. A grapple gun. Maybe a few smoke bombs.

And if Dick doesn’t plan on being Robin, then he’s probably trying to find Haly’s Circus.

“Penny-One, where is Haly’s Circus currently touring?”

“One moment, sir… They’re in Tampa for the next week.”

“Got it.”

But one thing is not quite right.

Fact: Dick left his phone, and Haly’s isn’t in his search history.

Bruce knows, because he looked. It was the first thing he did. Some might interpret this as a sign that Dick isn’t looking for his old troupe, but Bruce knows better. He knows that before Robin, Haly’s was his only family. He wanted nothing more than to return to them, even after Bruce took him in.

So Dick doesn’t want Bruce to know where he’s going. He purposefully didn’t look up anything regarding Haly’s or his escape. He doesn’t know where Haly’s is, but he’s intent on finding out.

“Sir, I’ve intercepted a GCPD report that may be of interest.”

“Play it back,” Bruce orders, jumping off the building and allowing the grapple to ease his descent. 

“3014,” a woman’s voice crackles. “London at Amnesty. Suspected runaway. RP reported a male subject sleeping at the library. Subject was injured and ran away when asked about his parents. White male, ten-to-twelve years, dark hair, red jacket, blue jeans.”

Bruce hops in the Batmobile and peels out towards Gotham Public Library. Dick - assuming that report is about Dick - may have gotten some distance away by now, but he’s hurt. He can’t have made it far.

---

The Greyhound bus station is around here somewhere. Surely it’s in the financial district or maybe along the border of Old Gotham. But Dick has never been there before, and without a phone to look it up, he's flying blind. He makes random turns and crosses streets aimlessly. At best, he randomly runs into the station. And if that doesn't happen, he’ll at least leave a difficult trail to follow. His head is foggy, but he believes his logic to be sound.

“-escaped Arkham. If you see this man on the street, do not engage-”

Dick stops dead in his tracks, poking his head through the open cafe door. A TV above the barista bar shows a newscaster speaking beside a massive photo of Two-Face. Below the picture, in large font, are the words “MURDERER ESCAPES.” Dick tastes bile.

“Two-Face is incredibly dangerous and will cut you in half if that’s his prerogative. Twins and people born on February second should take extra caution when coming home tonight. We’ll keep you updated as the situation develops. Back to you, Betty.”

Alfred taught Dick all about the nervous system. He knows about the sympathetic response. That “fight, flight, or freeze” instinct. Unfortunately for Dick, none of those options are viable. Dick couldn’t win a fight against a day-old puppy, much less Two-Face and his goons. Flight is also impossible unless the Greyhound station is the next store over. (It is not, in fact, the next store over. That honor goes to a dual ballet studio and boxing gym.) And freezing has never been a choice.

But there’s an alternative. It’s arguably a form of flight, but it’s much kinder on Dick’s aching ribs and spinning head.

Hide.

“-okay?”

Dick blinks. Then he groans. He fell asleep. Again. Standing up. “Sorry,” he mutters, sitting up. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Are you… You look real busted up. Come inside, okay?”

Dick struggles to his feet, but he falls to one knee the second he straightens up.

“Whoa!” the barista says, grabbing under Dick’s arm. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurtcha. I just wanna get you off the sidewalk. There’s some bad guys out there today.”

It comes back to him. Two-Face. Two-Face is free.

Dazedly, Dick lets the teen pull him up and walk him to a cafe table. He all but collapses in the chair, even the slightest movement blurring his vision and setting his nerves on fire.

“There y’go,” the barista says reassuringly. “You’re alright.”

“Thanks,” Dick grunts, one arm coming up to guard his ribs.

“Molly,” the barista calls to his coworker behind the bar. “Couldja grab him a hot chocolate?”

And then he turns back to Dick, worry creasing his brow. “Are your parents around here somewhere?”

And Dick doesn’t have the energy to lie. “No,” he says, taking shallow breaths.

“Yeah.” The barista doesn’t question it. Like the librarian, he’s probably familiar with Gotham’s chaos. He knows better than to dig too deep. “Is there somewhere for you to go? Can I take you to the clinic or something? Dr. Thompkins’s place is down the street.”

Dr. Thompkins?

If Dick goes to Leslie, she’ll no doubt tell Bruce right away. And then he’ll get scolded and taken back to the manor. Back to that cold, stifling, tension-rife house that stopped being Dick’s home when Robin ended.

“No,” Dick pleads. “No, I can’t… I can’t go there. I don’t… I can’t…”

“Dick.”

That isn’t the barista talking. It isn’t the barista’s coworker. It’s deep and gravelly and oh-so distinct.

Batman.

“No,” Dick says, heart racing in his chest. He stumbles out of the chair and crashes to the ground. He pushes himself back, trying to just get away.

“Hey,” the barista says, stepping between Batman and Dick. “Leave him alone.”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Batman growls. And oh. He’s angry.

“It’s in the cafe. Pretty sure it does concern me. And if you think you’re gonna hurt a kid, y’better think again.”

The lenses of Batman’s cowl narrow. He chews on his tongue. “Dick,” he says simply, looking over the teenager’s head. “Bruce is very worried about you.”

Dick scowls. “Yeah, right. He doesn’t need me anymore. He doesn’t want me. So just leave me alone.”

“Bruce is sorry,” Batman insists. “He never should have taken that away from you. And he’s willing to negotiate. And he… He wants to talk to you. He’s scared.”

And that makes Dick hesitate. Because Bruce? Admitting he’s afraid?

Dick never thought it’d happen. Never.

“Two-Face escaped,” Batman continues. “If he found you, Bruce would never forgive himself.”

“I’ll go back to talk,” Dick agrees begrudgingly. “But I’m not staying.”

“That’s okay, chum. That’s alright.”

The barista looks between the two. “I… feel like I’m missing something.”

“Here.” Batman shoves a wad of cash in the tip jar. “Thank you for protecting him.”

“I was protecting him from you,” the barista says, more and more confused by the second. “I… Kid, you don’t have to go with him.”

Dick nods, painfully pulling himself up and leaning against a booth. “I know. I want to.”

“You’re sure?”

Dick looks at Batman. Even under the cowl, he’s devastated. Dick never thought he cared that much. And maybe this is just an act. But Batman doesn’t have emotions. Bruce does. So Batman, wrecked and desperate?

“Yeah,” Dick assures him. “I’m sure.”

---

The drive back is silent. Not in an awkward, not-sure-what-to-say kind of way. No, it's actually surprisingly relaxed.

But that's probably because Dick is asleep the whole time.

Bruce kind of prefers it this way. There’s no awkward, forced small talk. No bursts of outrage. No tension at all. Just Bruce and his overwhelming guilt.

Dick doesn’t look good. Bruce doesn’t know what he looked like when he first ran away (Bruce actively avoided the boy after breaking the news about Robin), but he probably looks worse. The kid managed to escape his watch for nearly a full day. The painkillers likely wore off ages ago. Dick put a ton of undue stress on his injuries just by walking, much less crossing the city.

And only Bruce is to blame for this. Dick is a kid. Or… he was a kid. Before his parents fell. Now he’s caught in the in-between, with the problems and trauma of a full grown man but the mind and body of a child.

Bruce knows the feeling well. And he knows what chaos can come of it. How much violence and fear and pain results. If Dick was illogical in running away (and he was), Bruce can’t hold him accountable. Even if he wants to.

No. This is Bruce’s fault. Even if Robin needed to end, Bruce should’ve stuck around. He assumed Dick just needed space. Time to think. He thought his presence would only mock Dick. After all, why would the ex-Robin ever want to see Batman? Why would he want to be reminded of what he lost?

But if Bruce is to believe Dick’s letter (and he does), it seems distance was exactly the opposite of what Dick needed. It made him feel isolated and unwanted. A nuisance. Bruce dropping out of his life made him think that if he wasn’t Robin, Bruce didn’t want him. (Didn’t need him.)

“Ugh.”

In the corner of Bruce’s eye, he sees Dick shift, hissing as the movement jars his ribs.

“...B?” Dick sounds confused.

“Dick,” he says back. “We’re almost there.”

“‘There…’” Dick echoes, rubbing his forehead. “The Cave. Right.”

“You’re still okay with that?” Bruce almost hits his head off the steering wheel. He shouldn’t even give Dick an opening to get out of this. As Dick’s guardian, Bruce has every right to bring him home. Dick really doesn’t have an option here.

But Dick is amiable, if exhausted. “Yeah,” he agrees, mopping his face with his good hand. “It’s cool.”

And that’s a relief, because Bruce is currently pulling the Batmobile into the Cave. He gets out and waits for Dick to do the same. When Dick doesn’t open the door, Bruce circles the car and pulls it open himself.

“You okay, chum?”

Dick stares ahead, eyes slightly unfocused. “Um. Yeah. Gimme a second, B.”

So, impatiently, Bruce waits, pulling his cowl off and jamming his gloves between his belt and his suit. After a long minute, Bruce stoops again, holding out a hand to Dick.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he urges. “Let’s get you out of there.”

Too slowly, Dick turns to look at him, grabs his hand, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. The moment he’s upright, his knees give out, and Bruce has to slip one arm behind the boy’s back and the other under his knees. It’s an easy, practiced motion, if only because Bruce expected the boy to go down sooner or later. He’d left the manor far too soon. He’d stayed out far too long.

And the fact only makes Bruce’s guilt intensify.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred is looking across the Cave at him, and even from this distance, Bruce can see the tension in his shoulders. His hands are fluttering over the drug cart, already prepping an IV.

“He’s okay,” Bruce says, though he doesn’t know that. In fact, he’s moving faster than Alfred is, hurried steps taking Dick to the med bay.

“M’okay,” Dick murmurs softly, though his eyes still won’t focus. “S’all good.”

“What hurts, chum?” Bruce asks, setting the boy down on a cot.

“‘m just…” He hums, closes his eyes, and then slowly blinks them open again. “Just tired, B. And…” Dick searches for the right word, his good arm curling across his ribs. “Hurts.”

“What hurts?” Bruce asks, connecting the vitals monitor while Alfred throws in an IV.

Dick considers this. Or he looks like he considers it, anyway.

“... yes.”

“Uninsightful as ever, Master Dick,” Alfred tuts softly. “Look at my nose,” he orders, shining a penlight in Dick’s eyes.

Bruce lets Alfred fuss over the boy, helping where he can and stepping back when he can’t, trying to stay out of the way. When Alfred is done assessing and has adjusted medications accordingly, Dick is still awake and relatively aware, watching Alfred with a passive interest.

“You’re not to leave this bed,” Alfred orders. “Understood?”

“‘course, Alfie.”

“Prepare to face dish duty if you break that promise.”

Dick whines appropriately. While normally an annoyance, Bruce is happy to hear Dick’s complaining. It means he’s still with them. It means he’s alive and here and safe.

“Alfred.”

The butler turns towards Bruce, one eyebrow arched. “Sir?”

“Have there been any updates on Two-Face?”

Alfred’s expression sours. “No. And if you suggest returning to the streets to find him, I may put you on bedrest as well, sir.”

It goes against Bruce’s every instinct. Because knowing Two-Face is out there? Free and capable of killing innocents?

The last thing Bruce wants to do is stand by and watch it happen.

“Need I remind you of what happened the last time you abandoned the boy? Or is yesterday recent enough for you to recall?

Bruce scowls, but point taken. “I remember, Alfred.”

“Good. Then perhaps you’ll heed my counsel this time.”

“You were right,” Bruce agrees. “No need to remind me.”

“Respectfully, I think there was a need, but I appreciate your attempt at character growth.”

“You’re dismissed, Alfred.”

Alfred walks away without another word, but Bruce doesn’t hear his footsteps up the stairs. He’s still in the Cave, though Bruce can’t tell if it’s to monitor Dick’s condition or to keep Bruce from saying something stupid.

“B?” Dick says, voice suddenly desperate as he tries to sit up. His gaze flicks around the room before settling on Bruce. He falls back against the pillow, expression easing a touch.

“I’m here.”

“B, I’m…” He sighs, twisting the blankets with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry. I never shoulda… I shoulda known it was a trap, but… B, I thought he was gonna kill you. I didn’t want to…” His eyes water, but he stubbornly looks up, trying to keep the tears from leaking out. “I couldn’t lose you. Not after…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

“I know,” Bruce assures him, sitting on the edge of the bed and running a hesitant hand through Dick’s hair. The boy leans into his touch, and he repeats the motion, slightly more confident. “And I never should have put you in that position. That’s why you can’t be Robin. You shouldn’t have to make that choice. And the rogues see Robin as a target. I can’t make you some bartering chip in Batman’s mission.”

Dick tenses. “No. No, you can’t take that from me,” he insists, fatigue softening the intensity of his conviction. “I’m Robin. I can’t… I can’t go back to being… I can’t be an orphan for the rest of my life, B.”

Bruce frowns. “What do you-? Wait. Robin isn’t Batman’s kid.”

The boy looks away, expression breaking. A tear slips down his cheek. “I… I know.” But his tone isn’t one of knowledge. It’s one of realization. He’s just now seeing it the way Bruce does.

“Did you…?” Bruce’s hand hovers near Dick’s face, but he can’t bring himself to brush away the tear. He doesn’t deserve to comfort the boy. “Did you think this was conditional? I’m not kicking you out for not being Robin. I took you in to help you, not to fill a position.”

“You fired me,” Dick seethes, voice strengthening with pure ire. “Of course you were filling a position!” He pushes himself up, catching himself on his hands when vertigo almost pulls him back down. Bruce reaches out to help, and Dick swats his hands away. “How could you pretend to care when you stopped caring after Robin died? You never wanted me. And now you don’t even want Robin. Don’t lie.”

“I-” Bruce is taken aback. He knows just how angry Dick can get. But this is a new level. “Of course I still want you. I was giving you space.”

Dick scowls, tears falling freely now. “Liar. You’re Batman. You’ve always been Batman. Bruce Wayne isn’t a real person. He doesn’t want me because he doesn’t exist. And if Batman doesn’t want Robin, then no one wants Dick Grayson.” He watches Bruce with unrivaled fury. “Why did you bring me back? So you could reject me again? Just let me…” His breath catches in his throat, strength failing him. He buries his face in the pillow. “Just let me go, B,” he mumbles.

Bruce swallows hard. He isn’t a father. He’s never been a guardian before. But he’d thought…  He’d just assumed that having that similar history - that sharing a tragic past - would tie them. Even if Dick wasn’t Robin, Bruce thought they’d still have that. But now it’s quite clear:

Both Bruce and Dick watched their parents die. But Dick was the only one who got a taste of belonging after, only to have it taken away.

To Bruce, Batman is a duty. An obligation to prevent others from facing the same tragedy as him. But to Dick, Robin is an opportunity. A chance to have a family again. A chance to feel wanted again.

And Bruce neglected that critical difference.

“What can I do?” Bruce asks, softening his voice. “I can’t let you get hurt.”

Dick ignores him.

“Dick, chum, I…”

What can he say? Bruce cares about Dick. He’s warmed up to the boy’s cheesy humor and easy demeanor. He’s grown to like (and perhaps love) this child, but Bruce has no clue how to express it.

Because Bruce is a man who rarely shows his face. Not when Batman occupies his every waking thought. So Dick has a point. If Bruce is only Batman and Batman got rid of Robin, then who’s supposed to care about Dick Grayson? Not only has Bruce taken away Dick’s chance to seek justice, but he’s also taken away his only hope at being loved.

God, this is depressing.

“Dick, let’s…” He rests a tentative hand on Dick’s back. The boy doesn’t flinch away. “We’ll talk about Robin again. I swear. I shouldn’t have taken that from you. But I don’t think… I don’t know what to do right now. Can we wait a bit? Let’s get you better first. Then we can come back to Robin.”

Dick turns onto his side, watching Bruce with bloodshot, betrayed eyes. “You’re just trying to shut me up. You’ll fire me again the second I’m better.”

“No,” Bruce says softly, brushing back Dick’s hair. “I… I care about you, chum. I don’t know if I’ve ever been as scared as…” He takes a deep breath, hand settling heavily on Dick’s neck. He can feel the boy’s pulse against his palm, and it reassures him, if only slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was watching Dent hurt you. And you were so still, I… God, I thought you were gone.” He shakes his head, trying to force the thought from his mind. “I’ll admit, I don’t know how I care about you. I don’t know if it’s Bruce or Batman or some weird in-between, but I can say with complete confidence that I care about you. Not Robin. You. Dick.”

Dick’s skepticism melts into something far more vulnerable. Something far more childlike than this world-weary nine-year-old has ever expressed. His good hand comes up to grab Bruce’s hand. He sighs, almost content. Uncertain, but perhaps hopeful.

“I care about you too,” the boy admits. He closes his eyes, but he doesn’t release Bruce’s hand. “Can you… stay? At least for a little?”

“I’m not leaving you, chum,” Bruce swears. “Not ever again.”

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Children Shouldn't Gamble With Dead Things (Part 2)

When Bruce warned Dick about Two-Face, he set one inflexible rule:

Don't make deals with the devil.

But with the stakes this high, Dick has to do something. So here he is, flipping a coin with Harvey Dent.

Part 1

Part 3

---

There are few things that can rattle a seasoned detective. Murder is a daily event, sometimes more. Abuse, harassment, threats, all par for the course. Gore and greed and desperation will barely phase them. But kids?

… well, kids bother first responders. A lot of first responders. Detectives, unless specialized in the area, are no exception. And even then, there’s no guarantee.

So Police Captain Jim Gordon is having a hell of a time trying not to be bothered by this.

“Maybe you misunderstood me?” Two-Face - Harvey Dent, Gotham City’s once-finest DA - is looking at Gordon with a condescending grin, cuffed hands folded neatly.

Gordon leans forward on the table, the blood-stained bat still clutched in his hand. “What happened at the warehouse?”

“Let me make this real easy for you, Gordon,” Dent says in a mockingly sweet voice. “The boy is dead.”

“Who is dead?”

“Robin!” Dent jumps to his feet, leaning forward so they’re practically nose-to-nose. His breath smells like mint and onions. “The Bat’s little pal is off flying with the angels now.”

“Watch yourself, Dent,” Ritter warns, but Dent pays him no mind.

“The brat’s taking a dirt-nap, just like Watkins. Though, to be fair, His Honor is actually sleeping with the fishes. So, yes. You could call it double homicide. I’d be okay with that.”

It's appalling, how brazen Dent is. How proud he is. He's an attorney. (Or he was one, anyway.) He knows he doesn't have to tell Gordon anything. He knows he can ask for his legal team and end the interrogation there. But he doesn't, because he wants to confess. He wants to see Gordon’s expression. He’s living for it.

Ritter drops his hands on Dent’s shoulders and forces him to sit down.

“I’ll only be confessing to my lawyer from here on out.” And then Dent lets out a cackle that sounds so much like Harvey and simultaneously not at all like Harvey.

Gordon doesn't attempt to keep his cool. He storms out of the interrogation room, bat still in hand.

“You okay, Captain?” It's Mitchell.

In any other situation, Gordon would say he's fine. But this isn't another situation.

“No. No, I’m not,” he grumbles. “I once counted that maniac as a friend. But right now, I’d like nothing better than to send him straight to hell.”

“So where do you you want us?” It's a new voice. Rosenzweig.

“Head back to that damn warehouse, Rosenzweig. See if the harbor patrol has dredged up Watkins’ body.”

“Want me to go too?” Mitchell asks, but Gordon shakes his head.

“I need you canvassing the hospitals, starting with Gotham General.”

“What am I looking for?”

Gordon pinches the bridge of his nose, stifling a sigh. “A John Doe, DOA. A kid. Eight to twelve years old. Black hair. Beaten to death.”

He doesn't stick around for questions. This is bothering him. It bothers him far more than it should, and he's not certain as to why. It's a kid - that's the first problem - but Gordon has seen kid vics before. No, this is different. Because this isn't just a kid who died. It’s not even just a kid who died at the hands of Harvey Dent.

No. Gordon is bothered because the kid that Gordon had warned Batman not to bring to crime scenes is dead. And he’s dead because Batman took him out to fight crime. Because Batman put his crusade over the kid’s safety.

Gordon’s not just pissed. He’s livid.

“Heya, Captain,” Anderson greets, barely looking up from her computer. “I thought you swore off smoking?”

Gordon grips the offending box tighter in his hand. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what she thinks. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks. If he has to choose between a few cigarettes and a miserable binge-drinking session, he’ll pick the cigarettes every time.

The captain hasn’t even made it to the roof before he’s digging in his pocket for a lighter, shaky hands lighting a shaky cigarette. But he manages, because he must, and throws the roof door open. He paces over to the giant spotlight and flips its switch. The light hums to life, a giant bat projecting into the sky.

“Batman,” Gordon mutters under his breath. “What the hell have you done?”

---

Alfred was uncertain. He doubted. He thought the boy was good for Master Bruce, but he’d been hesitant to say the same of Robin for Batman.

But now, months into Robin’s tenure, Alfred is willing to concede. The outlet seems to be good for the boy. And the boy seems to brighten Bruce’s mood greatly. And with few safety concerns realized, Alfred is willing to admit that he was wrong. Perhaps Robin isn’t such a bad idea after all.

And then the Batmobile screeches into the Cave, and Master Bruce hops out with the lad limp and bloody in his arms.

Alfred takes it all back. This was a horrible idea.

“Alfred, he’s dying.” Master Bruce’s jaw is set, the boy clutched to his chest like he never wants to let go.

“What happened?” Alfred demands. He takes one look at the boy and points to the stairs. “Take that cowl off. Now. Then start the van.”

The van, not the Batmobile, because even if it's faster, Master Bruce would never permit an identity breach like that.

Master Bruce obeys, setting the boy down on a medical cot like he’s made of china and eggshell and rushing up to the manor.

Alfred’s medical training kicks in like he’d never left the service. His fingers fly to Master Dick’s throat, his other hand digging a knuckle into the boy’s sternum. The boy groans, but it’s muffled. Gargled, almost.

Alfred’s stomach sinks, and he grabs the code cart, rushing it over to the boy. Then he rips open the airway drawer and takes the intubation kit. Judging by the bruising and the snoring sound of Master Dick’s breathing, the boy’s throat must be swelling shut. And Alfred doesn’t have much time before this task gets infinitely more difficult.

And then he realizes his mistake. Dick Grayson is a boy. A child. The medical supplies that work for Master Bruce will never work on a nine-year-old. Alfred feels fear creep up his spine. The boy needs a tube now.

And Alfred doesn’t have one. Not one that will fit a child’s airway. Stupidly, Alfred hadn’t even considered that this might be an issue. That the boy would even patrol with Bruce long enough to be hurt.

For half a moment, Alfred considers giving in. Considers calling an ambulance, identity be damned.

But even a few minutes is too long. Alfred has to manage this airway now. He doesn’t have time to wait. The boy doesn’t have time to wait.

So Alfred goes for the few multi-sized supplies he has. He finds the smallest oral airway he has and puts it in the boy’s mouth, pushing the tongue out of the trachea’s way. His throat is still swelling. It’s still an issue. But it’s the best he can do for the moment.

Alfred is lucky enough to have a mask small enough to seal over the boy’s face. He provides artificial breaths with an ambu bag. “HURRY UP, SIR!” he screams, wondering if Master Bruce can even hear him. But he has to try, because until there’s a second set of hands, Alfred can’t tend to the boy’s injuries. He has to wait.

Master Bruce returns thirty-five seconds later. It feels like thirty-five minutes.

“Alfred, what-?”

“Come here,” Alfred orders. “Take the bag from me and do exactly as I’m doing now. Hold a tight seal on the mask. Squeeze the bag gently every three seconds. Watch for chest rise and fall.”

Master Bruce follows his orders to the letter. Panic lines his eyes, but Alfred doesn’t have the time nor the faculty to pay attention to it. He goes through the motions, hands flying as he does only the most important of interventions.

“What happened?” Alfred demands, heart sinking when he fails to find a properly-sized c-collar.

“Two-Face,” Master Bruce says, breathless. “Blunt-force trauma. Wooden bat. Hits to the head, chest, abdomen, and… everywhere, really.”

“I can see that,” Alfred mutters under his breath. There’s a particularly concerning injury to the lad’s right arm - a compound open fracture, the white of bone shining behind the blood and torn muscle - but it's not the priority. There is, however, a rather nasty wound to the boy’s side, torn open and bleeding rather profusely. Alfred holds pressure to it, earning himself a muffled whine from Master Dick. The boy tries to roll away from Alfred’s hand, but Bruce sees it coming, grabbing the boy's shoulder before he can escape.

Alfred packs the wound and applies a pressure bandage, which only makes Master Dick cry out louder and squirm more, becoming (reassuringly) more responsive but (frustratingly) less cooperative.

“I know,” Master Bruce says, so quiet that Alfred almost doesn't hear him. It takes Alfred a moment more to realize that Master Bruce isn't speaking to him. He's speaking to the boy. “I know it hurts. Just stay alive, okay? Just stay with me.”

Master Bruce has never spoken like that. Not to anyone. It’s simultaneously sweet and nauseating. Because a situation so dire that it pulls a paternal instinct out of Master Bruce? That's something Alfred never thought he'd see. Not ever.

With no time to ponder on Master Bruce’s behavior, Alfred grabs the portable stretcher and lays it beside the boy.

“Master Bruce, stop ventilating for a moment. Hold c-spine.” It's almost pointless, when there’s no feasible way to hold c-spine and carry the stretcher, but Alfred is doing what he can with what he has. And this is what he has. This is what he can do. He just has to pray it's enough.

Master Bruce places one hand on either side of the boy's head, holding his neck straight. Alfred slips the edge of the stretcher under Master Dick’s back before easily sliding him over and securing him to the stretcher.

They carry the boy to the manor's garage. It feels like ages, but they manage to get the boy to the van and secure him inside. Just one more pair of hands would have made moving such a fragile patient ten times easier. Ten times faster.

Alfred immediately situates himself in the back, ripping open an IV kit. “Master Bruce,” he says. “Do hurry.”

Master Bruce scrambles into the front seat, slamming the door behind him. They're off like a shot. Alfred doesn't know if the Batmobile has ever moved this fast, much less the twenty-year-old family minivan.

“Master Dick?” Alfred calls the boy's name occasionally, hoping for some response. Sometimes he gets a moan, but sometimes he hears and sees no change in the boy's awareness.

It scares Alfred more than he’ll ever admit.

Master Bruce is frantic behind the wheel. Alfred can tell how desperately he wishes he could sit in the back with Master Dick, but he knows that Alfred is better suited to care for the boy. As a compromise, Alfred tries to provide a steady stream of updates. “The lad’s bleeding has slowed, thank heavens. But his throat is swelling, and I lack the proper supplies to intubate a child. I’ve placed an IV, but until we reach higher care, there's nothing more I can do for him but provide breaths. How long do you estimate until we reach the hospital, Master Bruce?”

“We’re not going to the hospital.” His tone is even, the way it always is, even when he says the most ludicrous of statements. “We’re going to Leslie’s.”

“You aren’t serious!”

But he’s always serious.

Alfred puts up a fight, but Master Bruce is insistent, going so far as to play the “legal guardian” card. Alfred is offended at best and appalled at worst, but for the boy’s sake, he lets it be. Master Bruce has clearly made up his mind, and arguing will only distract him from the road.

Leslie is waiting at the back door when they arrive.

“Broselow cart!” Alfred calls, and Leslie’s eyes go wide.

“Dammit!” She props the door open and rushes back inside. With luck, she has a cart. Without luck, the boy is dead.

By the time the boy has been transferred to a cot in the clinic, Leslie is cursing up a storm, ripping open the drawer of a rainbow-colored cart and pulling out properly-sized intubation supplies.

“Get the collar on him,” she orders, pulling the plastic airway from Master Dick’s airway and making her own intubation attempt.

Alfred slides the c-collar on while instructing Master Bruce to hook the boy up to the vitals monitor.

“Okay,” Leslie mutters, securing an ambu bag to the tube in the boy’s throat. She squeezes the bag, watching the boy’s chest rise and fall with the influx of air. “Okay.” She straightens, finally looking up.

“Alfred, take over bagging.”

Then Leslie lifts Master Dick’s eyelids, checking for pupillary reactions. Alfred doesn’t pay close attention, but he gets the feeling that the results aren’t ideal.

“Your field work is first-rate, as usual,” Leslie tells him. “But this boy needs an emergency room, not a back-alley clinic.”

“I share your assessment, Dr. Thompkins,” Alfred agrees, “though our mutual benefactor thinks otherwise.” He shoots Bruce a harsh glare, but Bruce refuses to meet his eyes. “After all, we have our secrets to preserve, do we not?”

“I’m already regretting my complicity in these ‘secrets,’” Leslie sighs. She pushes the blanket aside and gasps. “Sweet lord,” she breathes.

And she has every reason to be concerned. Master Dick’s torso is a Jackson Pollock of purple, blue, and black. Internal bleeding is putting it lightly.

“Bruce, what in god’s name happened to this boy??” Bruce turns away, and Leslie grabs his arm, pulling him back. “He looks like he's been through a thresher!”

Master Bruce doesn’t speak right away. Leslie is primarily focused on the boy - as is Alfred, still bagging dutifully - but even as she performs the secondary assessment, checking for signs of broken bones and different kinds of internal damage, she keeps a deadly silence. It’s obvious she’s waiting for a reply.

“Just take care of him, Leslie,” Master Bruce says, refusing to meet her eyes. “Alfred will explain everything.”

Alfred feels his stomach drop to his feet.

“You’re not leaving?” Leslie demands, grip tightening on Master Bruce’s sleeve. “Bruce, you can’t just-”

“I’m sorry,” he replies hurriedly. “I have to go. I need to make sure the person who did this is made accountable.”

“To hell with that, Bruce!” Leslie fumes. “I need extra hands!”

Master Bruce swallows hard. “I… Leslie, I… I can’t.”

Alfred has never known Master Bruce to be squeamish. Not in the slightest. But the tone in his voice is so genuinely pathetic that Alfred doesn’t argue with it.

“He’s going to die, Bruce,” Leslie insists.

“He won’t. He’s in the best hands.” And then Master Bruce slips out the door, heedless of Leslie’s persistent calls for him to come back.

“Dr. Thompkins,” Alfred says quietly. “I suggest we get a FAST exam and begin pharmacological interventions.”

Leslie huffs but doesn’t speak further on the topic. She remains dutifully attentive to the boy, even if she’s woefully understaffed and undersupplied for such a demanding patient. And Alfred helps, because damn him if this boy doesn’t survive the night.

It won’t happen. Not if Leslie and Alfred have a say in it.

---

“You’re late.”

Bruce knows. He can tell by the small mountain of cigarette butts at the commissioner’s feet. He must have smoked a full pack waiting for Bruce to arrive.

“Did you get him?” Bruce asks, flicking the Bat-Signal off. It powers down with a loud whir.

“Yeah.” Commissioner Gordon shakes a cigarette carton into his hand, but, as predicted, it’s completely empty. He huffs in frustration, tossing it over his shoulder and picking up the plastic-wrapped item beside him. “Two-Face and his twin Stooges were right where you said they’d be. We pulled Watkins out of the river an hour ago.” He stands. “What about your partner?”

It’s said casually. Maybe a bit judgmentally. Bruce knows how Gordon disapproves of Robin. And unfortunately, Bruce is starting to see his side of the argument. Dick wasn’t ready.

“I benched him for this one,” Bruce says. Even cowled, he can’t meet Gordon’s eyes. Not when guilt is weighing so heavily on his shoulders. Not when he was breathing for his partner just thirty minutes ago. “Watkins’s death is on my head alone.”

“WRONG!” And Gordon is so abrupt - so suddenly furious - that it breaks Bruce from his pity party. He looks over his shoulder, and Gordon is pointing the plastic-wrapped stick (the bat, still bloody and worn) at him. “Don’t lie to me!” Gordon fumes. “This isn’t Harvey Dent’s blood!”

Bruce keeps his voice level. The anonymity of the cowl helps uphold his facade of calm. “Robin’s alive.”

“Show me.” Gordon isn’t budging. Not an inch. His expression is rent, and Bruce is reminded of Gordon’s little girl, not much older than Dick. Of how personally Gordon must be taking this.

“You have to trust me on this, Jim,” Bruce says, voice softening. He steps up onto the ledge of the roof. Dent will pay for his crimes, and that’s what matters right now.

“If I find out otherwise, everything changes between us. Everything.”

“Robin’s retired.” Bruce slings his grappling hook out, catching on a distant ledge. “You have my word.”

As Bruce jumps, allowing gravity to swing him down and away, he hears Gordon’s parting words, bitter and grim:

“That used to mean something.”

Bruce can’t worry about him. Not right now.

---

Name: Richard (Dick) John Grayson

Leslie’s chest aches.

Age: 9 years, 11 months, 0 days

She’s seen it all before. Working here? Doing what she does? Of course she’s seen it all.

Mechanism of injury: beaten with baseball bat

But that doesn’t make this any less frustrating. In fact, the circumstances make her more irritated with it all.

Intubated appx. 1 hour post-injury. Difficult airway, required direct laryngoscopy. Remained intubated for 36 hours before coma score improved. Extubated without complication.

When she agreed to help Bruce with his night charade, she never agreed to this. She never knew Bruce would let a child patrol the streets with him. She never knew that she’d have to keep a critically injured child alive by herself because Bruce prioritized his secret over a kid’s life.

Secondary assessment identified a compound open fracture of the right arm, injured ribs (no x-ray available; severity unknown), head lac (no CT available; concussion suspected; severity unknown; coma score 15), laceration across right midaxillary (stitches required), and severe internal abdominal hemorrhage (exploratory laparotomy required).

Dick has been in and out for three days now. He’s not well enough to be moved - not yet - but Bruce has been nagging her ever since Dick’s vitals got within an acceptable range. He wants the boy back in the Cave, but Leslie isn’t sure she’ll take Dick anywhere but the hospital once he’s safely out of the woods. But for now, she keeps Dick where she can see him, because at least at the clinic, he’s safe from Bruce’s faulty judgment.

“... Mom?”

Leslie is at the boy’s side in an instant. “It’s Leslie,” she says softly. “Do you remember what happened?”

Dick takes a long moment to get his bearings. “... Two-Face.” His voice is still raspy from intubation.

“Yes. And do you remember where you are?”

“I’m… at your clinic.”

“Good. How do you feel?”

Dick hums. “Not amazing.” He looks past Leslie, eyes questioning. “Where’s B?”

Leslie fights a wave of anger. She doesn’t know where he is. Maybe it’s better that way.

“He’s out. Alfred will be here tonight, though.”

Dick’s eyes flit away, remorse lining his face. “Right,” he whispers.

He wants Bruce here. Even after everything, he wants Bruce here. And even after everything, Bruce denies him that one small comfort.

“I’ll call him,” Leslie offers.

“No,” Dick says softly. “No, don’t… Don’t bother. He’s probably… I dunno. Probably busy.”

Leslie is sure he is, but she really doesn’t care. She calls him anyway. Bruce needs to learn that revenge is really only applicable when there’s nothing you can do to prevent the tragedy. And right now, the biggest tragedy would be to leave this boy alone, hurt and scared.

---

Batman is alone on his next patrol. And the one after that. And the one after that. And the next eight ones after that.

Gordon really isn’t sure whether to be angry or reassured. Batman did say Robin was retired. But there’s also an awful lot of evidence that Robin is dead. The only thing they’re missing is a body. And if he is dead, it's awfully convenient for Batman that “retired” and “dead” look identical from Gordon’s standpoint.

Every time Gordon sees Batman, he's tempted to ask for proof. To bring Robin out one last time, as proof of life. Because Harvey Dent has to pay for his crimes, but exactly what those crimes are remains incredibly vague unless the victim steps forward.

The forensics lab ran the blood from the bat, but, unsurprisingly, the DNA doesn't match anyone in the GCPD’s database. So all they really know is that the blood isn't from a felon. That leaves many avenues open, one (and the most likely) of which is that it's Robin’s blood. It's what Harvey Dent is claiming. Hell, he's confessed to it. But if the only evidence of criminal activity is a baseball bat with unidentified blood…

Well, even the harshest of juries would have trouble convicting someone on that. Even if that someone is a well-known felon. If there's no body and no injured child, then how can they convict?

Two weeks after Dent’s arrest, Gordon summons Batman to the GCPD, determined to get some answers. He smokes like a chimney waiting for the Bat to arrive, but he doesn't care. He won't keep giving Batman outs because he's a good colleague. If there's suspicion regarding Robin’s safety, Batman must be investigated.

“Commissioner,” Batman says with a stiff nod. “What's the situation?”

Gordon tosses his cigarette butt on the ground and stomps it out. “Harvey Dent is confessing to murdering your partner. He's been sticking to the same story for weeks. And as a detective, I’m obligated to investigate the claims.”

“I told you,” Batman grits out. “Robin is alive.”

“And unfortunately, that's not enough evidence, and Dent knows it. He's only confessing because he knows you’ll never give out Robin’s identity. Without some sort of damage, we can't convict.”

Batman seems to consider this. He scowls harsher than usual, drawing his cape around his shoulders. “He’s right. I won’t compromise Robin’s identity.” He sucks in a pained breath. It's more emotion than Gordon has ever seen on the Caped Crusader. “But Dent deserves to rot for this.”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “I’ll get you your evidence, Commissioner. Give me two hours.”

Two hours later, Gordon finds a manilla folder on the roof. It’s stuffed full with pictures, each labeled with the date it was taken and the name “Robin.” The pictures are all strategically faceless, with blank, unidentifiable backgrounds. Even the picture of a gash on the boy’s forehead cuts out everything but the top of his head.

And the images themselves are… vile is the best way to put it. Broken bones. Blood and stitches. Bruises so dark and extensive that Gordon can’t find an inch of uninjured skin. Two-Face certainly had beaten the boy. Possibly to his death. The injuries look severe enough.

But Gordon is comforted by the time lapse. The injuries, while terrible regardless of the photo, do appear to be healing. The earliest photos look more gruesome than today’s pictures, if only marginally.

Part of Gordon is relieved. The boy is alive, and there’s evidence to lock Dent away for this. But the other part of him is still furious. How could Batman bring the boy with him in the first place? It’s too dangerous, and Batman knows that as well as any cop would.

The anger makes Gordon’s hands shake, and he lights another cigarette to calm his nerves. This case is going to be the death of him.

---

“It wasn’t me that killed you.”

Judge Watkins sinks, mouth open in a wordless scream.

WHAM.

“It was the Bat.”

The noose tightens around Bruce’s throat, his expression wrecked with agony.

THUD.

“It wasn’t me that killed you.”

Two-Face swings over and over, each blow fiercer and deadlier than the one before.

WHAM.

“It was the Bat.”

Two-Face smiles down, into the dirt hole. His twin lackeys stand by his side. The Mad Hatter and the Riddler and Scarecrow laugh along. The headstone reads: “ROBIN. NOT GOOD ENOUGH.”

THUD.

“The Bat.”

THUMP.

“The Bat.”

THWACK.

“The Bat.”

“NO!!!”

“Dick.” Bruce is sitting at Dick’s side, hands preventing him from rolling off the bed.

Dick blinks. The face in front of him is blurry. He can’t remember exactly what happened, but he remembers Two-Face putting Batman in a noose. He remembers…

“You’re alive…?” Dick can’t help the head rush, dizziness overwhelming him. Bruce’s hand is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Easy. It’s okay,” Bruce soothes, adjusting Dick’s pillow and helping him into a seated position against the bed’s headboard. “You were dreaming.”

And now that he says it, it makes sense. Two-Face didn’t kill Bruce. He beat Dick, yeah. That much of the dream was real. But Bruce turned out okay. He rushed Dick to Leslie’s clinic. He wasn’t hurt.

“How do you feel?”

Dick winces. Even thinking about it hurts. “Like… Like I fell off a building. Twice.” He laughs, even though it makes his ribs twinge and ache. “Occupational hazard, right? Give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll be back out there with you.”

Bruce’s expression hardens, and he stands up, pacing over to the window and staring out at the grounds. “No, Dick,” he sighs. “You won’t.”

“I… What?”

“This was all a terrible error in judgment,” Bruce continues, speaking like every word doesn’t hammer another nail into Dick’s heart. “Gordon was right; you’re just a boy. What the hell was I thinking?”

The breath catches in Dick’s throat. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears. “Bruce, what are you saying?”

“You’re fired. Robin’s finished.”

Dick lunges forward, every bone and muscle screaming from the mistreatment. He grabs the sleeve of Bruce’s suit jacket, trying to pull Bruce away from the window. Trying to see Bruce’s expression. Trying to see what’s going on behind his eyes.

“Bruce, you… you can’t! We’re a team. We’re partners! You said so yourself!”

“And you didn’t listen!” Bruce snaps, ripping his arm from Dick’s grasp and turning on the boy. His eyebrows lower, the lines in his forehead deepening. His jaw clenches, muscles tight like he’s about to spring into battle. “You disobeyed a direct order! An innocent man is dead, and you were nearly killed!”

“That’s enough!”

“Stay out of this, Alfred.”

Bruce and Alfred argue, but Dick doesn’t hear a word of it. All he can hear are those horrible, life-changing four words.

You’re fired. Robin’s finished.

Dick feels nauseous, palms clammy and head spinning. Lights and sounds become painful, the room going in and out of focus.

Bruce passes by him, headed for the door.

“Bruce! Bruce, I’m sorry. Two-Face, he… he tricked me! I thought I could save you both!”

But Bruce isn’t listening.

“It’s over, Dick. You’re better off this way.”

The door slams shut, and Dick feels way more sick than he did when Two-Face hurt him. Everything is hot and cold and dizzy and not making any sense and-

“Alfie,” he whispers, collapsing against the headboard. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You will rest. You will recover. You will go on with your life.”

Dick can’t look at him. All he sees is the hazy Bat-Signal in the sky. The distress call that Dick will never answer again.

“Sure,” he agrees miserably.

“Is there… anything I might get you, young sir?”

Dick swallows hard, face burning. “Nothing.”

“Very well. Perhaps later.”

Alfred shuts the door with a gentle click, but Dick doesn’t hear it over his racing thoughts.

You messed up. You got close, you felt comfortable, and now you’re alone again. And it’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.

Dick is ashamed of crying. But alone in this too-big bed in this too-big room in this too-big manor, Dick is okay with it. No one would hear him if he screamed, probably. No one would even care.

---

Dick leaves the manor the next day. He’s in pain, his world blurs and spins, and just breathing takes a gargantuan level of effort. But even so, it hurts less than staying in the manor, worrying Alfred and burdening Bruce. Dick can take care of himself, and he’s bound and determined to do so.

But before he goes, he leaves a note on the dining table where Bruce will find it. And it reads as such:

Dear Bruce, I guess it’s time for me to move on. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do if I’m not allowed to help you anymore. Alfred doesn’t need to worry about entertaining me and taking care of you too. You don’t want a partner. And you don’t need a son. I’m sorry I failed you. I won’t forget everything you’ve given me. Thank you for teaching me how to be strong. Dick

Part 3

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Strange

This case is personal to Jason. If only Bruce understood the word "boundaries."

---

Jason is over this. He’s so over this that if he were a cow, he’d be jumping over the damn moon. He’s 110% through with this bullshit. He’s done.

Of course, try telling Batman to leave you alone.

“Bruce, I swear to god, you better stay hidden behind that AC unit, because if I see you following me again, I’m literally going to cut your head off.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” the only voice deeper than the Marianas Trench rasps from the shadows.

But Jason is a strong proponent of proper word usage. “I can think of eight heads in a duffle bag that would dare to disagree.”

“Hn.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jason mutters under his breath, taking a running jump off of the building and landing on the next rooftop, boots feather-light despite his size. He may hate Batman, but that doesn’t mean he lets the Robin training go to waste.

Jason crosses the roof, counting windows until he’s found his planned entryway. He hooks his grapple to the roof of the target building and then jumps, swinging to the fire escape. He double-checks the window for any hidden occupants, but the penthouse is just as empty as he expected it to be.

The window is unlocked. Seems the resident didn’t get the memo on Batman, or they’d know better than to leave their windows unlocked, even on the 35th floor. No window alarms either.

Sloppy, indeed.

Jason opens the window and slips inside, clearing the room in its entirety before starting his search.

What is he searching for? He doesn’t know yet. But he’ll know once he sees it.

The night vision of his helmet helps immensely, layering the pitch-black room with a green (but sharp) filter. Jason will accept only the best tech, stolen from the Batcave while Bruce is out. Or, better yet, given to him by Alfred, the only person in Wayne Manor that Jason is on speaking terms with.

Jason spots a laptop hidden in the bottom drawer of a desk. He pulls it out and cracks it open, flipping off night vision to make out the screen.

The password is laughably easy to guess. (When will people stop using “password?” It’s too damn obvious.) And the moment the desktop screen pops up, Jason sticks a USB in the port and backs up the computer.

He’s not an idiot. He isn’t going to waste time searching the hard drive for something incriminating when he can download everything in fifteen minutes. (Those new Waynetech USBs really are as fast as they say. Thanks, Bruce.)

The only issue with backing everything up is that Jason needs to go fifteen minutes without being noticed. And as it turns out, this particular bad guy doesn’t stay out past 2 AM, because Jason hears him enter the penthouse at 02:00 on the dot. With three minutes left on his download, he needs to buy some time.

Now.

But it seems that Jason really can���t catch a break, because before he can hatch an elaborate, genius plan to distract his target, he finds a gun pointed at his head.

“Don’t move!” the bodyguard shouts. “Put your hands up!”

Jason waits a moment, but the bodyguard doesn’t give additional instruction.

“I can do one or the other,” Jason says reasonably. “Hands up or don’t move. Your choice.”

“Cute,” the bodyguard bites. “C’mon. Hands where I can see them.”

“Hands up,” Jason muses, raising his hands innocently. “Nice choice. Classic.”

“Trevor, what’s-?”

The target enters the room, and Jason jumps into action, taking advantage of the sudden distraction. He twists the guard’s wrist, knocking the gun from his hand. Then he slams the butt of his own pistol into the bodyguard’s head, using just enough force to be incapacitating but not so much that he puts the bodyguard in mortal danger. (Because contrary to what the Bat believes, Jason doesn’t want to murder everything that moves. A lackey shouldn’t be killed for just trying to make rent.)

And then it’s just Jason and the target.

“José Garzonas,” Jason growls. “You shouldn’t have come back to Gotham.”

“What is it now?” Garzonas sighs. “Do you want my money or my influence? I promise, you won’t get either by pointing a gun in my face.”

Jason sniffs. “Neither. This is about Felipe.”

Garzonas’s expression darkens, hands balling into fists at his sides. “I’m not talking about him.”

“Fine,” Jason concedes, coming closer until he’s a foot away from Garzonas. “We won’t talk about him. We’ll talk about his father. The father of a man who raped and assaulted a woman. And who kept doing it until the woman killed herself to get away from him.”

“Felipe is dead,” Garzonas bites. “How dare you make up lies about my dead son!”

“Your dead son got more free passes than anyone should have. Guess having a daddy with diplomatic immunity will do that.”

Garzonas folds his arms, eyebrows lowered. “What are you insinuating?”

“You covered for Felipe,” Jason accuses, and just saying the words makes his blood boil. “You bailed him out of prison over and over again so he could keep hurting people. You knew what he was doing, and you didn’t care. Gloria Stanson’s blood is on your hands as much as it was on Felipe’s.”

“Who are you?” Garzonas demands, and he’s being awfully aggressive for an unarmed guy with the physique of a scarecrow.

“I’m the guy that’s gonna make you turn yourself in,” Jason replies simply. “Or, I’m the guy who’s gonna make you beg to turn yourself in.”

“I am a visiting dignitary,” Garzonas says, his volume rising, finger pointed way too close to Jason’s nose. “You will treat me with respect!”

Jason pulls the trigger, letting the bullet whiz past Garzonas’s ear and into a bedpost. “And I’m the guy pointing a gun at you. Try demanding respect again. See what happens.”

And that’s when Jason gets sloppy. He’s fuming, and under his own rage, he doesn’t hear the bodyguard wake up. He doesn’t notice the click of a gun safety. He doesn’t know anything is amiss until there’s the unmistakable crack of a pistol. Instant, hot, dizzying pain blooms in his shoulder, shirt and jacket growing wet with blood.

And then Garzonas’s backup arrives. There are another two gunshots. Jason’s vision is torn from him, consciousness fleeting, and all he can think of is how stupid he was to turn his back on the bodyguard.

---

Jason knows where he is before he opens his eyes. He’d have to be stupid not to.

The slight chill to the air? The soft, hollow echoing of a heart monitor? Someone whistling a pitch-perfect cover of “Penny Lane?”

“Al…?” Jason groans, cracking an eye open. It’s bright, but the lights dim just enough for Jason to keep his eyes open.

“Ah. Welcome back, Master Jason.” Jason can hear the smile in his voice, slight and dry though it might be.

Jason sits up slowly, one hand coming up to clutch at his burning shoulder. He gets swatted for his efforts.

“Don’t touch that,” Alfred scolds. “Unless you’d like to be awake for the restitch.”

“Yeah. Pass.”

“I suspected as much,” Alfred muses. He returns to his task, sweeping suture thread and sterile packaging from the floor.

While it's nice to see Alfred, being back in the Cave for the first time since… well. You know. Jason feels a sense of urgency. A desperate need to escape. But with Alfred here, that's almost impossible. But maybe he'll understand?

“Hey, uh, Alfred?”

Alfred pauses and eyes him suspiciously. “Yes?”

“Could I get out of here? I… I can't talk to Bruce. I really can't.”

But Alfred’s sympathy does not extend to the infamous Red Hood-Batman Dispute. “You were shot twice in the leg just an hour ago. I’d hardly call you fit for release, Master Jason.”

Jason hadn’t even realized he’d been hit in the leg. He’s just that numb from painkillers. The only reason he felt his shoulder pain was because he knew he was shot there. And now that Jason knows about the leg, he’s starting to feel a dull ache there too.

But, yes. There’s no medic on Earth that would deem him fit to leave, Alfred included. He’d probably lose his balance and fall off his motorcycle before he could even start the engine.

“Yeah,” Jason sighs. “I know. Had to try though.”

“It was a valiant effort, sir,” Alfred assures him.

“Jason?”

Oh. Great.

“I should scrub the blood from the Batmobile’s interior,” Alfred announces, leaving the med bay.

“Wait, Alfred, don’t-” But it’s no use. He’s gone, and Jason is alone with Bruce.

Fuck.

“How much do you remember?”

Cold dread pools in Jason’s gut. “I remember being shot.” He tries to keep his expression unbothered. “And you obviously didn’t listen to me, because you followed me to Garzonas’s place.”

“They hit an artery,” Bruce replies, his already-harsh voice edging on furious. “You would have bled out.”

Jason won’t let a silly thing like death soften his argument. (And besides, he’s never let death stop him before.)

“I told you to stay out of this. I told you not to mess with this case.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Bruce growls, glaring daggers at Jason.

“You know this case means something to me, Bruce.” Jason balls his fists, fingers tightening around starch-white sheets. “He protected his scumbag rapist son. He let Gloria Stenson be harassed and used until she couldn’t take it anymore. And I was the one who found her.”

Bruce’s expression softens from a scowl to a frown. “I know. I was there too.”

But it isn’t the same. That was Jason’s first case. That was Jason’s first run as Robin. He was twelve. And Felipe had just… not cared. Not even a little. And once Gloria died, he would’ve found a new victim and done it all over again.

And it angered Jason to a frenzied degree. And Bruce had maintained his logical, detective brain. So while Jason agonized over finding and stopping Felipe, Bruce had taken a cold, analytical approach.

Bruce didn’t get it. Not like Jason did.

“You know what?” Jason waves his hand in dismissal. “Forget it. Forget we ever talked. That was a bust. I didn’t get the USB, and now my leg is fucked to hell. So just… whatever. Do whatever the fuck you want, Bruce. Like you always do.”

Bruce presses his lips together. Takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “José Garzonas poses no direct threat right now. I’ll let you take this investigation. I just want to know one thing.”

Oh, no. Here it comes…

“Did Felipe really fall from that balcony? Really?”

Jason takes a breath. Chews his tongue. Narrows his eyes.

“Yes,” he finally says. It doesn’t matter if Bruce believes that. It doesn’t matter what happened on the balcony. Ultimately, Felipe got a kinder fate than he deserved.

“Hn.” Bruce leaves with a sweep of his cape. He doesn’t say goodbye. He just leaves.

Which is perfectly fine with Jason. Good riddance.

But Bruce comes right back, dropping something small in Jason’s hand.

The USB. The data that could incriminate José Garzonas for aiding and abetting. The data that could put the sick monster away for good.

“You might want this,” Bruce suggests.

And then he leaves.

Jason turns the USB over in his hands. He fidgets with it before dropping his head in concession.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

---

To the surprise of both himself and Bruce, Jason doesn’t leave right away. He waits a full day, during which he endures Alfred’s ministrations with little objection. It’s nice, almost, to have someone taking care of him. He’s so used to playing this game alone. So used to batting away assistance and forcing himself to do it on his own.

Alfred gives Jason a computer to search the USB with. There’s some solid information inside, though some of it is heavily encrypted. It’ll take ages to break it. Still, Jason asked for this case alone. He told Bruce to go away. So he can’t ask for help.

… can he?

Bruce keeps his distance while Jason is in the Cave. He walks past the med bay from time-to-time, no doubt checking that Jason is still alive, but he never enters.

On Bruce’s fifteenth lap that day, Jason calls him over.

“What’s wrong? Do you need Alfred?”

Jason shakes his head. “No, I… I needed to talk to you.”

Bruce nods. Go on, he’s saying. (Jason hates how easily he reads Bruce’s body language.)

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

Bruce nods again, but this time, the meaning is muddled. “I… am aware.”

God, he’s hopeless.

Jason holds out the USB to Bruce, but Bruce looks at it like it’s a dead slug.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asks.

Jason pushes the USB into Bruce’s hands. “I didn’t ask for your help. So this is me, asking.”

Bruce holds the USB up, squinting like he's appraising it. “You want me to help?”

Jason shrugs, winces as the bullet wound is pulled at, and makes a noncommittal sound. “I wanna catch this guy. It has nothing to do with you."

“Of course not,” Bruce hums, but he doesn't sound angry. He's unaffected, maybe even serene.

“It's a one-time thing,” Jason adds.

“Of course it is,” Bruce agrees.

“I still think you're a useless, holier-than-thou coward. I hate you.”

“That's okay.”

Jason is so used to being yelled at. He remembers Bruce picking at his every flaw and scolding him every time he disobeyed. So this calm, unbothered attitude is… strange on Bruce.

Not bad, necessarily. Just…

… strange.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Seeing Is (Not) Believing

Dick is free from the Crime Syndicate. Lex Luthor brought him back to life. He's safe.

But he's starting to feel like part of him died and never came back.

---

Dick collapses the moment they step out of the room.

“Nightwing,” Bruce says sternly, tightening his hold on Dick’s waist. There's no point in using the alias, not anymore, but Bruce is a creature of habit. And his kids have always responded best to a direct order anyway. (Even if they don’t always obey those either.) “Nightwing.”

Dick groans, eyelids heavy. “S-Sorry, B…” he apologizes, like being tortured for weeks and then quite literally dying is no excuse to pass out. He coughs weakly, struggling to get his feet back under himself.

“Come on,” Selina says, gentle but firm. “We need to go.”

And she’s right. They may have gotten Dick out of the Murder Machine, but they’re still in the Crime Syndicate’s base of operations. The heroes of the Justice League are still trapped in Firestorm. The fate of the world literally hangs in the balance.

So they follow Cyborg up the stairs, with Bruce carrying the majority of Dick’s weight and Selina trailing behind, clearly waiting for one (or both) of them to go tumbling down the steps.

“Just a little further,” Bruce mumbles. “Just a couple more steps, okay? Stay with me, chum.”

Dick does his best, but unfortunately, it isn't enough. His knees give out four steps from the top, chin dropping to his chest. Selina rushes up, grabbing under Dick’s free arm before he can slip from Bruce’s hold.

They don't have much time, and unfortunately, they especially don't have time for this. So Bruce readjusts his hold, with one arm under Dick’s knees and the other supporting his back. He holds him close, Batman’s cape nearly engulfing the injured hero entirely.

“Stay awake,” he murmurs. “Stay awake, kiddo.”

Dick looks at him blearily, but he doesn’t close his eyes. He just leans into Bruce’s chest, wincing with Bruce’s every step.

They go up another flight of stairs, turning corners until they reach a door. Cyborg destroys it with a single blast, then steps over the wreckage. Batman starts to follow, trying to ignore the whines coming from the bundle in his arms.

But a hand on his shoulder stops him short.

“Catwoman?”

Selina’s brows are knit in concern, and she rubs her arm, looking from Dick to Bruce and back again. “We’ve got this. Get him out of here.”

Bruce shakes his head. “No. We need to end this. Now.”

Selina isn’t convinced. “Yes, Cyborg and I will end it. You need to get him out of here before he dies.” She twists her whip around her fingers, expression pained, before making fierce eye contact with Bruce. “Don’t let another one die, Bruce.” She knows what she’s insinuating, but she doesn’t back down. “The world is in good hands. Go now before you make yourself a liability.”

Fire erupts in Bruce’s chest, but he can’t do anything about it. So instead, he clenches his jaw and holds Dick closer. He sends her his fiercest glare. “I’m the last person here to become a liability.”

Selina crosses her arms, standing firm. “Take care of the boy, or I’ll drag him out of here myself.”

Bruce sweeps past her and heads for the exit. He isn’t going to take this.

“Nightwing,” Bruce calls, but he doesn’t look down. “Still awake?”

“Batman,” Dick says weakly. “What’s… What’s happening?”

“We’re getting out of here. Cyborg and Catwoman have the situation handled.”

Not that Dick knows what “the situation” is. Bruce doubts the Crime Syndicate gave him a weekly newsletter while he was in captivity.

“Oh…” Dick murmurs. And then he jolts in Bruce’s arms, catching Bruce by surprise and knocking himself to the ground.

“Dick, what-?”

“No,” Dick mumbles feverishly. “No, no, no, no, no. Get away. Just get… get away.” He claws at the ground, dragging his uncooperative body across the stone floor, legs tangled in Bruce’s cape.

“Whoa,” Bruce says, taking Dick’s hands and trying to make eye contact. “It’s just me, Nightwing. It’s just Batman.”

“No,” Dick insists, weakly trying to pull his hands back. “No, you’re not! You’re Owlman. You’ve always been… You keep lying… I can’t…” He’s breaking down, face red and eyes bloodshot. He flails rather ineffectively, breathing so fast that Bruce can’t believe Dick hasn’t knocked himself out yet.

“Chum,” Bruce says firmly, pulling the cowl down. “It’s Bruce. Remember?”

Dick is still upset, expression bereft, but his breathing slows a touch. He reaches up, hand shaky, and Bruce carefully sits him up against the wall. Then he rips his gloves off and allows Dick to feel the grooves of his hands. The callouses. The scars. His crooked ring finger.

“See? It's just me.”

Dick shakes his head, but he doesn't let go of Bruce’s hands. “You look like… You look like him.”

Him. Owlman, probably. Bruce supposes his brother from an alternate universe would bear a passing resemblance to him. It only makes Bruce hate the Crime Syndicate even more.

“It's Bruce,” Bruce promises. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Dick blinks and looks at Bruce as if for the first time. Recognition dawns. “You’re not Owlman.”

With forced patience, Bruce nods. “I am not. Now, can we please get out of here?”

“I… Help me up.” Dick seems to regain his awareness, and Bruce capitalizes on the moment, pulling Dick’s arm over his shoulders.

“This place could blow at any point,” Bruce warns. “Can you run?”

Dick doesn’t answer, forcing himself forward in a frantic limp. It’s enough that Bruce doesn’t try carrying Dick again. The last thing he needs is another argument. There’s no time for discussion.

The pair hobble out of the hideout, and Bruce takes the wheel of the Batmobile stationed outside. Dick tries to sit in the passenger seat but slips and ends up on his back. Bruce has to yank the restraints between Dick’s uncooperative arms.

It reminds him vaguely of trying to get Dick to put on a suit for his first gala, a lifetime ago. Neither one of them had enjoyed the process, but it was a necessary evil. Just as the bowtie was required for societal acceptance back then, the seatbelt is required for not getting thrown through the Batmobile’s windshield today.

“The… The bomb…” Dick’s hand clumsily paws at his chest.

“The Murder Machine,” Bruce elaborates. “Yes. It’s deactivated. You’re safe.” He punches the gas, speeding back for Gotham.

Dick watches him with hazy eyes. “Luthor… killed… he killed… I… I couldn’t breathe, and-” He’s hyperventilating, and Bruce can’t do this. Not right now. With one hand on the wheel, Bruce digs around in his utility belt, finding the autoinjector right where he left it. He takes it out, flicks the cap off with his thumb, and stabs Dick in the leg.

Bruce keeps his eyes on the road, but he doesn’t need to look to see the betrayed expression on Dick’s face. The confusion, the fear, the anger. It’s all there, just in Bruce’s periphery, but Bruce is not looking. He’s focused on driving. (Or that’s what he tells himself, anyway.)

“B, wh-?”

Bruce doesn’t let himself feel bad. It’s not his fault. Dick was going to work himself into a frenzy and end up passing out anyway. A gentle sedative is not only the most elegant and efficient choice, but it’s also the most humane.

At least, the most humane as long as Dick doesn’t smash his head against the window when he collapses. Which of course he does.

Bruce can’t worry over it. He’s got bigger problems. The world is ending. Tim is missing. Dick has plenty of severe wounds, many of which are old and likely infected. He’s hardly concerned with a bump on his head.

“Rest,” Bruce says, though Dick probably can’t hear him anymore. “I’ll take care of everything.”

And Bruce fully intends to make good on that promise.

---

Dick wakes up in a small room filled with fading greens and browns. The wallpaper is a peeling floral print. The blankets are familiar and smell of wood varnish. There’s a puke green recliner in the corner of the room, its stained upholstery worn to the point of ripping across the front of the seat.

The only things not in the dated earth tones are the bed, the monitor, and the IV poles. The bed itself is clearly designed for a hospital, and the remote for it is resting on Dick’s leg. Green, yellow, and red lines draw wavy patterns across the monitor’s jet black screen, meaningless numbers in corresponding colors down the side. One IV pole is hooked up to the crook of Dick’s elbow, a mystery fluid dripping from the bag, through the catheter, and into Dick’s bloodstream. The other is connected to Dick’s hand, though he can’t be certain of what exactly its purpose is.

And once Dick is done assessing his surroundings, he turns inward. And man. Does he hurt. His ribs scream with every shallow breath. His stomach churns, nausea pushing against his throat. The world seems to ebb and flow with his heartbeat, turning fuzzy and then coming into focus in a constant cycle. And just generally, everything about Dick hurts. He aches. He’s tired. He’s hot, he’s cold, he’s thirsty, he’s dizzy. He tries to sit up, but every movement sends fire through his back.

Whip burns, he realizes. The Crime Syndicate.

The day - the weeks - come rushing back to him, but all he does is sigh. He died - he died - but he’s so numb, so ridiculously overwhelmed with the concept, that he can’t even worry about it. He was dead. Past tense. It’s a non-issue for the moment.

“Bruce?” he croaks, voice dry and ravaged.

“Every time you scream, you get two more lashes,” Superwoman hisses. So he’s beaten, whipped, and generally torn to pieces until he loses his voice and can't yell anymore.

And that's only week one.

No one responds. It’s not a huge shock. Back when Dick had just started out as Robin and up until about halfway through Tim’s tenure as Robin, Bruce would rarely do the bedside vigil thing. He’d usually prioritize finding the crook over emotional support. That was what Alfred was for. Or that was his justification, anyway.

But slowly, over time, Bruce got better about it. Instead of dumping an unmasked Dick at the ER doors and then running, he would carry him to triage. Instead of leaving the Cave the moment his partner was on a cot, Bruce started helping with initial first aid. And then he gradually started staying at the bedside. He was almost always working on a case on his laptop, even now, but he didn’t stray far from his injured partner for very long.

So Dick isn’t surprised that Bruce isn’t within earshot. He’s just a bit disappointed.

Cautious of the IV, Dick picks up the remote on his bed. Even that tiny movement makes his back fizzle with pain, but he endures it, pressing the red button. There’s a soft dinging outside his room, and within a minute or two, a man in a white coat and khakis enters, shutting the door behind him with a click.

“Mr. Grayson,” he greets softly. “How are you feeling?”

Dick doesn't waste time playing along. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“Bristol Medical Center,” the man replies evenly. “I’m Dr. Frank Philips. I’m an old friend of Bruce; we went to school together.”

“Oh.” But that doesn’t answer the most burning of his questions. He just has to be careful of how he asks it. “What happened? I don’t… um… I don’t remember.”

If amnesia deviates from whatever story Bruce made up, it doesn’t fluster Dr. Philips in the slightest. “Bruce brought you in after the… ah… the Crime Syndicate.”

Dick blinks. Looks down at his hospital gown. Feels his face, bare save a bandage on his cheek. “He… told you?”

Dr. Philips shoves his hands in his pockets, one eyebrow arched. “That you're Nightwing? I think everyone knows that.”

It takes Dick a long second to process that. And then he remembers.

“Haul him up, Superwoman.” The lasso tightens around Dick’s chest and arms, its barbs digging into his skin. A sudden yank flings him upwards, and he lands hard on his side. The barbs cut deeper, tearing through muscle and clashing against bone.

“On your feet, cutie pie,” Superwoman croons. She grips his hair with steel fingers, threatening to rip it straight out of his head.

Dick struggles weakly. Coughs. Feels something warm and wet run down his chin.

“They've even taken care of Nightwing!” It's Eddie Nygma’s unmistakably arrogant tenor.

“Yes,” Superwoman hisses, so close that Dick can feel her breath on his ear. “Nightwing. But his real name…” A gloved thumb brushes under his eye, and suddenly, the glue from Dick’s mask is ripped from his skin. “... is Richard Grayson.”

This man - this stranger - knows who Dick is because everyone knows who he is.

“Hey, don't stress, okay?” Dr. Philips looks at him with a knowing sympathy. “We’ve got this room locked up. I’m the only one who knows you're here.”

Dick frowns. He expected to wind up in the Cave. Leslie’s clinic, if he was really hurt. But never a hospital. That almost never happens anymore, and even in his state, he doesn't think it's worth the hospital visit.

Though, if his identity is already out there…

“Where's Bruce?” Dick asks, fatigue starting to slow him down. He doesn't have much time before he’ll fall asleep and lose any chance of getting answers.

“Right here,” a slightly-winded voice says. “I’m right here, Dick.” And Bruce walks into eyesight with a coffee in one hand and a gatorade in the other. He sets the drinks down on the bedside table and studies Dick carefully, one hand checking the temperature of his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

But Dick jumps, pushing himself as deeply into the mattress as he can. He needs to get away, get away, get away-

Bruce jumps back too, hands up in surrender. “It’s me,” he says. “It’s Bruce.”

And Dick knows that. But upon seeing Bruce’s face… His features are just so… so…

“You’re not the same Richard Grayson I knew,” Owlman - Thomas Wayne, Jr. - says, pacing back and forth. “That Richard Grayson is dead.”

Dick pops his thumb out of its socket, trying to contain the grimace. He grates the chair’s wooden legs against the cement floor to cover up his sharp intake of breath. Then he slides his hand out of its handcuff.

“That’s why I need your help, Richard.” Owlman turns to him, pulling the cowl back over his eyes. “Help me make a better world.”

Dick wraps the loose chain around his fist and jumps out of the chair, swinging the chained fist at Owlman’s jaw.

But he’s weak. He hasn’t had water in two days. He hasn’t eaten in nearly a week. Sleep is restless and infrequent. Owlman dodges him with a single step and uses Dick’s momentum to slam a fist into Dick’s gut.

Dick doubles over, wheezing.

“Everyone in the world knows your real name,” Owlman reasons, knocking Dick to the ground and holding him there with a forearm to the throat. “The Society has already leveled your apartment building. Your friends have been hunted. And Batman is dead. You have nothing. You need a new start, and I can help.”

“Help you destroy the world?” Dick chokes out. “No, thanks.”

Owlman drags him up and slams him into the wall. “No. I want to make a better world.”

“No. Thanks,” Dick growls. He swipes at Owlman, but Owlman drives a dagger through Dick’s hand and into the wall, effectively pinning him.

“Think about it, chum.”

It’s hard to separate Bruce from Owlman, even when Bruce isn’t wearing the cowl. Dick’s pulse speeds up. Sweat breaks out on his palms. He has to repeat it over and over in his mind. Remind himself that this is Bruce, Bruce, Bruce-

“Say the word, and all this stops.”

“Screw you,” Dick says, though his tone is too weak to sound intimidating.

Owlman doesn’t appreciate this. He wrenches Dick’s head back underwater. And Dick tries to stay calm. Owlman won’t drown him.

But Dick’s nerves are too fried. Survival instinct has long since taken over his body. He struggles and splashes and fights against the merciless hand in his hair. When Dick is finally pulled up, his muscles have gone limp, eyes fluttering. He coughs weakly.

“Everyone you love is gone. We’ve killed them. You have nothing left to fight for.”

“Then-” Dick is cut off by a long, painful, unproductive coughing fit. “-kill me,” he finally manages.

“That was never an option, Richard.”

And Dick is dragged underwater again.

“Dick, breathe.”

But he can’t breathe. He can’t. He’s drowning. He’s-

“Owlman, we- we had an agreement!”

“What’s he talking about, Wayne?” Ultraman’s eyebrows lower dangerously.

The cowl never stops watching. Its pale blue eyes stare into Dick’s soul. They dig deeper than the laser burns in Dick’s thighs.

“He’s delusional,” Owlman says simply.

Ultraman turns back to Dick, eyes flashing an agonizing red.

“It’s Bruce. Batman.” A frustrated, pitying sigh. “What did he do to you?”

Dick can feel a hesitant thumb on the back of his hand. He almost jerks away when he feels it rub a familiar, constant pattern into his skin.

Straight line. Half-circle. Half-circle.

B.

Dick blinks, taking a shaky breath. Bruce continues drawing the letter over and over, his free hand carefully feeling Dick’s forehead again.

“Bruce,” Dick mumbles. He can see him now. He can see the hue of Bruce’s eyes. The slight curve of his nose. Not quite the same as Thomas Jr.’s.

No. Not the same at all.

“It’s me, chum,” Bruce murmurs. “You’re safe. It’s over. You’re safe.”

And Dick believes him.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

When @whumptober-archive reblogs your fics

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

The Owl's Test: Dick's Version

Nightwing is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

---

Dick wakes up coughing. He can still feel it - the knockout gas - closing off his throat. Choking his lungs. He coughs until his throat is raw and his lungs are aching. Then he takes a moment to collect himself, trying to make the room stop spinning. His mask shades the harsh, artificial light, but it still stings, each sense - sight, sound, touch, smell - like a hot dagger in his brain.

Mustering his strength, Dick pushes himself up, pausing for a moment as the world spins faster. He braces himself, then hops off the bench and takes in the room.

The first thing he notices, of course, is that he had not been lying on a bench. No, he’d been comfortably situated on a solid stone altar. It feels ancient and just a bit cultish, and Dick’s skin crawls at just the knowledge that someone had put him there.

The rest of the room is sparsely decorated. The stone walls and floor are grimy and vaguely green in color. Like the room itself feels the mystery gas hangover too.

Two owls guard the archway to a corridor. They’re worn with spiderwebs clinging to their wings. It must have been years since anyone used this room. Or at least since someone cleaned it.

“Ugh,” he mutters, stumbling forward. As an acrobat, the lack of balance is making him incredibly nervous. If someone were to attack him right now, he’d be a sitting duck. “What happened? And how did I get… wherever this is?”

The room spins just a bit more, no doubt a friendly warning for Dick to quit walking before he collapses. So Dick stops for a moment, tapping his comm.

“Belfry, you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Aaand I’m cut off.” He sighs.

Feeling a bit less wobbly, Dick jogs forward, making his way down the hall and around the corner. With the mystery drugs still pumping through his system, things are a bit blurrier than they should be, but that’s okay, because it’s just a tunnel. Dick doesn’t need to see the details of a hallw-

Spikes shoot out from the walls, crushing Dick’s bones and ripping through his muscles. He feels the excruciating sensation of being torn to shreds. And then nothing. He feels nothing. He feels…

Dizzy.

Wait, what?

Dick opens his eyes. He’s lying on the altar again, and he sits up in a panic. He feels his body for gaping wounds - for a missing heart and a shattered ribcage - but he finds no evidence of being impaled. His skin is fine. His suit is intact. Even though just moments before, Dick had died, he’s now very uncertain of the fact.

Confused beyond comprehension, Dick stands up and laughs away the horror of what he thought was instant death. “And I’m back!” he calls out with a cheerful “ta-da” intonation. He moves past the owl statues, noticing a new picture decorating the blank walls.

“Wait… but I thought…” He stands in front of the picture - the picture of his bleeding, broken body, impaled on the spike trap - in disbelief. “That’s impossible. How am I still…?”

No time for questions. Now is the time for movement. Now is the time to get out of here.

Dick hurries ahead, taking care to drop down and crawl when he sees the (now very obvious) holes in the wall. The spikes shoot out as he steps on their pressure plates, but they go over his head.

“Inside of Gotham’s walls…” a sinister, echoing voice croons. Clear of the spikes, Dick jumps to his feet, but the speaker is nowhere to be found.

“Rule you one and all…” another voice calls.

Dick doesn’t wonder where the voices are coming from. Unless he can see the threat, it isn’t worth worrying about. Not under these circumstances. So he moves down the hall, not stopping until the threat does, in fact, make itself seen.

There’s a feral growl, like a bear gargling hex bolts. A dark, almost-human figure jumps out from the shadows and darts up the wall.

“What is that?” Feeling more than a little paranoid, Dick cautiously keeps going. He ducks under another spike trap, hoping to god that there isn’t a demon creature watching him from behind. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“You are the Court now. And the Court… is you.” The voice is getting more than a little personal about the whole thing, and Dick has no interest in continuing the conversation.

A light flickers up ahead, shockingly warm compared to the harsh chill of the hall’s glow. Is it an exit? Or just a candle?

But the correct answer is neither. Dick isn’t lucky enough to find an exit so quickly, and the world isn’t random enough to provide him with a single candle in the middle of an underground cavern.

No, Dick is blessed with an antechamber filled with flamethrower traps. Which is just… just great. Really. He’s thrilled.

Dick scans the floor carefully. Certain stones are burned black from the trap’s flames, but other stones remain untouched. Hesitantly, Dick crosses the unburned stones and safely makes it to the other side of the room. He finds another hall and starts running. When will this hallway end?

“Give up. It would be so much easier,” the voice promises. But Dick stopped listening to it ages ago.

And then Dick runs headlong into a wall.

“Agh!” He rubs his (no-doubt bruised) forehead, squinting up at the dead end that should not have been there. He climbs to his feet (and man, it’s getting harder and harder to do that, almost like the energy is being sucked from his body) and turns around. He must have missed a turn.

Dick runs back through the halls, but rather than find the Flamethrower Room, he finds the Spinning Blades of Death Room. Which is just marginally better than the flame traps. At least Dick has practiced with spinning blades. Bruce set up that obstacle course often, and Dick would run through it constantly, always shooting to beat his high score. (But Barbara was always faster. Dick hated her for it back then. He still kind of resents her for it, but in a respectfully begrudging type of way.)

So in no time at all, Dick slips past the blades and into the next corridor. The lights are getting brighter, his head growing fuzzier. He stumbles, slowing down and pressing a fist against his headache.

“Robin was a mistake.”

Wait. That’s not the same voice as before. That’s…

God, that’s Bruce. That’s Bruce’s fuming baritone after a long, disastrous patrol. That’s Bruce’s fury after Dick messed up and someone got hurt. That’s-

That’s Bruce’s study.

Sure enough, there are two armchairs up ahead, flanking a decorative table with a gramophone on top. But it’s not just any gramophone. It’s Bruce’s.

… well, it’s Bruce’s dad’s, anyway. Bruce never let Dick forget that. Almost like he felt guilty for just using the gramophone.

Dick’s fingers brush the dust from the gramophone’s horn. A record spins on the turntable, but it’s coming out all wrong. Dick can remember the song, even if he doesn’t quite recall the words. He remembers sneaking down to Bruce’s study when his nightmares kept him awake. And Bruce would watch him carefully, motion him in, and sit him down in an armchair by the fire. Then he would put a record on - this record on - and sit with him until he was lulled to sleep, warm, soothed, and safe.

The juxtaposition of the same chairs, the same gramophone, the same song in this dank, unfamiliar environment makes Dick’s chest ache.

He can’t stand the sound, so he turns right and walks down the hall, the garbled lyrics haunting him as he goes. But the music cuts to a sharp halt by the loud, but distinct, thwump of flesh against stone. Dick can see someone… himself?... being dragged across the floor, limp as a corpse. But as Dick approaches, the person - him - disappears in a black cloud of smoke.

Just another hallucination.

Dick crawls under the next spike trap. When he stands up again, someone new is yelling from the ceiling.

“We’re losing too many lives!”

Commissioner Gordon?

Dick hurries ahead. He can see a spotlight in the next antechamber, the damning image of a bat - the Bat - slapped in the center of it. It sparks and hisses, and Dick’s vision begins to blur again. (What was in that gas??)

“The city is burning to the ground!” another voice screams, gunshots and sirens in the background.

When Dick comes close enough to touch the Bat Signal, it pops. The light cuts out abruptly.

“Where the hell is Batman??” a new voice asks frantically.

Dick swallows hard. He knows the answer. But the voice can’t hear him, so he doesn’t even try. He just keeps moving, running down the hall yet again.

“You said you’d be helpful. You said you wouldn’t slow me down.”

It’s Bruce again. But this time, he’s speaking directly into Dick’s ear. Except when Dick turns, it’s not Bruce. It’s himself, wearing a smooth white mask, predator eyes peering out through the slits.

“But you were wrong,” Bruce’s voice continues. “You’re a disappointment, Dick Grayson.”

Something is crackling in the distance. Interference of some kind. A different voice overlaps Bruce’s, and as Dick’s headache intensifies, he realizes just how much trouble he’s in.

“Presenting,” a loud voice shouts over the cheers of an audience, “the gruesome death of the Flying Graysons!”

Dick staggers forward. He has to keep moving. He can’t stay here. But if he keeps going, he’ll have to walk past… past…

Two motionless bodies are splayed across the floor. Their arms are stretching out towards each other, but they fall short, fingers just inches from touching. Dark red pools on the ground, soaking into their leotards and sinking into the sawdust.

“Mom?”

Her face is frozen in a scream, eyes desperate and cloying. Her hands aren’t warm. Not like they used to be. Her smile is gone. She’s forever memorialized in this state:

Pure and abject fear.

“Dad?”

His lip is curled up, jaw open. Like he was shouting something. His last words. His eyes bulge from his head, panic carved into the lines of his forehead.

“No,” Dick murmurs, heart beating so quickly that he can barely breathe. Heat pricks at his eyes. His every muscle is tensed, drawn tight with a childhood nightmare coming true.

(Again. It’s coming true again.)

“I don’t want to go through this again,” he breathes, but all he can hear are their screams. The collective gasp of the crowd. The tear-soaked, blood-stained, neverending seconds as he watches his parents fall to the ground, knowing that there is nothing he can do. Knowing that these are their last seconds alive, and they will spend them in terror.

The circus band plays its jaunty tune, almost in victory, and Dick breaks away from his parents on the floor. He stumbles backwards, and they disappear in a puff of white smoke, leaving behind two white owl masks and the bloodstain that they could never wash away. The crowd laughs, growing manic and frenzied and amused.

Dick sprints down the hall (whether it’s the left or the right, he neither knows nor cares), sliding under the next spike trap. He needs to get away, to get away, to get away, to get away, to-

A door.

Dick can’t even laugh in relief. He feels none of it. He just runs all the faster, even as the door moves further and further out of reach, like he’s running on the world’s cruelest hamster wheel.

“No escape…” a distorted voice calls. “No escape…”

Dick catches up with the door and yanks on it, but it zips out of his hands, disappearing even further down the corridor. He moves faster. Possibly faster than he’s ever run before.

“Accept your fate!”

He gets to the door again, but this time, he doesn’t waste precious seconds pulling on the handle. Instead, he rams the door with his shoulder. Once. Twice. Th-

The door gives in, and Dick spills out on the floor. There’s a deafening SLAM as the door shuts behind him.

Dick takes a second. Pants. Squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. The lights are warmer. The walls don’t twist and decay like the others did. He must be out of that nightmare zone.

Dick takes one last breath before climbing to his feet and trying to move on. What happened in the labyrinth can stay in the labyrinth.

“That sucked.”

And that’s all he’ll say on the matter.

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

The Owl's Test: Tim's Version

Robin is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Dick's Version

---

“Ugh.”

Tim’s brain feels like it was run over by a steamroller and then scraped off the pavement with a credit card and crammed into a waffle iron. He tries to sit up but gives up immediately, letting his head smack against the stone he’s lying on. He doesn’t know what day it is or how he got here or where “here” even is, and he almost doesn’t want to know. He just wants to close his eyes and try again later.

But Tim has never been given the luxury of “try again later.” He shoves himself upwards, cringing at the musty decay in the air. His head spins from the change in altitude, but Tim needs to get out of here. There’s no time to waste. He pushes himself off the stone.

And then he realizes that he forgot to swing his legs over the side. He crashes into the ground, head slamming against stone. His world shorts out for a microsecond, and when he comes to, everything hurts worse.

Tim groans, slowly standing up and holding his ground when the lights pulse around him. “Well, if I didn’t have a concussion before…” he grumbles.

When his vision clears up enough to see, Tim takes in the dismal ambience. Two angry owl statues glare down at him, like they’re about to list off his sins. The stone Tim was lying on is now, quite clearly, an altar.

Tim groans again. Altars are never a good sign. And worse still when you’re the one lying on one.

“Where am I?” Tim asks the stone owls. Unsurprisingly, they say nothing.

Tim limps past the owls into the hallway. “Smells like death,” he mutters. Then he pauses, waiting for one of the owls to object or vaporize him for the insult. But they remain silent, and Tim has the pleasure of knowing that he hasn’t angered any malevolent owl ghosts.

“Belfry?” he says, hoping his comm is picking him up. “Are you there?”

The earpiece is silent, and Tim huffs. “Something must be blocking comms.” Which is not great, because it means Tim is not only drugged, kidnapped, and trapped, but he’s also without backup.

And Tim hates being alone.

As Tim walks down the hall, his sight clears up a bit, balance improving, if only slightly. He’s able to walk a bit faster, but he slows down when he notices a deviation in the hallway’s uniform wall. There’s a block of holes against two adjacent walls. It’s a dead giveaway for a spike trap. And the slightly off-colored tiles between the walls further suggest danger. Fortunately, there’s enough space under the holes to crawl under, so Tim gets down and crawls his way across the space. The spikes still startle him when they - shing! - shoot out from the walls and clash at the center, but Tim is safely below the danger zone.

Tim stands up and carries on down the hall, but a bodiless voice echoes through the cavern. “Inside of Gotham’s walls…”

“Rule you one and all…” a different voice finishes.

There’s an animalistic shriek, like a tiger and a chicken roared and squawked (respectively) in unison. Then a dark shadow sprints across Tim’s path and scurries up the wall like the tiger-chicken-squirrel that it is.

“I… don’t like that,” Tim decides. He makes a note to keep an eye on the shadows. Who knows what else is hiding out there?

Tim ducks under another spike trap and comes upon a new room, this one glowing with a warm light. If Tim’s lucky, it’s an exit. If he isn’t, it’s a fiery owl statue-ghost that’s come to exact its belated revenge for Tim’s insolence.

In the end, Tim is neither lucky nor unlucky. He’s downright cursed. Sure, a giant bird of prey hasn’t charred him to ash. But that would be a quicker death than the intricate flamethrower trap he’s faced with. Every tile seems synced to a flamethrower above it. Step on the tile, and you activate the flamethrower, and bam. No hair. And also likely no body, because the human body does tend to burn like a candle.

Tim takes an agonizingly long time analyzing each tile. Stepping just carefully enough. Dodging flames at just the right moment. By the time he steps out into the new corridor, he’s drenched in sweat, heart racing against his ribs.

“Give up,” the voice calls. “It would be so much easier.”

And as if it can hear the voice, the hallway abruptly stops being a hallway, and Tim runs face-first into a wall.

“Ughhhh,” Tim groans, carefully prodding an already-swelling eye. It’ll be black before morning. (If he survives until morning, of course.) “This is so not fair.” He stands up and doubles back. He’s hoping that maybe he missed a turn after the torch room. He does not want to dance through that trap again.

But when Tim arrives at the antechamber, it’s not the same room as before. Instead, it contains a series of spinning pillars, each lined from ceiling-to-floor with saws and rotating spikes.

And this? This, Tim is fine with. Comfortable, even. This was one of the first obstacle courses Bruce ever put him through during his Robin training. He can do this with his eyes covered and hands tied. (And he has done this with his eyes covered and his hands tied.) It takes less than ten seconds to clear the room, and then he’s back to running down hallways.

Tim slows briefly as his comm crackles unhelpfully. “What is going on with this thing?” he wonders, but until it starts working, Tim needs to find a way out of here on his own. He can’t rely on the cavalry this time.

“I should never have recruited you.”

This voice is different than the others. Tim knows this voice.

Bruce.

The lights become brighter, colors smeared across Tim’s vision. His balance wavers, and he slows to an uneven walk, gripping his head as he tries to move forward. There’s something up ahead. Something… not right.

Tim manages his way to the new room, and yep. This is so messed up.

“Where were you, Robin?” Bruce is screaming. Furious.

Bats fly past Tim in a swarm, revealing a large, cold headstone and a closed casket. Tim doesn’t need to read the headstone to know whose it is.

“You were supposed to be by my side!” Bruce seethes. “Maybe then I wouldn’t be dead!”

“It’s not real,” Tim assures himself, but it certainly doesn’t feel that way. He shakes his head, taking the hall to the right.

There’s another shadow figure hiding in the corner, but this one is clearer. Less ambiguous. And it’s wearing a pale owl mask and the Robin suit. The suit Tim is wearing right now.

“Who are you?” Tim asks.

And then the fake him charges. Tim pulls out his bo staff, quick to defend himself, but the figure disappears in a puff of black fog.

“You begged me for the chance,” Bruce growls. “You begged me to be Robin. I should have known you’d fail.”

The words cut deep, but Tim pushes past it. His vision is blurring again, though, and his chest grows tight. He forces his legs forward, nearly collapsing from the effort.

Ahead of him is a familiar antique gramophone. An old, warped record plays, its flat, damaged notes leaving Tim uneasy. An armchair sits on either side of the gramophone. Tim manages his way up to the chairs but doesn’t dare sit down. He can’t rest. Not right now.

Cautiously, reverently, Tim runs his fingers down the fabric of one armchair. They look like the armchairs from the living room. In fact, there’s a dark red bloodstain on the arm of one, exactly like the stain from when Dick and Tim’s brotherly roughhousing had turned into an accidental bloodbath. Alfred had nearly had a heart attack when he saw the ruins of the chairs. But Bruce had laughed. He’d told Alfred that it was a parenting hazard and that he’d try to keep the children apart in the future. Then he’d put a record on the gramophone, likely in an attempt to ease the mood.

Alfred calmed down eventually. But here, with the chairs, listening to a demon version of a childhood song, Tim just feels nauseous. He moves on quickly, trying to escape the haunting tune, even as it chases him down the hall.

“You’re Robin now. You got what you wanted. Are you happy, Boy Wonder?”

Tim used to feel safe and loved when Bruce called him that. But the way he spits the title makes Tim’s spirit die a little. Did Bruce ever see that as a fond nickname? Maybe he’d always used it as a way to compare him to Dick and Jason. As a way to remind Tim of how inadequate he is.

Tim keeps running.

The Batcomputer is sitting in the next antechamber, every screen glowing the same blood-soaked red and populated with foreboding figures in owl masks. As Tim gets closer, the chair in front of the computer spins around, revealing a mangled man slumped over the arm. Tim frowns, squinting against the harsh lighting.

“Wait… Alfred?” And he’s right. The man in the chair, while disfigured beyond human survivability, is now obviously Alfred. His neck is tipped too far, lips stained with blood.

“No,” Tim breathes. And then panic sets in. “No. No!”

And Alfred disappears in a cloud of ash.

For a long moment, Tim is frozen in place.

So that was all fake? Alfred is still alive? What is Tim supposed to believe anymore?

He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to stick around and find out. So he turns the corner, only to see another horror that will leave him with nightmares for the next week.

His own body, writhing on the floor. Gasping and groaning and wheezing in pain. Coughing up blood. Reaching out for a man who isn’t there. Who might never have been there. And then the Robin on the floor goes limp, head lolling to the side.

Dead.

“I’m seeing things,” Tim says. And he knows it to be true, but he just can’t get himself to believe it. He walks past the body, not looking to see if it disappears like all the others. He doesn’t want to linger here. He can’t-

“You were the death of me, Timothy Drake. My blood is on your hands.”

The hallway lights go out, and Tim feels like the world is spinning, spinning, spinning. He staggers to one knee, then pushes himself up and stumbles forward. A spotlight shines on the room ahead, but Tim can’t tell what’s inside.

“What is this place?”

“Four weeks with the new Robin,” Bruce spits. “No improvement.”

It’s a locker. The spotlight is highlighting a locker. Tim’s locker. His costume hangs inside, dull and lifeless under the light.

“Lacks Dick’s leadership. Jason’s boldness. An unworthy successor.”

Tim bites his tongue and balls his fists, nails cutting into his palms. This isn’t the real Bruce, but his voice is…

God. Bruce is saying everything. Everything Tim has fretted over. His slow start. His uncertainty in the field. His tendency to play it safe. Bruce never commented on it before, but Tim always wondered if Bruce thought he was inadequate.

“Tim was right,” Bruce continues. “Batman needs a Robin. But Robin needs to be someone - anyone - but Tim Drake.”

Tim’s jaw tightens, vision growing hazy. He’s noticed the posters hung up on the locker door now.

WE ARE HIRING, the first poster reads. NEW ROBIN WANTED, the second announces.

Tim tears his eyes away from the locker, moving down the next hallway. “Stay focused, Robin,” he tells himself. Because he is Robin. Bruce made him Robin. “This can’t be real.”

Tim crawls under a spike trap, and that’s when he sees the door in the distance. He starts running after it. Escape is just beyond it; Tim is certain. But the more he runs, the further the door gets.

“No escape…” a voice hisses. “No escape…”

Tim finally grabs hold of the door handle, but before he can wrench it open, the door is ripped from his hands, flying even further away.

Tim sprints. He’s so, so close now.

“Accept your fate.”

Catching up again, Tim rams his shoulder into the door. He grunts, the desperation fueling the intensity of his blows. The door gives way, and Tim falls into another room. The door slams shut behind him, leaving him alone.

This room is quieter. The voices have stopped. Tim’s vision is clearer, and the fog has faded from the ground. Even the shadows look brighter.

Tim climbs to his feet. “Am I out?”

The voices don’t respond.

“Yeah,” Tim decides. “I think I’m out.”

Jason's Version

Barbara's Version

Dick's Version

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

The Owl's Test: Barbara's Version

Batgirl is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Jason's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

---

She can’t see the ceiling.

Her back aches, her head is throbbing, and she has no idea where she is, but all she’s worried about is the ceiling. Why can’t she see it? It’s not fog (because there’s no fog on the ground). It’s not too dark (because the lights are stabbing her eyes). And there must be a ceiling, because every drip and creak and moan in the room bounces off the walls and against the ceiling. She’s in an echo chamber with an invisible ceiling.

Barbara is already so over this.

Sitting up slowly (because god, she’s too tired to go any faster), Barbara tries to assess her surroundings more effectively. She’s in a damp room connected to a hall with no visible end. Two large, weathered owl statues flank the hall. A cold stone slab is situated under her fingers. Upon closer inspection, she realizes that it’s not just a stone. It’s an altar.

Nothing good has ever come from waking up on an altar.

Barbara swings her legs over the edge and pushes herself off. Her legs aren’t quite ready for the weight, though, and she lands on one knee. She groans, dragging herself up. The lights pulse, and Barbara’s vision wavers.

“Ugh, my head.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to fend off a headache. “What was in that gas? And what… what is this place?” She stumbles forward, so unsteady that she falls into the wall twice before starting down the corridor.

There’s an ominous buzzing in her ear. She doesn’t have much hope, but she tries the comm anyway. “Belfry, do you copy? Belfry?” She sighs. “Nothing.”

Barbara staggers down the hall. She doesn’t know what the gas was, but she does know that distance usually resolves the effects of common forms of knockout gas. Theoretically, she should feel better the longer she’s down here. But that’s cold comfort when gravity is fighting her and she’s seeing in threes.

So she’d argue that she doesn’t deserve it when she walks directly into a trap. A pressure plate depresses under her feet, and she has less than a second to realize her mistake. Spikes shoot out from the walls, impaling her through the stomach, the legs, the throat.

And then Barbara wakes up on the altar. She’s feeling just as disoriented (or maybe more) than she did the first time. She sits up and jumps down, running her hands over phantom wounds. She can still feel the spikes holding her in place. She can feel the metal lodged in her windpipe, choking the air from her lungs.

But her body is untouched. She’s fine.

“O-kay?”

Barbara passes the stoic owl statues again, but she finds something new in the hall behind them. It’s a picture of the hall, taken from the ceiling. A picture of her body, impaled by the spikes.

“What the-?” Barbara has to swallow her nausea. “How did they do that?”

But it really doesn’t matter anymore. Because she is (somehow) still alive and still stuck in this cavern. She hurries ahead, body aching, but takes the corners slowly. She spots the spike trap before she runs into it this time and is careful to crawl underneath it.

“Inside of Gotham’s walls…” a sinister, echoing voice croons. Clear of the spikes, Barbara climbs to her feet, but the speaker is nowhere to be found.

“Rule you one and all…” another voice calls.

There’s an inhuman hiss, like a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth. And then a dark shadow darts across the path and scurries up the wall like a squirrel. Except it’s definitely, definitely not a squirrel.

Barbara’s vision is still fuzzy. Her balance still isn’t great. So a little shadow monster can’t be a major concern. “I’m just seeing things,” she reasons. And she’s right, because reason always wins the day. She’s hallucinating, end of story.

Barbara keeps going, ducking under the next spike trap. She spots something new down the hall. It’s not a shadow like before. It’s quite the opposite, in fact. It’s light.

An exit? Finally, a reprieve from whatever the hell is going on here?

Barbara speeds up, but she’s ultimately disappointed. The light isn’t a way out. It’s another attempt at killing her. Or “killing” her, because apparently death doesn’t stick down here.

But now that Barbara expects the traps, she has a much easier time navigating them. She creeps around pillars, weaving her way past the flame traps and into the next hall.

“Give up,” the voice from above orders. “It would be so much easier.”

Right. Give up and do what? Sit on the floor? Wait until she goes crazy and starves?

No, thanks.

But the voice clearly wasn’t making a suggestion. It wanted her to obey. Because the next thing Barbara knows, she’s knocked onto the floor, her nose and shoulder stinging. She ran directly into a dead end.

“Dammit,” Barbara hisses, carefully standing and wiping the blood from her nose. She turns back. Maybe she missed an alternate path.

The hall winds her back the way she came, but something’s different. Instead of running into the flame trap, she finds herself face-to-face with a brand new obstacle.

The antechamber before her is rigged with five spinning towers, and every tower runs from the (invisible) ceiling to the ground with deadly blades. The ground is littered with decaying fabric and crumbling bones. It seems Barbara is not the first person to be trapped here.

But Barbara has a one-up from all the others before her. She has experience. She had escaped  a room just like this one, way back in her early years as Batgirl. Though Bruce didn’t train her, per se, she will admit to training with him. He was always inventing new ways to test his limits, and Barbara was competitive to a fault. (She still is, really.) She couldn’t let him run an obstacle course without trying to beat his time. And today, this works in her favor.

Keeping low (so as not to get her head chopped off), Barbara follows the lower blades, tailing behind them as they guide her out to an exit on the right. It’s yet another hallway, and Barbara runs down it, staying alert for new traps.

“You thought you were so smart.”

This voice isn’t like the ones before.

“You thought you could do anything I could.”

Barbara recognizes this voice.

“But you were just a pathetic, rip-off Batman.”

It’s Bruce.

The room spins a bit more. Lights blur. Barbara presses a fist to her forehead, struggling to keep moving. There’s a room up ahead, but something about it is… not right.

Barbara’s heart is racing in her ears when she finally makes it through the hallway, the pressure on her skull threatening to tear her in half. She carefully reaches out, fingers grazing over a dusty gramophone, flanked by two armchairs. The gramophone plays a warped, upbeat song. It sounds like the death march to hell.

Barbara remembers these chairs. Remembers the out-of-place song, though it sounds gentler - beautiful, really - in her memory.

“Ugh, this is one of those boring songs,” Barbara had whined, flopping over the arm of the chair. “It’s so slow.”

But her father had smiled, eyes shining in bittersweet agony. “This was your mom’s song, Babs.” He rose from the chair, picking her up and spinning in time with the music. “You know, Mom’s dancing with us right now. Every time we hear this song.”

It’s not real. Barbara has to remember that. But it feels real, and that’s enough to make her eyes burn. She has to choose a path - left, she’s going left - just to get away from the song. Its corrupted lyrics still echo down the hall, chasing her until she runs into another figure. This one is less shadowy. More robotic and erratic, but also less cloaked.

It’s her. Disappearing and reappearing, getting closer and closer. And upon further inspection, Barbara realizes that her doppelganger isn’t exactly the same. She’s wearing a smooth white mask. Without the Batgirl costume, she’d be unidentifiable.

It’s not real, though. Barbara has to remember that. She pushes forward, and the copy disappears into a cloud of black smoke. Then she avoids another spike trap, approaching a new chamber, lit in an ominous red glow.

“What is…?”

It’s the Batcomputer, its screens covered in the images of people in the same white mask. The same expressionless mask. The chair in front of the computer spins around, revealing-

“Oh my god!” Barbara sprints to the chair, hands shaking. “Alfred!”

Alfred stares up at her with dead, unseeing eyes, his neck tilted an unhealthy ninety degrees. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

It’s not real. She knows it’s not real, but-

Barbara can’t help the desperate, “No!”

And then Alfred explodes into ash. He’s not dead. He’s never been dead. If only Barbara truly believed that. Because now she’s not so sure the real Alfred is alive, wherever he is. Maybe this isn’t the hallucination. Maybe everything before the labyrinth has been the falsehood.

“Face it!” It’s Bruce again. “You’ve never really saved anyone. And you never will.”

There’s a stone up ahead. Tall. Foreboding. Grim. It’s a grave, but it’s not just any grave.

It’s her dad’s grave.

“Where were you, Barbara?”

Oh god. That’s not Bruce talking. That’s her-

Barbara pukes.

“I needed my daughter. I needed you. But you were too busy pretending to be Batman. I died alone.”

For a long second, Barbara stays where she is, crouched in the corner of the room. She fights back bile, one hand pressed to her lips, the other hiding her eyes. This is… It’s too much.

She breathes in. Out. Coughs over a sob. Now is not the time.

Shakily, Barbara stands up, glaring at the grave. It’s not real. It’s never been real.

“You were a liability,” Bruce growls from above. “You made my job harder. A stupid, weak little girl, trying to do a man’s job.”

Barbara is tuning him out. She needs to get out of here. Worrying about Bruce’s opinion will only slow her down.

So she rushes ahead. Down hall after hall after hall. She doesn’t slow until she’s smacked with a headache so strong that the world flips upside-down for a moment. Barbara grits her teeth, staggering ahead. Squinting to make out the fuzzy room in the distance.

“Dad’s old office?”

She’s right. There’s his desk. His pipe. His old cup of black coffee. His radio. His… His picture of them. She can’t be older than three, and he’s hugging her like he never wants to let go.

Her heart cracks at the sight.

“Some new kid on the block in Gotham,” a voice says over the radio. “Calls herself Batgirl.” There’s an audible sigh. “Just another pile of paperwork in tights, if you ask me.”

Barbara’s hands go numb. She bites her lip. “That’s… Dad’s voice.” Saying it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Batgirl continues to make more messes than she cleans! Worst ‘hero’ this city’s ever seen!” Dad won’t stop. He keeps ranting about her. Like she’s… Like he knows what a failure she is. Like everything he’s said to her - every kind word and loving encouragement - was a lie.

Maybe this is fake. Maybe it isn’t. That is Dad’s voice, after all. That’s his tone whenever he talks about a frustrating day at work. Maybe… Maybe he’s said this all before.

“Dad…” She can’t help the voice crack. “Did you really think that?”

But he’s not listening.

“Crime is up more than ever. More than I can handle. And suddenly Batgirl’s disappeared! She’s abandoned Gotham!”

Barbara’s lungs seize up, and she coughs on her failures. The moment she heard the words - “Batgirl’s disappeared” - she knew what he was referring to.

The Joker. The gun. The doctors, saying over and over in different words, “Paralyzed, paralyzed, paralyzed.”

And Barbara had still fought for Gotham, but Dad never got to know that, did he?

“I didn’t abandon Gotham!” she tries to tell him. “I was working as Oracle!”

“I wish I could speak to Barbara about all this,” her dad laments. “Where are you when I need you, Babs?”

“Dad, I… I’m right here.”

The radio crackles, switching channels.

“10-15, officer down!”

Barbara’s blood runs cold. She remembers this distress call. She can recite it by heart.

“It’s Gordon! He’s been shot! I need EMS here now, goddamn it!!” Detective Montoya’s voice cracks as she desperately begs for backup. Barbara can hear the tears, and it rips her soul in two.

“Oh my god.” Barbara’s heart is thudding in her ears. She looks around the room, trying to find the quickest escape. How can she get to him? How can she get there before…?

“Dad,” she sobs. “I… I won’t get to him in time! I can’t-!” Her voice is choked off, tears pulling her vocal cords too thin.

Something in the back of Barbara’s mind propels her forward. She must keep moving, must keep moving, must keep moving…

“I… I have to get out of here.” She starts running. She’s not sure where she’s going, but she definitely can’t stay here. Not in his office. Not here.

The halls keep turning. Keep twisting and winding and going. They never stop.

“I hate this!” she bites out, frustrated tears pooling along the edges of her mask. She won’t stop, though. She can’t give up now, because-

There’s a door.

Barbara breaks into a sprint, but the door gets further and further the faster she runs.

“No escape…” a voice chants. “No escape…”

Barbara catches up. Grabs the handle and tries to open the door. But the door is wrenched from her grip, flying down the hall.

“Accept your fate…”

She runs to catch up and desperately rams her shoulder into the door. It gives way on her second attempt, and she spills out of the labyrinth. The door slams shut behind her, and she has to pause to catch her breath. She doesn’t wipe her eyes; the tears have already dried, making her skin feel tight.

Barbara isn’t safe. She knows that. She’s still trapped underground, and she’s not sure she’s even escaped the labyrinth. But the lights are warmer. She can’t hear the voices anymore. Her head feels clearer, even if her soul is scattered across the floor, ripped bloody by regrets of the past.

It’s not a win - not by a long shot - but it’s a start.

Jason's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

The Owl's Test: Jason's Version

Red Hood is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

---

The entire world is covered in a haze. A persistent buzzing underlies the chamber’s ambiance, and the Earth tips slightly as Jason levers himself up.

God, does he hurt. His neck, his shoulders, his back. He supposes that might have something to do with the granite mattress he’s sitting on. If humans were made with stick straight spines, Jason imagines that this would be the ideal bed. As it is, a bona fide sacrificial altar makes for poor lumbar support.

Jason’s vision is still a bit fuzzy when he pushes himself off the altar, and a momentary head rush makes him lean back on the stone. Every joint in his body aches. Every muscle under his skin throbs. You’d think he’d just gone three days without sleep, but he just woke up from a nap that was long enough for someone to move him from the floor of the Penguin’s office to an altar in what appears to be a massive, underground cavern.

Jason isn’t old - not by a long shot - but this is what he imagines it feels like. Like an old, hungover man at a rock concert.

As he stumbles to his feet, he scans the walls. They rise up to oblivion, so high that Jason can’t see the ceiling. The whole place is covered with a chilly fog, and frost crunches under his boots.

“Well, if you weren’t before,” Jason gripes, “you’re on my shit list now, Cobblepot.” The world spins a bit, and Jason has to hold out his arms to stay upright. “The hell is this place, anyway? And what’s that smell?” He scowls. The mask covers smells pretty well, but there’s a distinct odor leaking past its filter. Like must and rotten meat.

“Belfry, do you read?” Jason calls. “Hood to Belfry.”

Nothing.

“Great,” he mutters. “I’m cut off.”

With no path forward except… well, forward, Jason staggers ahead. His vision is still blurry, the world is still spinning, and to top it all off, his helmet is malfunctioning, the edges of his vision fuzzy with static.

“The hell is wrong with this thing?”

Jason continues on. As time passes, the drug (or whatever the hell the Penguin gassed him with) wears off. His vertigo is abating. It gets easier to see. And it’s a damn good thing too, because he quite nearly charges into an obvious booby trap. The holes in the wall are a dead giveaway for killer spikes, which would have shish-kebabed him in a second. So instead he ducks and crawls past in the space between the floor and the lowest spikes.

“Inside of Gotham’s walls…” a sinister, echoing voice croons. Clear of the spikes, Jason jumps to his feet, but the speaker is nowhere to be found.

“Rule you one and all…” another voice calls.

There’s an inhuman hiss, like a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth. And then a dark shadow darts across the path and scurries up the wall like a squirrel. Except it’s far too big to be a squirrel. Far, far too big.

“What the hell?” Jason tries to keep it together, but he’s drugged up in some underground maze. It’s getting very difficult to stay calm.

Jason turns the corner, just stopping himself in time to avoid being skewered. The spikes slam into the wall, grinding sparks against the cement. Jason takes a deep, shaky breath, crawling under this trap too.

There’s a light up ahead. Jason almost gets excited. The exit must be close. But the thrill instantly sours into disappointment. The light is too warm in color. It must be a candle, not sunlight.

And candle is putting it mildly. The next room is rife with flame traps, just waiting for Jason to step on the pressure plate and get charred to a crisp. He finds a path through, but it requires a significant amount of trial and error.  He weaves between pillars, jumping over dangerous tiles until he’s made it to the next corridor.

“Give up,” a voice orders from above. “It would be so much easier.”

And it’s tempting. Because Jason is drained. He was aching to begin with, and now, navigating this endless maze, he can feel fatigue creep up, threatening to overtake him.

But he keeps going, because when people say to give up, it's just further motivation to keep at it. And he keeps at it right until he smacks into a wall.

“Wh-?” It hadn’t been a dead end. Just five seconds ago, it had clearly been a hallway. But now it’s a wall, and Jason just rammed his body into it. “Oh, screw this!” he groans, standing up and turning back.

The next path makes Jason wonder if maybe it would have been better to have just fallen for the first spike trap. Because now he’s staring at a less hidden - but far more elaborate - trap. Saws and rods of spikes rotate from the ceiling to the floor. There’s a way through (there always is), but it will require a dangerous amount of precision.

Fortunately, the Bat trained him enough to know how to survive a simple spinning death trap. All he has to do is stay low, stay alert, and be patient. It’s annoying but effective.

And then Jason is back to running. Running down halls, making sharp turns, hoping and praying that the next corner is his way out.

But then his head gets floaty again. The lights are brighter, the sounds more muffled.

“I tried to teach you what I knew, but you were hopeless.” It’s not the voices from before. It’s angrier. It’s more…

It’s more familiar.

“Why did I ever believe you could be anything more than a disgrace?”

It’s Bruce.

Colors are blurring now, and Jason’s legs slow. It feels like he’s wading through concrete. He stumbles forward to a crossroads, devious laughter ringing in his ears.

Left? Right? Does it matter?

Jason doesn’t know which way he goes. He just keeps moving.

A dark figure - himself? - drops from the ceiling before being yanked back up by the throat. It’s shadowy and vague and obviously not-quite-right, but Jason isn’t sure where it’s coming from.

“That’s messed up,” he comments, immediately turning and heading back to the alternate path. He won’t waste his time on things that may not even be real threats.

But it’s no good. A similar figure appears, and a spike trap lies beyond it. There’s no space to crawl under this one. Jason groans in frustration, turning back again. He’s long since lost track of where he’s been.

Two armchairs and a gramophone are waiting in the next antechamber. The music is distorted, but if Jason concentrates (but damn, is it hard to concentrate), he can place the song. He doesn’t know its name or the artist, but he does know where and when he heard it last.

Bruce’s office. The week Jason was adopted. Bruce was busy, but Jason had felt so isolated and threatened by the giant, ominous manor that he knocked on the door anyway. And Bruce had dropped a record on the gramophone and sat with Jason in the armchairs by the fire. And it was warm and safe and-

Jason keeps going.

“Face it! You can’t save anyone, and you never will.”

Fake Bruce. That’s not the real Bruce. Bruce wouldn’t say that. Bruce can’t say that, because he’s-

“Alfred!” Jason is running before he realizes what’s happening, darting up to the figure slumped in the Batcomputer’s command chair. Alfred's neck is tilted at a ninety degree angle. The monitors behind him glow bright red, with smooth, faceless figures staring out at him.

“No,” Jason says, trying to calm his racing heart. He’s dealt with enough flashbacks - with enough trauma - to know how to assess reality. He fills his lungs. Wiggles his toes. Thinks back through his actions. How nothing really has made sense since Cobblepot’s betrayal. And then Jason makes up his mind. “No. This can’t be real.”

Alfred explodes into ash and drifts to the ground. It only confirms Jason’s conclusion.

Fatigue is creeping up his spine now, invading his every cell. But even still, he marches forward. He turns corridor after corridor before the shadowy figure returns. But this time, it’s close enough to identify.

The shadowy figure is holding a gun to its head. The shadowy figure is him.

Something disturbingly familiar ripples through Jason’s muscles. Sweat breaks out across his forehead. He knows it’s fake. He knows it’s not real, but… “Goddamn, it,” he hisses. It feels real enough.

The figure disappears in a cloud of smoke, and Bruce speaks again.

“I should never have recruited you!”

And then the world turns green. Jason feels like his head is being crushed. He slows, heart in his throat. He recognizes the sight before him.

“Oh, god,” he breathes. “Not a Lazarus Pit. Not again.”

The crowbar is solid in his hands. Heavier than it should be, but it feels right.

“You were the worst Robin.” Bruce’s loathsome baritone is mocking and cruel. It only makes Jason’s swing more satisfying.

Green drips from his hair. Rolls down his face.

“On your best day, you were nothing but a killer.”

Thump. Thwack. Thud.

The crowbar cuts across Batman’s cowl. Cracks a hole in his skull. Shatters his ribs. Punctures his lungs. Batman collapses, and Jason.

Keeps.

Going.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD-

“Kill… kill… kill…”

Jason drags Batman up, just to hit his limp form again. Into the neck. Across the face. Between the shoulder blades.

“We are the same…”

“NO!” Jason drops the crowbar. It clatters cheerfully on the stone floor. Batman falls in an ungainly heap beside it.

Jason presses his palms to his eyes. “That’s not who I am!” he tells the voices. “Not anymore!”

Batman disappears in smoke. The Lazarus green fades, and the crowbar melts into the ground.

Jason starts running.

“No escape…”

There’s a door ahead. He can see the door ahead. But it just gets further and further the faster he runs.

“No escape…”

Jason catches up. Grabs the handle and tries to open the door. But the door is wrenched from his grip, flying down the hall.

“Accept your fate…”

Jason has to sprint to catch up. He doesn’t waste time pushing open the door. Frantically, desperately, he rams his shoulder once, twice into the door. It gives way, and he spills out of the labyrinth. The door slams shut behind him.

“Is it over? Am I out?”

The comm still fizzles in his ear, and he’s still inside an underground lair. His vision is clearer though. The world isn’t spinning. The lights are warmer, and the room is less confined.

Jason isn’t safe. Not yet. But he’s out. He doesn’t hear the voices anymore. Shadows don’t warp into the past. And Jason considers that a win.

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Sleepless Days, Endless Nights

Alise can't sleep. Not with the world on her shoulders.

Good thing Lucas is there to lighten the load.

For my favorite beta and friend forever, @wide-awakeprincessfan Love you!

---

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“... are you sure?”

“No.”

“‘No,’ like you’re not sure if something is wrong, or ‘no,’ like there’s nothing wrong?”

“The second one.”

Lucas is quiet for a moment, still following behind like a lost puppy. “Something’s wrong,” he decides.

“If you say so.”

“Alise!” A warm hand wraps around Alise’s wrist, holding her back, and she freezes. But she looks ahead stubbornly, refusing to waste effort on this.

“What?” she asks, voice chilly.

The hand releases her arm. “Sorry, I just… I’m worried. What’s wrong?”

This is going to be a conversation, isn’t it?

“I’m fine,” Alise promises, spinning to face Lucas. “I swear, I’m fine.”

Lucas chews his lip, folding his arms. “Are…? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to nag, but… ‘Lise, you’re running yourself ragged. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

And Alise sighs, because she can’t deny the sad eyes or the scared voice. She takes Lucas’s hands in hers. “I’m…” She shakes her head. “No. I’m not. Or… I don’t think I am.”

Gently, Lucas guides her over to a bench. “Can we sit?” And then, when she hesitates- “Please, let’s just sit, okay? Just for a minute.”

Begrudgingly, Alise sits down with him. Lucas takes a moment, watching her with such genuine concern that she almost feels guilty. Then he pushes the hair from her eyes and runs the back of his hand down her cheek.

“It’s been three days,” Lucas says, tone softer, voice hushed. “You haven’t slept. You’ve barely eaten. I don’t think you’ve stopped since your parents left for Nolia.”

“It’s far,” Alise says. “I’m just worried about them.”

Lucas smiles weakly. “No. If that were true, you wouldn’t be falling asleep sitting up.”

Alise has to kick her feet, trying to snap herself awake. She’s drifting, and she can’t afford it right now.

“That’s all. I swear.”

Alise wishes Lucas would stop smiling. He can read her so well. He almost reads her better than she can read herself. And he’s so smug about it too. It’d be infuriating if he wasn’t so dang sweet.

“‘Lise, I know this is a lot of pressure.” Lucas squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Running a whole kingdom? That’s… You know I don’t get the royal stuff. I don’t know how any of this works. You’re so… You’re so smart, just to understand what the job is, much less do it.”

“Smart is not the word I’d use.” She feels so very not smart right now.

But Lucas looks at her like she hung the moon and dusted each star with light. “No. But it’s the word I’d use.”

Alise laughs bitterly. “Doesn’t feel that way. I… I feel like everything I do - every choice I make - is the wrong one. Someone always hates the outcome. I just… I need to do this right. I need to do this like my parents do. Why do they…? How do they make it look so easy?”

“Hey.” Lucas puts a cautious arm around her. “You’re only one person. No matter what you do, someone is always going to be upset. The important thing is that you do what’s best for everyone.”

“How do I know? How do I know what’s best? I’ve studied all this, but it’s so different when I’m actually doing things. When my choices matter.”

Lucas squeezes her shoulder, drawing her closer. “That’s what Rogers is for, right?” A soft laugh shakes his shoulders. “Really, Alise. Your parents will be proud when they see how well you’ve done. But they’ll be gone for a month. You can’t go a month without sleep.”

“You lack ambition,” Alise argues teasingly. “I will sleep when my parents are back.”

But she’s already slipping. She can feel fatigue pull at her limbs and eyelids. Her head drifts to Lucas’s shoulder, and she melts into his side.

“Lucas?”

“Hm?”

Alise sighs. “I… I think I’ll get that sleep now.”

Lucas smiles. “Best choice you made all day.”

But she doesn’t hear him. She’s already dead to the world.