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It was late, it was cold and Dick Grayson was tired, hungry and in pain—not necessarily in that order.

He'd just gotten back to the Batcave; barely made it back and all he wanted now was a hot shower. No, on second thought, a long soak in the Jacuzzi would feel better and not require him to deal with standing upright. After that he'd consider letting Alfred feed him anything that was in the kitchen. This was no time to be picky, but if it included a steak—medium—and a baked potato with a crisp salad on the side, or may a bowl of Alf's homemade soup, or even a ham and cheese omelet—hell, a bag of potato chips would work… he was hungry.

And he hurt. This wasn't something he'd admit to Bruce or Alf—or even Dr. Leslie for that matter, but as an old circus friend once put it; if there was a muscle in his body that didn't hurt, it had to be in his left ass. He knew there weren't any broken bones or anything 'get to the ER right now' major. But he'd fallen over forty-seven stories and managed, barely, to get his hands untied in time to throw a jump line, pull a couple of sommies to brake himself and landed way the hell too hard and off balance and slide on ice. He'd walked (limped) away by the skin of his teeth.

And it was January. This happened after a two-hour stakeout of the roof, in the wind, in the sleet, in twenty-five degree weather. After he missed dinner and worked through lunch. The last food in his stomach was a stale donut at seven-thirty this morning—yesterday morning since it was after two AM.

And he wasn't even supposed to be there. The Bat called and demanded he be back up because Tim was off on some field trip for school. That should have been Timmy, though he was privately happy he'd taken the hit instead of the kid.

But that wasn't the end of it; this shouldn't have happened at all. It was a mistake, it wasn't even his mistake and that was the part that got awkward.

It was Bruce's mistake. His miscall, his screw up, his whoops-a-doodle that caused Nightwing to come as close as possible to being sidewalk salad and somehow survive. And they both knew it.

Sinking into the one hundred and four-degree water, Dick let out a sigh of relief as the warmth started to sooth his aches and bruises. His head was back, leaning against a folded towel against the side of the hot tub, his body finally loosing the penetrating cold and beginning to relax enough for his muscles to begin the process of healing, though he knew the next few days would hurt.

He heard someone moving around close behind him, "Just put it here where I can reach it, Alf, thanks." A tray was set down beside him and, eyes barely opened, he reached for the hot turkey sandwich, loving the smell of the bacon, gravy and knowing it came with some kind of cold drink to wash it down with. Exhausted and half-asleep, Dick was only vaguely aware of a body sitting beside him on the rim. When whoever it was stayed there, not talking, he turned his head enough to see Bruce sitting on the edge of the hot tub, bathing suit in place and legs dangling in the water up to about his knees.

"Hmmm?"

"You okay?"

"Sure."

"I want you to see Leslie; I asked Alfred to call her."

"No need, I'll be fine."

"I insist."

This wasn't normal. "'You know something I don't?"

"That was a bad fall, I think you should be checked out. Common sense."

Dick fully opened his eyes and gave Bruce a questioning look.

"It was my fault; I knew I hadn't recconed the situation enough."

"Excuse me?"

"I made a mistake."

"Bruce?"

"I'm sorry."

In all their years together, in all the cases they'd worked together and after everything they'd been through, good and bad, this was the only time Dick had ever heard Bruce say that.

And he knew it might well be the last.

And Dick knew how frightened Bruce had been tonight for him to say it. He nodded an acknowledgement.

6/26/08