Information obtained, Batman punched the criminal in the face, knocking him unconscious. Hopefully, now he could stop this newest shipment of armor-piercing ammo that was scheduled to come into Bludhaven's docks tomorrow night; this illegal contraband that had made the streets of Gotham City and Bludhaven yet even more dangerous for the police departments. He was still working on discovering where the shipments were originating from. With that information, Batman would be able to nip this particular problem in the bud by cutting it off at the source.

He had sent a heads up to Nightwing through Oracle shortly after he had first discovered the presence of the illegal ammo, when he had found out through his sources that the deadly rounds were being distributed in Bludhaven as well as Gotham. Since Dick would be potentially facing off with criminals carrying the ammo in both areas of his life; as Nightwing and an officer of the BPD, it was especially important that he be aware of the danger in order to protect himself and warn his fellow officers. It was a bonus that Nightwing could work the case from his end.

Although he knew they would be more effective if they were actually communicating personally, Batman and Nightwing didn't talk directly, if at all; Bruce and Dick even less so. For all that both men had stubborn streaks the size of the Milky Way, Bruce didn't want Dick to get hurt. And oddly enough, that was the gist of the argument that had created the rift between them. The idea that Dick wanted to take on even more danger by joining the police department, where he would be far more limited in his options on how to deal with criminals; that on top of the disappointment in finding out he had chosen to drop out of college just a few months before dropping this new bombshell on Bruce . . . Well, Bruce supposed he could have worded his argument in a more productive manner.

Dick, just nineteen at the time and eager to exert his independence, had responded as well as could be expected to Bruce's ultimatum. He had stormed out of the manor after a yelling match that likely could have been detected by seismograph. If Dick had regretted his rash actions afterwards, Bruce didn't know. What he did know was that he regretted his own rash words that had driven his son away from him. How could Bruce keep him safe when Dick was living in a different city? He hadn't seen him or heard from him without an intermediary in just over two years now.

Well, that wasn't exactly the truth either. Batman had visited his son's apartment hours after he had moved in, without Dick's knowledge, of course. Bruce had subscribed to Bludhaven's newspaper, and taken to watching the city's local news stations for information on Nightwing's activities. How many nights had Batman stared across the river in hopes of somehow catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette flying between the smaller skyscrapers of his son's new city? The city proper was, of course, too far away for Batman to actually see anything but general shapes of the buildings without something much stronger than his lenses' specialized telescoping view.

He searched for every piece of information he could find about Dick Grayson and Nightwing. He did so quietly, but Bruce knew that Alfred was more than aware of his need for news on his boy. It was Alfred, after all, who brought him the copy of the Bludhaven Sentinel along with the Gotham Gazette every morning. He knew that if Alfred turned on the television in the den at any given time, it was likely as not to be on a Bludhaven station as it was one of Gotham's.

He had just called in the police to pick up this scum when his comlink chirped. Assuming it was Oracle, he answered.

"Go."

". . ."

"Oracle?"

". . ."

"Nightwing?" A lump of ice appeared in his gut.

". . . Batman. . ."

The voice was barely a whisper, but just loud enough to place. Nightwing hadn't contacted him directly once throughout the entire length of their silent separation.

"Nightwing, report!"

". . ."

The link went dead.

The ice spread through his veins. Batman raced for the Batmobile, activating his comlink again.

"Oracle! I need a trace on Nightwing's location immediately!"

He threw himself into the driver's seat and revved the motor. He peeled out, turning the vehicle in the direction of Bludhaven. He flicked on the GPS, even as Oracle's voice spoke into his ear.

"I am pinpointing him in the warehouse district. Sending the coordinates to your GPS as I speak. What's going on?"

Of course, Barbara would be curious. No one knew better than she the conflict between the two of them.

"Nightwing contacted me, and then I lost the link. I suspect whatever the problem is, it's important. Better to check it out in person." He growled as he sped through the streets.

His unwilling informant had assured him that the shipment was due in tomorrow night on Christmas day, but it was becoming obvious that the punk had either lied to him or else the schedule had been upped without passing the word along to the dealers.

It was a good thing it was two in the morning. It would be hell on his image to have mowed down cars and pedestrians alike in his desperation to get to his son. He hoped to hell that he showed up only to have Nightwing snarl at him for being in Bludhaven's territory uninvited; an angry Nightwing Batman could live with as long as the young hero was good health otherwise.

"Let me see if I can contact him," Oracle suggested.

As Batman waited for the results, he pressed a little harder on the accelerator. He was pushing the limits of even the Batmobile to corner safely. He didn't know why, but his gut told him that time was of the essence.

"I get no response. It's strange, because it says his comlink is open, but I am getting nothing. Perhaps there is a problem with the com on his end?"

"Perhaps," he growled. "Did he tell you what he was working on this evening?"

He flew across the bridge in the direction of Bludhaven. Luckily, the warehouse district was right there, just beyond the Fourteenth Street Drawbridge. He checked the GPS signal. The red glowing dot was Nightwing. The dot hadn't moved since it had shown up on the screen several minutes before. Either Nightwing was in the middle of an active surveillance, where it was possible he couldn't speak without risk of detection, or there might be a more serious reason why the dot had remained motionless. He could be moving around the same general location, too. The GPS locator wasn't so sensitive that it could detect perceivable motion within a thirty yard square.

"I think he had planned to follow up on a lead he had on the ammo smugglers. That was the plan earlier in the evening, anyway. He hadn't contacted me since the beginning of the evening." There was a slight hesitation in her voice. "We don't talk as often as we did before, so he doesn't always tell me everything. Sorry."

"You two have a falling out, also?" There was his exit.

"Sort of . . . um, okay, yeah," she admitted reluctantly.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly," she said. "It's an old argument."

"Noted. Batman out." He had arrived at the warehouse district.

His concentration focused like a laser beam as he neared the location he was looking for. He was within a couple of city blocks of Nightwing's beacon. In case there was criminal activity in the region, Batman pulled the Batmobile in a dark area between some stacks of loading pallets. He would go from here on foot. He pulled his portable GPS out of his utility belt, linking it to the one in the Batmobile.

He decided that altitude was called for, and set his grapple line for the nearest roof line. In seconds, he landed in a crouch on the roof. He ran bent over to lower the risk of his being silhouetted against the night sky to anyone roaming the docks below.

Batman only slowed as he neared Nightwing's location. It wouldn't do if he bypassed the other vigilante accidentally. His gut argued with him to hurry, but his head needed to rule here. He wouldn't do Nightwing any good if he rushed right into an ambush.

He searched below for signs of activity. It was quiet. If there was trouble here, it appeared to be long gone now. He glanced down at his locator. It said he was on top of his quarry. Batman frowned. Either Nightwing was inside the warehouse Batman was currently standing on, or he was just below him. He slipped to the edge, peering down into the dark shadows the warehouse cast. There were a number of unidentifiable shadows that appeared to be the size of a man. Checking the area once more for potential danger, Batman set his grapple and lowered himself down into the darkest of the shadows.

His unease increased when he discovered one of Nightwing's birdarangs buried in the side of a wooden pallet that was suspended in the air by a forklift. He pulled it out and slid it into a compartment in the back of his utility belt, and then resumed his search in the direction from which the weapon would have had to have been thrown.

The large sliding door to the warehouse was still open. Whoever had been here had left in a hurry. Batman moved quickly to the edge of the doorway. He leaned carefully around the door to search the interior, but what he was looking for was right there, bathed in the light from the dock. Unfortunately, that wasn't all he was bathed in; Nightwing was lying in a black pool of his own blood.

It was a very good thing that the place was already deserted, because Batman had eyes only for the still form of his child. He skidded to a stop beside Nightwing already on his knees.

There was so much blood!

"Oh, God! Oracle! I need an ambulance at the address of the GPS tracker, ASAP! Now," Batman ordered, yanking his glove off to better feel for a pulse at his neck. "Nightwing!"

He wasn't surprise that he got no answer. This much blood loss alone would have caused unconsciousness. For one paralyzing moment, he felt nothing, and then a flutter. As carefully as he could, he turned his son over. Batman's eyes widened in horror as he took in three; four; oh God, six bullet wounds!

They were the damned armor piercing bullets that he had been tracking! Batman's hands hovered uselessly over Nightwing's body. There were too many wounds that he needed to apply pressure to . . . Two in his chest, three in his abdomen, and one in his left thigh!

Batman's breath was sawing in and out like a winded racehorse. His son was dying right in front of him. The last words Dick had heard from him were ones of anger; words that he hadn't even meant to say, just terrible ones that would claim their pound of figurative flesh!

He yanked off his other glove and threw it on the ground with the first one. Uncaring who was around, he pulled off his cowl as well. He needed his son to see him one more time; for Dick to look into his eyes and know that he still loved him! He flicked the lenses to Nightwing's mask out of the way.

Cupping his boy's face in his hands, Bruce called him. "Dick! Dick, wake up, son! Wake up and look at me . . . please!"

His breath caught in his lungs as his son's eyes fluttered open. It took a moment of cajoling and calling his name to get those beautiful, cerulean eyes to finally focus on him. They started to close again in pain.

"Dick! Dick, look at me," Bruce demanded.

Obedient in the end, Dick's eyes opened again and met the watering ones of the man who had raised him; the man he had thought of as his father since he was nine years old.

"Bruce?" The word was accompanied by flecks of blood. The word was followed by a gurgle.

"Dick, I'm sorry," Bruce told him in a rush. He needed to hurry; to make him understand in time. "Do you hear me, son? I'm so sorry. I should never have said those things. I didn't mean half of them. I wasn't even angry at you."

Dick was shaking his head.

"No! No, I wasn't angry," Bruce swore to him, tears of love and regret pouring down his face. "I was scared! I was terrified of losing you, and all I managed to accomplish was to lose you anyway . . . I did everything wrong, and you suffered for it. I want you . . . No, I need you to understand that I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't want you to leave!"

"Bruce . . ." Dick coughed. He blinked hard a couple of times as if he were trying to clear his vision.

"Ah, God," Bruce brushed furiously at the tears that were blurring his vision of the most precious person in his life. "Dick, I-I . . ." Damn it! Just when he needed the words the most, they still persisted in eluding him. He couldn't let Dick go without telling him just one time, though. Bruce would never forgive himself for that. It would be the ultimate betrayal.

Dick's eyes lost focus. Bruce gave him a gentle shake, then a slightly more vigorous one. It worked! Dick's eyes met his once more.

"Dick, I. . . I l-love you!" There! He said it!

Dick's eyes widened, and his mouth worked but no sound emerged.

Now that the words were out, it was as if a dam had been released. Bruce couldn't stop saying the words over and over. "I love you, Dick! I have since the first day I brought you home. I love you as much or more than I could love anyone! You are like a son to me! You are my son; as much so as if you were my own flesh and blood."

He knew it must have been a herculean effort when Dick raised a trembling, bloody hand to touch Bruce's face. Bruce clasped the beloved hand to his cheek with his own.

"Ah, God! I'm a rotten father," Bruce cursed himself. "It took six bullets to rip those damned three words out of me! You deserved to have heard them from me every day, Dick; every damned day!"

Dick shook his head again. He was frowning at him. Bruce almost laughed at the idea that even now they were still arguing.

He brushed angrily at the tears again, and then ran his hand through Dick's hair; pushing it back from his forehead just as he did when Dick was a child; when Bruce had attempted to soothe him during an illness or after an injury, when he had needed to comfort him after a nightmare. . .

Now, Bruce was in the middle of his own worst nightmare!

"I love you, Dick," he kept repeating. "I'm so sorry it took me so long to tell you, but I have always loved you, son. I never stopped, not even when we stopped talking. God, I was so stupid! I should never have allowed you to leave. I should have let you join Gotham's police department. Perhaps I could have done a better job of keeping you safe."

"Bruce, s-sstop," Dick whispered.

He might not have heard had Bruce not had his forehead pressed to that of his son. He pulled back only long enough that he could look into Dick's eyes once more.

"I won't stop, Dick," he promised. "I will always love you. You will always be my son; my boy . . . my Robin."

"I-I. . . I love y-you, too. I'm s-sorry . . . too," Dick stammered breathlessly. He coughed up more blood; staining his blue lips and his teeth red.

"No, you have nothing to be sorry about," Bruce corrected him. "Except for not calling me for backup. Did you think I wouldn't be here for you? I promise you that no argument could have kept me from being there for you when you needed me! Too little; too late. Always too little; too late from me."

"Forgiven . . . f-forgive. Y-you and m-me." Dick whispered. "I'm s-so c-cold," he complained; his teeth chattering.

Bruce gingerly pulled his son into his arms, afraid to hurry the process, but needing to help him by sharing his heat; not that his costume would allow much in the way of heat exchange. It was the gesture; however, he understood that Dick needed.

"B-Bruce . . . D-Dad, I l-love you. You were a g-great f-father . . . to me," Dick whispered against Bruce's ear. "Th-thank you . . . for t-taking me in."

"Thank you, son. I couldn't have been more proud of you."

Bruce's tears dripped off of his chin onto Dick's compromised armor. He watched them slide across the blue emblem on his son's chest and mix with his blood. Dick's blood, he noted absently, had slowed dramatically. It had been flowing far more rapidly when Bruce had first arrived.

He could hear the sirens in the distance. It had felt like hours since he had asked Oracle to send for the ambulance. He knew it had only been a little more than twelve, maybe fifteen minutes. The response time was pitiful. He would have to see that something was done about that . . . Bludhaven wasn't his city, but it was Dick's, and as such, Bruce swore silently that he would do what he could for it as well as Gotham.

Dick's body shuddered in his arms. Bruce looked down quickly, but his son's eyes had already closed . . . A sigh issued softly from his blue lips, and Bruce knew they had closed for the last time. As he watched, a single tear escaped, rolling down that pale, pale cheek. Bruce lifted a finger to catch it. The light from the dock made it sparkle like the most precious of diamonds.

The sirens blared as they closed the distance; getting louder and louder. Bruce knew he should lay Dick down and pull on his cowl, flick the lenses closed on his son's mask; protect their identities even in the end, but he couldn't seem to gather the energy; couldn't make himself care; couldn't bring himself to lay his child back into the pool of his own blood.

Someone laid a hand on his shoulder.

" . . . Bruce."

How had they already recognized him?

"Master Bruce."

He clung to his son's body, unwilling to release him yet. "No! No, no, not yet! Leave me alone!"

"Master Bruce. It's past time to wake up."

He suddenly recognized the voice speaking to him. Alfred! Dear God, how would he tell Alfred the news?

"Master Bruce, it's time to wake up. It's Christmas morning, sir."

Wait! What?

Bruce opened his clenched eyes to the coffered ceiling of his bedroom. His arms were empty! Dick's body was gone and, in a panic, Bruce jerked up into a sitting position, startling the butler back a couple of steps. How did he get into his bedroom? Where had they taken Dick's body? He hadn't been ready to let go yet!

"Dick," he yelled. "Where's Dick? Where did they take him, Alfred?"

Morning sunlight lit the room, placing the butler's face in shadow, but his confusion was obvious even so.

"Master Richard is home, I would assume, in Bludhaven. May I inquire what this is about, sir?"

"I-I didn't tell you? You haven't heard?" Bruce threw back his covers and stomped to the window. He couldn't stand to look Alfred in the eyes and tell him Dick was gone. Never had his failure been so great!

He stopped, startled by what he saw. Snow! Snow blanketed everything. But just last night the skies had been clear, hadn't they? The temperature had been cool, but nowhere near the temperature that snow required. Or had it? He couldn't remember . . . Why couldn't he remember?

"I-I . . ." he jerked around to stare at his butler. "I don't understand."

Alfred took a careful step forward, placing him directly in the beam of the morning sun. "Might I venture a guess that you have had a very realistic, and apparently, very unpleasant dream, sir?"

"A-a dream?" Dare he hope?

"You came in early last night. You had managed to gain a new lead in the armor-piercing ammo case, you had said. Something about a new shipment was scheduled to come into Bludhaven's docks late tonight. You complained mightily that the criminals were getting rather brazen; scheduling their rendezvous on a holiday."

Bruce blinked. The shipment hadn't happened yet?

"When," he demanded to know. "When did I come in last night?"

Alfred stared at him, speaking slowly, as if to a dim-witted child. "You arrived in the Batcave at approximately two-twenty in the morning."

Two-twenty? That would have been the time he had arrived at the docks . . . His heart started pounding. "Did I do anything, after that? Go anywhere? Say anything?"

"You took a few minutes calling Oracle, sir, and instructing her to contact Nightwing to be available to meet the shipment at the docks tonight, and I believe, to question any prisoners about the supplier. He's to have Oracle relay the information back to you when it is over."

His heart skipped it beat. It hadn't happened! It had been a dream – No! A nightmare! It hadn't happened . . . yet!

Dear God, he had just instructed Nightwing to confront maniacs with armor-piercing bullets – Alone!

No! It hadn't happened yet. He could still fix this . . . He had time, he thought as he stole a glance at his bedside clock. He had time to stop six bullets from hitting their intended target! He had time to fix his mistakes! And later, Nightwing would have the backup tonight that he had been missing in Bruce's nightmare.

While Bruce didn't believe in magic, per say, he did believe in gifts. This dream, his worst nightmare, had been a gift. It was a way to save not only the life of his son, but to also repair the damage he had already done to him with his words two years ago.

"Do you have plans for today, sir," Alfred asked, a little worriedly.

Bruce smiled. "I plan to go out, Alfred. Ready the four-wheel drive for me, please."

"Before or after breakfast," Alfred asked in consternation.

"Before," Bruce instructed, practically jogging to the shower. "If things go as planned, there will be two of us for brunch."

As understanding blossomed on the elder man's face, he returned the master's broad smile with one of his own. Both of his charges in the same house again? Perhaps there would be a holiday worth celebrating this year, after all!

I had originally planned to do a death scene (this is fan fiction, after all), but cried all the way through Bruce's confession, and in the end, couldn't kill my favorite character in the world. I chickened out and made it a dream sequence. I would appreciate hearing your opinions on this. Perhaps if I get enough requests, I will write out a second chapter in which we see the greatest of all Bruce/Dick fluff . . . Tell me what you think!