You wanted my honesty. You told me three weeks ago that you wanted me to talk fair and square with you, and I didn't. I haven't still. I have wandered around the edges of sincerity and stay quiet when my mind is full of questions and facts about you that I still don't understand.

Well...not anymore.

It was chaos for so long. You don't realize how we panicked for you, Tim. How we've stayed up almost as long as you have, in a different sort of torture from yours. The torture of the unknown is of the worst kind. We couldn't tell what was happening to you. If you were still alive.

But now everything feels like the quiet moment after a storm. Oh Tim, you cried. Tears ran like your blood did under the street lamps and the cold glow of city moonlight. You were crying when we found you, when Damian, Dick and I descended to find your captor had escaped...leaving you to suffer alone. I still don't understand everything that has happened to you.

But I haven't seen those tears in a long time.

I haven't seen you in a long time. It sounds cruel, I know, I hate that these are the circumstances, but I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're asleep now, oblivious to the racking pain you were in previously.

I'm glad you're still with me.

You don't know how many times I've dreamed about losing you, ever since I adopted you. I see you lying still (like you did several hours ago), I feel like I've lost you and I'm searching for days (like I have for the last three). Only to find you half-alive. Sometimes less than half. They say dreams come true, and I'm afraid, so do nightmares.

But thank God, you're still here. It was a close one, though.

Tim, you don't know this, but every time the heart monitor keeps on beeping like that, my own heart keeps on going. I have never known what I would do if you...

...if I really lost you. Lost you forever.

I come into your room (warm and dark, Dick has made sure of that) and glance around. I see the books and the laptop, and the discs of reports you've filed out yourself and operating systems you want to try. Pictures of your friends, posters of your favorite music. Your guitar in the corner. Sticky notes of the things you have to do. Red marked circles on certain days of your calendar, their meaning ambiguous.

A photo of you and Conner Kent on your nightstand, next to a glass of water there for you. Pills and syringes and a bottle of sterilizing alcohol because this place is your bedroom and yet a battlefield, a battle for your life.

I look all around again. It's dark enough. I thrive in the dark. I can truly live in the dark. I have nothing to hide.

So I sit down on the bed and don't reconsider anything; I run my fingers through your hair, feeling the strands slip easily through. I slide my hand down your face and feel the edge of the cheekbone, inspect the gash there. And it hits hard again; you've been abused, you've been treated like dirt, and it's all too apparent that whoever did this did it for his own amusement. Because the stranger wouldn't hurt the hostage child, the daughter of a senator in the city, if he could hurt you and you gave yourself freely to him. And so he nearly destroyed you.

I want to kill him for that.

There's anger and hatred in my heart and I have to fight the desire to leave this place, this peace and find whoever did this to you and snap his neck. Shout in his unknown face that he will pay for hurting my son. Dump his lifeless and forgotten body into Gotham Bay.

But I stay.

I sedated you hours ago. You were panicking, stress and trauma suddenly falling on you in a rush of insanity and fear. Jason held you in his arms for as long as he could until you started fighting him. I've never seen Jason that gentle. Silent and strong. You were in excruciating pain and the more we tried to help, the more injury we were inflicting on you. When you screamed, I bit my lip until it bled to keep myself from the panic that was emanating from you and settling on everyone.

I'm not criticizing you for all this. No, I understand. I know.

Did you know that I saw Jason loading a Glock pistol before he left? I saw him draw it from underneath his bloodstained jacket. Did you know, I didn't say a word about it? For or against?

I almost willingly stepped into a confusing gray area.

For a moment, Dick became hard, an emotionless glare directed to me, to your torn Red Robin suit. I found Damian in his room, sitting on his bed, arms tight around a pillow. Didn't say a word.

It's hard to fight this life-long battle tonight. It's always harder when you are the one who's been in the line of fire. I start to wonder if this war I've been waging for so many years is all worth it.

Is it worth losing you?

But I stay here. And touch your hands. Pull the blankets around you.

You were brave and I'm proud of you. The little girl is safe, we were able to get her home because of you.

My soldier.

My son.

You still look like you're in pain, and I'll be staying right here. I whisper nothings to you, like Dick would, even though you're unconscious. Finally getting the rest you desperately need.

"It's okay, Tim...we've got you."

I'm holding your hand and I wonder if it's just my imagination, but I feel your fingers tighten only slightly around mine. You're so cold.

It's going to be a long recovery, Tim, so just take it easy. Alfred says you're off patrol for two months or more. I agree and if I have to handcuff you to this bed, you are not moving, I cannot - dare not - run any risks. It will be hard on you.

I'll let Dick off and he can stay with you. I'll call Jason. No matter what he is doing, even now.

I'll tell Clark, tell him bring Conner.

I'll be right here.

I swallow hard when I see your eyes open, tiny dimmed sparks of sky blue I know so well (but yet not enough), and my hands rush to cup your face. Your breathing is still shaky, I can see pain coming out through just your face.

Don't leave me, Tim.

"Hey," I whisper, daring to smile slightly. And I can feel my heart breaking slowly, easily, when you exhale a small cry, a hot tear slipping down and rolling between my thumb. You don't stop. Though you are quieter than before, it's still reminiscent of the cries you let out a while ago. It's instinct; I begin shushing you, smoothing back your clean damp hair, not even thinking when I lean forward and kiss your forehead.

The Vengeance, the Night...how can he be real now?

"It's okay, everything's okay. I've got you, Tim. You're going to be alright."

You are so drugged, you don't understand, you can't possibly know what's going on. All you know is that you feel like hell, and maybe harsh and agonizing memories are rushing through your head. I know it hurts. Your body is aching and screaming for relief. Your lungs are trying to fill with air but your ribcage is holding them back with restraining stabs of pain. There's three broken ribs, a sprain in your wrist, raw whip lashes all over you. Countless other wounds. You are so weak from lack of food and water, and the trauma is still heavy on you. Morphine races through you.

So I don't understand when a small smile just touches your once-bleeding lips but you wince at the effort that took. And you breathe, "Yeah, B."

Tears prick my own eyes.

"I'm so proud of you, son."

It's the honest truth.