New Wounds

by starspatter

Things change - some more than others.

Just another scene I felt was missing from RotJ. Contains references to several DCAU tie-in comics, including BB 2.0 and Gotham Adventures.

---

Then.

A dull throttle, deepening to a roar and accompanied by the faint smell of engine exhaust. The rumble of a motorbike traversing the long mobile to the manor alerted Alfred Pennyworth to the arrival of their unannounced guest. He put down the tray he was transposing and walked with a brisk but dignified pace as the vehicle shuddered to a park in the driveway, standing poised by the door when the bell rang. Exercising a well-versed range of posture and grace, he opened it and bowed readily to welcome the visitor.

"Hey, Alfred."

"Good day, Master Richard." Formality first over familiarity. "Master Bruce has been expecting you."

Richard "Dick" Grayson had grown considerably since the day he first moved into the Wayne estate following his parents' death. Now fleshed tall and lean compared to his preteen years, but still sturdily built from years of training, the lad's features had matured handsomely to match. His firm jaw tightened at the mention of Bruce though. "…I'm just here to see Tim."

"Yes. He's aware of that, sir."

Dick exhaled with exasperation as he smoothed a hand through his hair, taming stray strands of helmet static. (The dreadful ponytail was gone at least, thank heavens.) "Of course. He knows everything, doesn't he." Though outwardly his appearance may have changed, that sarcastic streak had persisted since he was a boy.

Alfred made no rejoinder, but merely proposed to take the youth's coat. Gone were the days of simple sweater vests and caps; just as he'd graduated from garish green and red to black and blue, when Dick had left the mansion to strike out on his own he'd traded most of the old clothes Alfred used to pick out for trendy leather jackets and jeans. (These young folks and their "rock 'n roll" fashion nowadays. What was that new hip slang that kept popping up on the telly to describe something stylish? "Shooway"? What an absurd word.) Dick politely passed as he stepped inside, glancing anxiously towards the stairwell.

"Master Timothy is in the garden. He's been able to spend more time outside as of late. I believe the fresh air does him good. Why, I was just about to take lunch out to him, in fact." He resumed to the spot where he'd left the plate of snacks. As he picked it up, his tenor declined slightly, losing some of its altitude. "…I'm afraid he hasn't been eating very much lately."

A compassionate hand bolstered the butler's shoulder. Though the elderly gentleman was striving his best to retain an upright exterior ("stiff upper lip", as his father always used to say), Dick could distinguish the slump in his backside –sadness slipping into his stature. His wrinkled eyes seemed to be sagging more, showing the shadows of sleep deficiency Dick was well-acquainted with. For as long as Dick had known him, Alfred rarely belied any expression unbefitting his position, but he had been like a father to Dick (frankly moreso than the man who had all but officially adopted him) – and surely to Tim too. Masking his emotions under these circumstances must be an exhausting task.

"You mind if I take those instead? I'll try to convince him to have a bite."

"…Be my guest, sir."

Lifting the platter from Alfred's slackened grip, Dick balanced it with ease on one arm as he slid open the side access on his own and exited into the courtyard. The first thing he spotted was the sprawling tennis court widening over the grounds in the distance. He and Barbara frequently used to challenge Bruce when she would swing by for a rendezvous – not as Batgirl, but as his then college girlfriend at the time, "Miss Gordon". …Once he found out both she and Bruce were keeping her alternate persona from him, the cordial competitions ceased.

Turns out that wasn't the only secret between them.

Later, Tim would be the one to excitedly suggest bringing out the rackets again. They'd host doubles tournaments whenever Dick was back in town. Sometimes the three of them would team up together against Bruce and he'd still trounce them all single-handedly.

…

Now that active boy who used to crow in triumph whenever he managed to surpass one of them (for real – he could tell when they were letting him win) was sitting hunched in a chair by the patio table, knees bundled compactly to his chest with exposed feet dangling on the edge of the seat. He was still dressed in pajamas; large, loose enveloping fabric that gave the impression his frail frame was even more diminished. He'd always been a small kid, relatively scrawny even for his bracket (which he typically compensated for with cunning and stubborn guts). But one would swear the huddled mass was hardly even human anymore – merely a shriveled sack of skin and bones, long deprived of overdue nutrients and sun.

As Dick drew closer, his disposition sank further to see the child's catatonic stare settled somewhere in space. There was no light or acknowledgement in those sunken irises – only hollow caverns where brightness had been. Respiration was shallow, complexion sallow. Dick couldn't imagine him looking any paler, though he'd heard from Barbara how the Joker painted Tim ghastly white to mimic himself, even going so far as to grossly dye and grease hair green. He never saw the records before they were destroyed, and he didn't wish he had. From what Barbara tearfully recounted over the phone when they found Tim at Arkham, there were films, slides, a "family photo album"… Bruce had forced himself to examine each and every one before burning them. …Supposedly. Knowing the old man, he kept a digital copy somewhere. For professional reasons, and to serve as a constant torturous reminder. Just like the phantom portraits of his murdered mom and dad haunting the halls at every juncture…

Tim wasn't a ghost, but he might as well have been with the way his emaciated entity felt virtually transparent – intangible – like it could float away on a moment's notice. Even if he were to regain physical scale, the trauma alone had taken an irreversible toll, leaving nothing of essence but a vacant shell – shocked into submission. As if to reassure himself of solidity, Dick found himself possessed by the fool notion to extend out and try to touch Tim-

The reaction was immediate. A flinch, followed by a mad grab at his waist – only there was no utility belt there. The sheer panic in the boy's sweat and lungs was palpable. He whirled around, weakened but wary cuffs primed to defend with all his might. Dick realized his wrist was at real risk of being snapped if he came anywhere within an inch nearer. It was at a fleeting instance such as this he vaguely regretted honing his stealth skills in Brazil; rendering his presence close to "invisible" was practically in his nature now (even if it was nowhere near his previous mentor's proficiency of disappearance act). He had to consciously remember to disarm it at times.

"Whoa, easy there, tiger! It's just me."

For a second, it seemed like Tim still didn't recognize the person standing in front of him. Even when he fully absorbed the insinuator's image, there was a weight of mistrust behind the scan, as if he partly expected there to be some kind of trick. He blinked once, and then finally relaxed as rational analysis kicked in and registered "not a threat".

"Oh." A beat, as if remembering what the proper reception was. "Hi."

"Hey. Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

Tim shrugged, slouching back into his perch. "Happens all the time. I almost threw Alfred across the living room the other day. Broke an expensive vase too."

There was no comedy behind the deadpan delivery of that statement, so Dick didn't laugh. Instead, he cleared his throat and attempted to start the dialogue over.

"So how you holding up, champ?"

"…You want the truth?"

"I'm listening."

Tim reclined against the resting, closing his eyes. "It's been over a month, and the flashbacks are still vivid. I hear his voice – laughter – all the time inside my head… It won't go away."

He pressed his palms against his crown, as if trying to crush whatever worm was within, eating away at his soul and sanity. Dick could only watch the boy's anguish helplessly. He'd made it a point to check in regularly over the past few weeks since he got back to Gotham (to make up for not being available before), but Tim barely seemed to be getting better. Sometimes it felt like the opposite; each relapse was worse than the last.

A tiny planted parasite, preying on innocence and smiles and fear, slowly growing into a monster someday…

"Leslie said it'll take time. You just gotta take it a step each day."

"You sound like Barbara."

Dick grit his teeth, tensing. Realizing he was still holding the serving dish in one hand, he opted to swiftly switch the subject.

"I, uh, brought you some food. Alfred made sandwiches." He set them down gently on the table, but Tim didn't even stir.

"I'm not hungry."

"You gotta eat at least. Keep your strength up."

"For what? So I can puke it back up later? No thanks." Tim scoffed, his grimace souring. "Whatever the Joker tried to feed me was always laced with toxin. It became a habit." After a pause, he added: "It was usually pie. I can't even stand the sight of one now without being sick. …Harley's a horrible cook, by the way."

Dick didn't know how to respond to that. The uncomfortable silence stretched on, suffocating.

…

Dick wasn't good with silence. It reminded him of long nights on rooftops, staking out for hours, waiting for a heist to go down or an informant to show up. Lots of waiting. And with that guy as a conversation partner, the waiting was often unbearable. Growing up in a circus, he was always used to noise in his surroundings. So he learned to make his own. Talking to the air, himself, anything that came to mind. Chattering became integrated to his character. Thus despite his sore distaste for the subject, he blurted out the first thing he could think of:

"Well, it can't be worse than Bruce's cooking, right? You remember the time he tried making pancakes? We ate out here, remember? Even Alfred admitted they were awful…"

It was a desperate bid, just an attempt at lightheartedness to break the ice. The blind shot in the dark backfired though.

"I remember. …That was right after the Joker kidnapped the Commissioner."

Shit. Dick only just now realized his mistake.

There was a remote mist over Tim's eyes as he continued. "His daughter was captured too. Batman rescued them both by himself. It had a happy ending." He recited the tale as if recalling it from a book somewhere – an event that happened to strangers, people he didn't know.

"Tim…" Dick swallowed remorse. "You know we looked everywhere for you. I- I wanted to come back and help search here, but my hands were tied. Batman and Batgirl were already canvassing every corner of the city, they told me I was better off keeping an eye elsewhere. And they're right, we had no idea where you were. You could've been anywhere outside Gotham. I was checking every other possible location I could think of… Babs said even her dad spared what investigative assistance and manpower he could when he found out Robin was missing."

"I know." Tim lent Dick an almost-pitying glance, as if he were the one requiring proof of devotion. "I appreciate it. Really. You don't have to go feeling guilty or anything."

"How can I not? Tim, I… I'm sorry we didn't get there in time. I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"I said, don't worry about it. It's just that…" He heaved a sigh, reminiscing. "Back then, you said Bruce had a new family now. And he didn't need to lose this one. What was it, some corny line about trees and branches?"

When a tree loses its branch, it doesn't have to die. Not if the roots are strong enough.

"You know, I told the Flash once: Batman's the best. He's not the biggest or strongest… Or the fastest. But he always wins. Because he never quits."

Tim looked down at his toes.

"But he lost. …We lost."

His tone was flat, assuming, solely one of acceptance. Dick clenched his knuckles, unwilling to allow the kid to wallow in self-defeat.

"Tim, you can't think that way. You won. You survived against Joker. Leslie said the amount of dosages would've normally killed a person. You were strong enough to withstand that."

The boy shook his head. "I broke. I was weak. I told him everything." There were tears beading at the corners of his eyes. "Maybe- maybe it would've been better if I'd died."

SLAM!

Dick brought his muscle down on the table, startling the adolescent straight. His ire even upset the silver so one of the rolls fell to the earth, unraveling.

"Don't you dare say something like that." The anger pulsed in his arteries, causing a vein to bulge visibly. "It wasn't your damn fault. If it had been any one of us under those circumstances we'd have done the same." Harshness softened as he loosened his clutch and smoothed the cloth. "The important thing is that you're safe. I mean it, you're like a brother to me. If you'd died, then I…"

His speech failed. Tim gauged his brutal honesty with surprise, having rarely seen the older male reveal raw sentiment like this before. Even if he wasn't completely stonefaced like Batman – with or without the mask – whenever they were on the job the Nightwing he knew was always cool and levelheaded. For him to level like this suddenly made Tim think of the time Nightwing was electrocuted by Two-Face after saving an infant. He – Robin – had to commence CPR by himself. Nightwing had chewed him out after for criticizing Batman's choice to leave the two behind without checking on his condition… But then there was that evening he and Nightwing teamed up against Joker while Bruce was in Tibet, and he himself got his first taste of venom gas… He told Nightwing to go on without him, but the senior superhero stayed to make sure Robin received the antidote. Sure, they were alone and the Joker was chasing after Harley instead of civilians, but still. They were even when it came to saving each other's life.

"…Sorry."

It was Dick's turn to dismiss. "Don't. Don't apologize. I shouldn't have lost my temper. I guess I'm just kinda on edge."

"Because you got in a fight with Bruce?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"It was about Barbara, wasn't it?"

"…What makes you think that?"

Tim snorted. "I'm not stupid, you know. Why do you think I was out on patrol by myself that night?"

Horrified cognizance dawned on Dick's visage, multiplying his rage.

"That son of a… I'll kill him!"

"NO!"

Tim shouted at disturbing volume.

"No one else needs to die- because of me."

There was a look of genuine dread in his eyes. He was taking the declaration seriously. Dick shamefully lowered his fist.

"Tim, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"I didn't mean to." Tim was wringing his limbs, rocking back and forth. "I just- For a moment I saw Joker holding Batman and I- I pulled the trigger. I did it. Oh God I did it."

Dick grasped the boy's shoulders, trying insistently to connect with his eye.

"Tim, listen to me. You did the right thing. Joker had to be stopped. I- we would've done the same in your position."

How could you know. You weren't even there.

"Batman would've found a way." The boy blinked, blankly returning Dick's worried countenance. "Batman always saves the day."

"Tim…"

"I disobeyed. I was bad, Daddy will be mad. He's going to punish me again." Fingers dug deeper into the folds, puncturing dermis.

"Joker's gone. He can't hurt you anymore."

"Because I killed him. He's dead, and now he's inside my head. Laughing, always laughing."

He giggled maniacally, fevered pitch elevating to a sing-song.

"Tim!"

The boy froze, staring at him. No, past him. At something on the ground. Dick pursued his rigid sightline to spy an eavesdropper in the grass, boldly approaching the discarded bread. It was a bluejay, bright and inquisitive.

It wasn't alone. At the margin of his periphery, Dick caught another flutter, a flicker of red. He attempted to move to shoo it off before Tim could see, but it was too late; the boy's perception was still keen enough to notice the timid robin tagging close behind. (The uncanny coincidence was almost too trite, a worn cliché.) Tim held up a hand to intercept, reaching for one of the leftover slices. Bit by bit, he peeled apart the rye, tossing a trail of crumbs with all the effort of lifting a ball and chain. He murmured under his breath, counting each scrap until they were all gone. Sotto voce.

A scene flashed through Dick's mind, of himself and Robin caught in a trap laid by Catwoman. …Ironically, she'd utilized the same fake "damsel in distress" method to lure them both that Joker had exploited to snare Robin. Calling on a hero's constant complex like moths to a flame. Neither of them was apprehensive though, since they knew the others would come to their aid eventually. (As it turned out, Batman was her goal all along. She just wanted to "talk" apparently, according to Batgirl.) All they had to do was wait. In the meantime, they casually discussed cancelled dinner dates, took down a two-bit crook who was dumb enough to fall for the same ruse (literally), and polished off with a couple witty one-liners. All in a day's good work.

"She was pretty mad, huh?"

"Furious. Thought I was putting something else before her."

"Well… Weren't you?"

"Sure. You have to in our line of work. 'Course, I couldn't tell her that, so she thinks it's you that's more important."

"And I'm not?"

No longer enticed, entranced by handouts, both birds took flight. As he watched them soar, Tim raised a cocked pointer and took aim, whispering:

"Bang."

Detecting his company's discomfort, he gave a wry smile.

"Just a joke."

Dick regarded him with unease. He was used to the wild unpredictability of mood swings by now, but he could never tell what was really going on inside that damaged skull. Sometimes it seemed like there was a completely different person wearing his brother's body like a membrane – a masquerade. He shivered, perishing the thought.

For now at least, Tim appeared calmed down a bit (if not quite in total clarity). He squinted at the sky, tracking the two specks on the horizon. In the distance, there appeared to be a third silhouette joining them, guiding the way.

"…Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever regret it? Becoming Robin?"

A warmth contacted Tim's head. Although the boy winced, he didn't withdraw as it lightly soothed his hair.

"If I'd known it would lead to another kid like you getting hurt, I never would've went along with it."

Tim kept his view trained on the vastness.

"I can't go back to being Robin. …Everything's changed. I've changed."

A nostalgic knot twisted in Dick's stomach. Those were nearly the same words he spited Batman with once, when he relinquished the role.

"No one's forcing you to. Hell, I'd really beat Bruce up within an inch of his life if he tried to make you put on the suit again. Besides, it's not like you're alone."

"…What do you mean?"

"Barbara quit too. You didn't know?"

"She what?"

Tim's concentration abruptly piqued.

"No one told me that. She doesn't – none of you have to – on my account…"

Dick simply shrugged. "Barbara made her own choice. There's nothing we can do about it."

The boy bit his lip. "So that's why she hasn't been by lately?"

"Well… That's not the only reason."

Concerned, Tim promptly asked: "Did something happen to her?"

Dick wavered, debating whether to unload another adult burden onto the boy when he'd already been through so much.

"Dick, if something happened, I need to know if she's all right." Tim furrowed his brow in frustration. "Everyone's treating me like I'm some kind of fragile wallflower, like I can't handle anything on my own anymore. Bruce won't even speak to me, he can barely look me in the eye. I'm tired of being kept in the dark."

He was right, Dick reluctantly conceded. He had been purposefully withholding back, curbing his tongue around Tim. Trying to protect him(self) from any more pain. But he wasn't a kid anymore. …He couldn't be, after this.

"…She was pregnant. With Bruce's child." He explained, carrying on quickly to avoid remembering the sting of that revelation. "The other night, she got into a fight with some thugs and… She lost the baby."

For a lengthy period, Tim was utterly quiet, and Dick wasn't sure whether he had even comprehended what was just said. But then he merely repeated the question:

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah, her dad said someone took her to the hospital…"

"No, I mean: Is she okay? Dick. Did you go to see her? Have you even spoken to her since then?"

"I- well, no, not exactly."

Tim fixed him with a stern glare, almost uncharacteristic to a minor his age. "So what are you doing here instead of being with her? You still love her, don't you?"

Dick rubbed his neck. Despite the absence of stress there, it felt like there was an even bigger pressure on his back. Back against the wall.

"I came to tell you… There was an emergency call last night. Things are heating up in Blüdhaven, I'm needed there right away. I'm heading back tomorrow."

"So basically you're running away."

Despite the disorder of his psyche, Tim saw easily through the deflection.

"It's not like that."

"Sure. You're abandoning us again. Just like everyone abandoned me. Dad, Mom, Batman, Batgirl… Everyone leaves in the end."

"Please, try to understand…"

His words fell on deaf ears. Tim wasn't listening, instead muttering darkly to himself.

"We were gonna be a happy family. Playing heroes, taking down bad guys… No one was supposed to get hurt. Fun and games, that's all it was."

Tim turned towards him with a warped grin.

"Hey, want to play a game? I promise it'll be fun. It's called 'Electrocute the Bird'."

Not good. He was retreating back to that place where Dick couldn't reach.

"How many volts does it take to fry a Robin's brain? Go on, take a guess."

He chuckled loudly, although it sounded more like choking. His hands were quivering like mad. Dick took ahold of them and squeezed tightly.

"God, what the hell did he do to you, Timmy…"

"Daddy's watching. He sees everything. I can hear him, laughing at me. Saying we're the same. Oh God, I am the bad guy."

His eyes darted frantically back and forth as the trembling grew worse. Dick became alarmed as he broke into full convulsion.

"Alfred! He's seizing!"

His summon brought the butler bolting out of the house as fast as his aged legs could convey him. There was a glisten in his gloves, a drawn syringe in hand. Tim's pupils expanded in trepidation when he saw the needle coming closer.

"No! Stay away!"

He began to thrash and flail, struggling with all his power to escape.

"Please, hold him steady, Master Dick! I assure you, this is for your own good, Master Timothy."

The terrified target was screaming murder at the maximum of his cords – chords climbing to a crescendo. Wherever that man was lurking within the manor, he surely must've been able to hear it.

"Alfred, wait!"

Subduing to the ground, Dick wrestled and wrapped himself around the diminutive squirming form, acting as a shield and shelter. Tim kicked and clawed fiercely, hissing, howling like a feral creature. Despite the number of rabid bites and scratches he received, Dick ignored them and continued holding his brother secure, refusing to let go.

"It's okay, Tim. You're home, you're safe now. No one's going to hurt you. I promise."

He kept reiterating assurances. After what felt like an eternity, Tim began to tire himself out, drained of energy. Like a lifeless doll, he lay limp in Dick's arms.

"…Dick?"

"I'm here, buddy."

"I lost control again, didn't I? I'm sorry."

Water rolled down his cheeks, staining Dick's shirt across his breast.

"Don't be."

Removing his jacket, he draped it around the sobbing, shaking figure. Tim took in the bruises and incisions lining his brother's collar, clearly carved by tooth and nail, which he impressed into his own flesh.

"I hurt you."

"This? It's nothing. I'll survive."

Alfred approached the two cautiously, and Dick gestured at him to stow the sedative injector away. Dick tenderly pried open the boy's bleeding palms, and Alfred, ever prepared, dabbed at them with an antiseptic. He attempted to treat Dick's injuries as well, but the patient merely waved him off.

"I… think I'd like to go back inside now."

Tim mumbled, manner deflated.

"Okay." Dick shifted around, presenting his back. "I'll carry you."

Tim frowned. "I can walk by myself," he whined, though the protest was feeble.

"Just shut up and get on, kid."

The boy hesitated, but obediently relied on his brother's support, leaning his temple against the broad spine. (To Dick's disappointment, there was hardly any heaviness there.) Alfred signaled for the two to go on without him, indicating he would stay to clean up. Dick gave a wordless nod of appreciation, and started back towards the house. Up the long flight of stairs, to the same room he once inhabited, where he delicately deposited the light load on the bed.

"Thanks. Um, here's your jacket back."

Dick shook his head. "Keep it. It's yours."

"…It's too big for me."

"You'll grow into it one day. Trust me."

He tousled Tim's hair again, and the boy endeavored not to recoil at all this time.

"I guess it's a better hand-me-down than your dorky sweater vests."

"Are you kidding, I can't believe Alfred still made you wear those."

A somewhat resentful smile manifested. "It was an exchange for helping convince Bruce to let me keep all the posters and junk."

Dick had avoided remarking on the elephant, but he did note the walls were bare – stripped of all the pictures and paraphernalia featuring the original Dynamic Duo, which their biggest fan had hoarded and brought from home to redecorate. Over time, he'd observed whenever he dropped by there'd be extra additions to the archive: photographs and newspaper clippings of his successor's own exploits with the caped crusader, documenting all their victories. There were even a few prints where the so-called "sidekick" proudly flew solo, which were always displayed most prominently.

The personal trophy room echoed the one down in the basement – which incidentally came about as a compromising result of his own experience growing up in Wayne Manor: Bruce strictly forbade him from exhibiting any circus memorabilia (no elephants on parade), so as not to remind the public of his roots and risk exposure. The self-indulgence was a stark contrast, and Dick was surprised (not to mention maybe a tad jealous) that the "younger sibling" got let off so easy. …Then again, what little boy didn't idolize superheroes and want to express his desire to be like them? That was probably the argument Alfred employed on Bruce, bless his soul.

"…Not that it matters now. I threw it all away already."

Not everything, Dick realized. While the commercial merchandise was missing, there was one authentic article remaining. Dick could discern the black, bat-shaped object tucked away in the rear of a shelf. Although hidden substantially by clutter and shade, he was sure it wouldn't evade the others' notice either. He was even more amazed that they'd allow Tim to keep such a dangerous item around (any appraiser who wasn't as intimate with the brand would likely assume it a toy, another cheap market knock-off, but he'd witnessed the damage it could do firsthand); Leslie surely wouldn't approve.

"What about this? Should I toss it away as well?"

"No, don't!" Tim's hand lunged instinctively, then descended in disgrace. "Just… Leave it there please."

Dick could see the conflict in his eyes, war waging within. Tentatively, he tried again to alleviate the atmosphere a little.

"I heard you used to cuddle with this at night, like a teddy bear."

A flush instantly rose to Tim's face. "Alfred told you?"

"Hey, relax. I'm just teasing you. I had a teddy bear myself as a kid."

"Yeah, and you couldn't sleep without it until Batman tracked it down from the circus for you, right?"

It was Dick's turn to be embarrassed. "He told you that?"

Tim lowered his gaze, staring wistfully at the Batarang.

"It helped. With the nightmares. After your parents died, I mean."

"Yeah… It did."

"It's not weird, is it?"

"No. No, it's not weird."

Dick fumbled with the instrument in his hands.

"You know, I was going to propose to Barbara with one of these. A Bata-ring, get it?"

"Seriously? Oh my God, you are so lame."

He laughed though. It was the first real laugh Dick heard out of Tim since he came back, one that didn't sound psychotic or constrained.

"Dude, that is like the worst pun I've ever heard, even coming from you."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Man, she would've slugged you so hard."

"You know she'd love it." His humor decreased as he placed the tool back on the sill. "…She would've loved it."

"Why can't you still marry her?"

"It's… complicated. You'll understand when you're older."

A part of him knew he was the one perhaps being childish, that Tim was right: He was just fleeing from his problems again. But it hurt his heart too much to think about. So he didn't. He turned his back on the bat symbol and strode over to Tim, joining him on the mattress.

"Are you going to be all right? With me leaving?"

"Yeah. Blüdhaven still needs a hero, right? I get it. Sorry for overreacting earlier."

"To be honest, you took it better than I thought you would."

"Gee, thanks. That's real comforting."

"Sorry. Just a joke."

Tim mildly goaded Dick with his fist, a playful punch compared to before.

"Cut it out, or I'll tell Dad on you."

Relieved that Tim seemed to be in good spirits (or at least being a good sport about it), Dick played along with the shoving contest. "You started it."

They looked at each other, then both burst into amusement. Before long though, Tim began to cough, hacking through hysterics. He cued towards a water pitcher and numerous pill bottles on the nightstand, pointing at one in particular between suppressed wheezes. Dick hurriedly poured a glass and held it stable while Tim drank down the drugs in several gasping gulps, massaging the boy's back until the spasms abated.

"…Sorry. I shouldn't laugh too hard."

"No, I should apologize. I didn't know…"

"It's fine. Can you hand me that other one?"

Dick unscrewed the cap and passed the tablets again towards Tim, who popped them in his mouth.

"You sure you're okay taking all these meds?"

"Yeah. Helps me sleep." Tim took off the outer layer and Dick hung it up in the closet (next to a tux he used to wear to formal venues with Barbara, with his initials still stitched on the inside) while the boy insulated himself beneath the blankets.

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"Just… Stay with me please? Until I fall asleep."

"Of course." Tim brought his hand out from under the cover, and Dick held it as he felt the boy's pulse compose into a regular, tranquil rhythm. "Listen, if you ever need anything, anything at all – even if it's just to talk – don't hesitate to call me, okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Dick smiled. "You know the whole reason I was able to leave Gotham in the first place is because I knew the city was in good hands, right?"

"I know."

"You've done enough. More than enough. You deserve a rest. You've earned it."

Tim simply nodded. His consciousness was already slowly fading.

"…Dick?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks… for caring."

Again, that forlorn sense of déjà vu. It reminded of the time he, Batgirl, and even (as they later discovered) Alfred had donned silly costumes and pretended to be criminals to help Robin feel better about their vocation, restoring his faith in helping people. Afterwards, Barbara had said-

"He's a good kid."

Dick swiveled to see the redhead in the doorway, watching with imperceptible lips.

"How long have you been listening?"

"How long do you think I could be here without you noticing?"

She tiptoed forward and put a hand on the slumbering boy's forehead.

"He's gonna be okay, isn't he?"

"…Honestly? I don't know. But he's braver than all of us, that's for sure."

Dick released his interlock and tucked Tim's arm back below the sheets. After an awkward hush, he hazarded:

"What about you? How's your, um, body?"

"Fine. Thanks for asking."

"That's good."

With nothing else to say, Dick started to leave. A muted query arrested in the entryway:

"So it's really over between us?"

Dick halted without redirecting.

"'Us'? Who do you mean by that? You, me, Batgirl, Robin… It's over. I'm done. With all of it."

"It doesn't have to be this way. We can still make it work…"

"No. I've had enough. You and Bruce can do whatever you want for all I care. Tim's the only one who matters right now. Just… Look after him for me, will you?"

"I'd do that even if you didn't ask me to."

"…At least that's one thing we can agree on."

As he advanced, a subtle weeping lingered in his conscience. He hastened – hardened – shutting out the sound and the past and the front door behind him with a slam. Boarding his bike, he inhaled, focused, surveying the strip of road where, years ago, a boy with wondering eyes was dropped off before his new residence. Alone and afraid and angry at an unjust world, he found kindness and a kindred confidant in a man who understood his grief, who knew the suffering of losing a family all too well.

"…For however long it takes, you have a home with us."

That man gave his word, and in turn the boy gave him trust and compliance. Believing in heroes and hopes and dreams. That nothing bad could ever happen again, so long as the Batman was there to protect. That they'd be forever partners. Friends. Family. …That they could fool themselves into filling the holes left in their lives somehow. (Even if one of them could never forgive himself for it.)

"You're always there for him."

"Yes. Just like you're always there for me."

"Hey, what are friends for?"

…But in the end, everyone became empty. Broken promises and hearts and minds and spirits. Not just him, but all the ones he grew close to over the years. Loved like his own kin. It all came crashing down in one fell swoop, a final nail driven into the coffin. Bitterness and betrayal wedged between them, fragmenting whatever bond there was.

"…How long before I let someone else I care about down?"

No, it wasn't sudden. The truth was the faults and cracks built up long before. That shattered reflection in the smoke and mirror he once admired was no longer someone he wanted to be. …Perhaps had never been.

"When you look too long into the abyss, the abyss looks back through you."

There was no magic wizard behind the curtain, no omnipotent deity beneath the cowl. Just a coward; some self-righteous lunatic bent on a path of personal destruction, who'd eventually drag others down with him into the poisonous pit he dug himself – if not to an early tomb. A kid in a playsuit throwing a juvenile tantrum, knocking down sandcastles and crying out for Mommy and Daddy. Dick wanted no part of it anymore, the never-ending cycle of darkness and vengeance that purely kept repeating, over and over.

"You taught me everything I know about crimefighting, Bruce.

…But the most important lesson was to 'Never. Give. Up.'"

As he initiated his own cycle and sped away, he could feel the eyes of a shadow watching from one of the second-story vantages. Another memory surged to the surface: of a lost orphan boy sitting by the window, praying fervently to the waning man in the moon. Waiting, wishing to return to Neverland. Second star to the right and straight on 'till morning. Mourning. The night came to comfort him instead. His knight. Held him close until the wailing subsided, and taught him how to fly again.

"…You were right, you know. Not bringing me along. You knew I'd take it too personally."

"It wasn't that, Robin. It wasn't that at all.

Zucco's taken so much. Caused you so much pain. I couldn't stand the thought that he might…

Take you too."

He had asked a question of his savior then, and now there was a definite answer.

"Does the hurt ever go away?"

Not when the knife keeps cutting fresh.

–

Now.

You really screwed up this time, Grayson.

No, it was his fault. For forgetting one of the first essential rules of combat he instilled, drilled in you: Don't land in front of your partner.

…"Partner". It was the first time you'd considered using that word around each other in years. And you wouldn't have volunteered the idea, let alone agree to it (even though you were back in Gotham briefly on unrelated business), if not for the fact it was Alfred who was kidnapped.

Of course, Alfred being in peril was nothing new. Bruce Wayne's butler had been abducted and/or assaulted countless times before. Usually there was no need to fret; the resourceful former spy and actor was often able to disentangle himself from sticky situations before Batman or anyone else ever even lifted a finger, and be back in plenty time to prepare dinner.

But as soon as Bruce uttered the single name: "Joker" – you dropped everything in order to lend a hand. Because whether it was a specter resurrected from the grave or just some crazed copycat it didn't matter. He took Tim away, and by God if he took Alfred too you would hunt the bastard down and send him straight to hell yourself. Imposter or not, someone had to pay for the sins committed (more accurately – for your own self-blame).

…And now, as you lie there on the cold steel floor, nearly naked and broken and bleeding out your socket – bullet wounds riddled all over your half-baked hide – you dryly anticipate whether you're going to be greeting the devil first.

It was your fault for trusting him in the first place.

You can forgive the tactical error. He hasn't operated with anyone else in so long. You can forgive him spending precious seconds to confiscate the suit before calling an ambulance. There were secrets, identities to safeguard and maintain. You can forgive him leaving you behind. It's more than just jeopardizing the mission at stake; if he hadn't gone after to rescue Alfred you would've been even more cross with him. That's something you scolded Robin for neglecting once, to remind him of the risk, make him understand Batman's position – the lofty precipice you've learned to suspend precariously on around him, thinner than a tightrope. (Or maybe just to persuade yourself by justifying his decision. Even with your natural inner equilibrium, upholding it in the face of constant rejection was an even greater trial.) You chose this life, to lay it on the line to help others.

But then when you wake up in the hospital, partially paralyzed and unable to see from your right side, you begin to wonder if it's all worth it. That maybe you were the one blind all along – to the lies and deceit and manipulation. …It was never really a "choice".

Robin was right. This job gets to you after a while.

You used to enjoy this "superhero" gig. Saving citizens, defeating evil… (Who was truly the evil one here?) And unlike that guy, you weren't afraid to admit you liked the attention.

…Of course, you weren't in it for glory or gold. But even moral gratification seems scarce now, achieving less and less with each passing day. Duty devoid of due. At what point did it start feeling like such a chore, an unfulfilling daily routine? Going through the motions (because it's all you've ever known), fighting an endless uphill battle… To preserve what little hope and honor you had left? Overall, what have you really accomplished besides dedicating your entire damn existence to putting the same deranged deviants behind bars – only for them to break out again?

Recovery gives you time to ponder, putting priorities in perspective. Rather than clouding your vision, instead you see things clearly for the first time (and him for the self-absorbed prick that he is).

It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye. …Or his mind. Or some other piece of himself he can never get back.

When would it end in a life?

You don't want that life anymore.

You wanted a wife, kids, a family. …And he took that from you too.

You should've made up with Barbara when you had the chance. Now it's too late.

She doesn't come to visit you either, although you suppose it's only fair, after the amount of baggage that's dead and buried and forgotten between you two. What bothers you is that he never shows his face. Doesn't even call to check how rehabilitation is progressing. …Although he sends Alfred once, when you're being discharged, with your old suit (unwashed and unmended) and a note simply stating:

"New one waiting for you."

As happy and thankful as you are to see the messenger safe and sound (you knew he was alive and the false fanatic apprehended from news reports, but God forbid dialing to update you personally on the victim's status), you become enraged and shoot off, yelling at Alfred to take it back and stick it up Bruce's ass. …Even though you end up holding onto it anyway, another tattered "token" to add to your collection. You decide to stay in Gotham too – for good this time – because it's more convenient than commuting back to Blüdhaven. Not like you'd be useful there anyway in your current state. Besides, Leslie's clinic is close by, and she's still the only doctor you can really depend on.

While it obviously can't measure up by any means, you speculate whether Tim felt this same way, grappling alone through the slow and arduous process of getting back on one's feet (literally in your case). It's his turn to provide clumsy encouragement now. Despite any distance or differences, he's the only one you've kept in contact with, chatting on the phone whenever there's a free opportunity, discussing whatever comes to mind that doesn't involve vigilantes or villains. Reporting on each other's day, the weather, a recent movie or music album release. Normal things that seem to mean so much more now.

School is going well, he claims. (There's still the occasional outburst, but for the most part he keeps it under check.) There's this girl he likes who sits next to him in one of his classes, her name's Stephanie and from the way he describes she's a total babe. You offer him all the advice you can on courting women (even though your track record with them isn't much to boast of), and he wears the jacket to impress her on their first date, concealing nerves and hormones and permanent burn marks. It makes you glad he still looks up to you, that he's doing all right for himself – all things considered.

As for yourself, you never fully get back on that horse. For all your warning and will to never become like that isolated idiot, your own worn ego gradually grows just as jaded and hostile and detached, a restless bachelor who bounces between bars and strangers' beds. Forever a wandering performer, drifting aimlessly on a whim. Who can't let go his grudges or demons and denies to settle down, while the rest of the world moves on.

Barbara found someone else's arms to embrace, and her driven determination allows her to rapidly rise ranks within the police force, soon succeeding her father's footsteps as Commissioner. Meanwhile Tim, with all his intelligence and resilience despite whatever cruelty fate throws at him, graduates top of his engineering program. (Being both book and street smart gave him a great advantage wherever he applied, not to mention a scholarship sponsored through an unknown benefactor. You're sure that if you were to trace back far enough though it would lead to the Wayne Foundation, and subconsciously Tim had to be aware of that. …Still, you can't help but doubt if there isn't some selfish intent behind it, more Machiavellian strings attached.) He gets married and starts his own family, becoming busy with his career and kids. You still catch up with the latter every once in a while though. …It's more than can be said for either of your relationships with the old man at any rate (not for lack of trying on Tim's part to repair bridges you'd rather let burn to gray and dispose the ashes, scattering to the wind like pixie dust).

Ultimately, you find contentment (if not satisfaction for fear of commitment) in opening your own gym, and make no additional comment when Tim and his wife bring the young ones by to enroll in your athletics introductory course (just for some extracurricular "practice"). As the future unmarred generation looks up at you with semi-frightened but eager eyes, cynicism falters as you glimpse beyond your own blemishes and blunders, and vow this time will be different.

Besides, it's not so bad, being the cool pirate uncle who always has a salty story to share about how you got these scars confronting a giant sea monster or crocodile (not that anyone would ever suspect Captain Hook was once Peter Pan himself). As you and Tim manage to joke about it later: Beats hiring a clown for entertainment at Birthday parties.