It took a full twenty-four hours for Drake to recover enough to wake up. Damian's father spent the time at Tim's bedside, waiting for the first sign he would be okay. Damian wanted to see proof of his correct diagnosis himself, but every time he tried to get close he was pushed away. He didn't know why the blame for Drake's stupid mistake somehow rested on himself, but the message that it was his own fault was clear enough.

"Don't antagonize your brother," his father would say.

"Master Timothy is under enough stress as is," Pennyworth would quietly reprimand.

They let Nike in, though. She, apparently, was good enough to see Drake.

Drake was eventually moved from the Cave to his room to recover (after Pennyworth cleaned it to his satisfaction.)

The manor was stuffy. It had been raining for days on end, like Pennyworth assured him was normal for this time of year. Damian was reminded to be quiet every time he left his room, lest Drake be disturbed. He hardly saw his father, who was juggling Tim's Wayne Enterprises work with extra patrols to cover for his loss. (Damian had offered to reappear as Robin, but his father had refused with stiff shoulders and set jaw. He hadn't suggested it again.)

Nike was his only company. To be fair, she was good company. She was never angry with him.

Damian saw his father for the first time in three days when he joined him for breakfast. He could feel him judging him for his choice of meal—Grayson's taste in sugary cereals had been passed onto him—but otherwise the meal was passed in silence.

Until it wasn't.

"Where is the dog?"

Damian dropped his spoon into his bowl. From what he knew, Nike was napping in her kennel. "I can fetch her."

Bruce shook his head. "Make sure she's clean by six-o'clock this evening. People will be coming to collect her."

Damian stiffened. "Of course."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at Damian's posture. "You knew this would happen."

Damian hid his clenched fists under the table. He knew, he had just chosen to ignore it. "I assume you found a good home for her?"

"I don't know where. I contacted people from one of the organization Wayne Enterprises made a charitable donation to last year. They'll place her."

Damian nodded into his empty cereal bowl, hating the burn in his chest. Don't get attached, his father had warned. A simple enough rule; he had been foolish to break it.

She didn't know. When he brought out her leash she wagged her tail in excitement; it would be the first time they had gone on a walk for several days. When they got outside she rushed down the trail through the grove trees, unaware she was the only reason Damian cleared many of the mud puddles. By the time they returned to the lawn, it was raining again, but Nike lunged for her favorite toy—a spare piece of rope pilfered from the Batcave—and nudged it into Damian's hand, urging him to throw.

Mechanically, he accepted the rope. She waited, big brown eyes lit with anticipation. Damian felt a sudden surge of emotion, and wound up to throw the rope as hard as he could.

It soared higher and further than it ever had before.

It landed in a tree.

Nike lunged after it anyway. She circled the trunk, clearly looking for a way to get up.

"Nike, leave it." She tilted her head in his direction but ignored him, jumping so her front paws stretched to the lowest of the branches.

"Dumb dog," he grumbled under his breath. There was no heat behind it, though. He sat heavily on the bench under the nest. Nike lost interest in the rope the second she saw a squirrel bounce across the opposite end of the yard. Damian didn't have the motivation to chase after her; she would come back, anyway.

He leaned back to lie lengthwise across the bench, his knees hanging off the narrow end. His heels tapped a pattern into the bench's foundation. That's when he spotted the nest.

And when he listened, he heard peeping in a pattern he had not heard before.

Curious, he sat up, sparing a glance toward Nike. She was completely preoccupied; it wouldn't hurt to turn away for a few minutes.

He stood on the bench and pulled branches back so he had a clear view of the nest and what was inside. The eggs had hatched. A small bird crouched in the nest, a beak as large as its head tilted back in hopes of food. Damian was surprised; he had thought. . . but there were two egg shells in the bottom of the nest.

A set of calls Damian recognized as a warning came from the low branches of nearby trees, and Damian wisely backed away from the nest before the cardinal parents abandoned it. He recognized the father's bright hue sitting atop a rose bush a few meters away, and from there it was not hard to find the mother. The small bird in the nest cheeped for its parents, but they wouldn't come close until he left.

Damian sat down on his bench again, content to watch the parent cardinals as they plucked insects from the grass. The baby in the nest stopped cheeping after a few minutes, probably having fallen asleep after all the excitement.

And then there was another cheep. Damian's gaze raked the branches above him, searching for the source. It came again, and then on the third cheep he realized it was coming from below.

He found the second fledgling. It was nuzzled in a particularly fluffy tuft of tall grass, head tucked into its soft down. When Damian leaned over it, he rustled a few leaves that dripped drops of water onto the bird's back. It shivered once and dug further into the ground.

Transfixed, and determined to keep the bird warm, Damian picked it up.

It was rather ugly, if he were to be honest. Its full feathers had yet to grow in, so only the soft, muddled brown down covered its pink flesh. But it nestled into his hand, happy for the warmth. Damian tentatively ran a finger down its back. Distantly, he was aware of its parents, keeping watch from the surrounding trees. They were screaming at him, telling him to get away, but Damian meant no harm.

"I am aware it is normal for birds your age to leave the nest," he told it. "But I recommend waiting for a nicer day to attempt it." He looked around for a safe place to put it—he was fairly sure it would just jump out of the nest again, possibly even injuring itself. So he perched it on a dry branch only a few inches off the ground and hidden by thick foliage, not too far from the nest so the parents could still find it.

Nike must have lost her squirrel, because no sooner had he stood than she came bounding back onto the lawn covered in mud. Damian grimaced at the sight, "Pennyworth would have a fit. Let's get you cleaned up."

The bath passed like most of them did: Nike did her best to splash Damian or finagle what Drake called a 'tummy rub' out of him. By the time it was over, Damian was soaked through—as much a fault of the rain as Nike's flopping—and somehow feeling lighter than he had been when he had started.

"Here, girl," he offered, opening his arms. She rocked into him, head resting on his shoulder in a pseudo-hug.

Damian ran his hand down her back, giving an extra scratch where he knew she liked it best, just above her tail. "Good girl, Nike."

She humphed in agreement.

Damian took a few seconds to revel in the feeling of her weight, her soft fur, and her fast heartbeat under his fingers. Then he pulled back. Don't get attached. "We should go inside. The people will be here to collect you soon." He climbed to his feet and Nike followed him toward the back door of the manor. "You're going to have a home, a real one."

Before they could round the corner, there was a quiet but insistent cheep!

It all happened so fast.

Nike paused mid-step, nose in the air. Damian reached for her harness, but only barely got his fingers hooked through when the second cheep floated by, and Nike sprinted toward the bench. One of Damian's fingers was nearly dislocated when the harness slipped from his grasp.

"Nike!"

She found the branch. Damian watched in horror as she casually snapped her teeth around the small bird.

"Nike! No!"

The dog turned her head, ears twitching to alert.

"Drop it!"

Some part of her understood the severity of the command. She dropped the soft lump of feathers gently. It landed belly-up on the same soft tuft of grass it had been hiding in before Damian had moved it.

He was too late.

"No." Damian pushed Nike away with a little more force than was necessary. She didn't get the message, tried to lie down so he couldn't push her again. Damian's face screwed up and he raised his voice. "Nike, go."

She flinched back at his tone, and had Damian been calmer he would have felt more guilt. "Go!"

She scrambled to her feet, tail between her legs and head hanging low, and back away.

Damian didn't wait to see where she would go. Instead, he knelt in the wet earth next to the dead fledgling. Its small feet were sticking straight up and were utterly still.

Its parents were still chirping in alarm, in the trees surrounding the lawns. 'Stay away,' they screamed.

They were too late, too. Powerless against the beast that carelessly picked up their child and killed it without thought.

Damian carefully scooped up the bird. "I. . . "

Its neck was broken.

"I am sorry."

The other bird cheeped from the nest, but the parents stopped. Somehow, they knew.

Damian stood, bird still in hand. He should—it was customary to bury the dead. It seemed cruel to just leave the body beneath the nest. So he took the small shovel from the gardening shade and dug a small hole by the tree line, deep enough any passing animals wouldn't get any ideas.

Gently, he laid the fledgling in the grave, situating in as though it were just sleeping. Handful by handful, he sprinkled dirt on top.

"I had thought. . . " he began. He had thought Nike was better than this. He had thought she had grown out of her aggression, that showing her love would somehow change who she was: a dog. A dangerous, instinct-driven beast that would carelessly attack anything that breathed.

"I was wrong."

He finished piling the dirt on the small grave and sat back in the wet grass. The rain was cold, but it felt good against his hot cheeks.

"Master Damian!" A warm, dry blanket was dropped over his shoulders. "Master Bruce wished to see you. The people have come to collect Nike—"

"I don't care."

Pennyworth's hands paused in worrying Damian's shivering form. "He seemed to be under the impression you would want to say goodbye. Or meet the new family—"

"It does not matter." Damian turned away. "I do not wish to see her again."

"Sir—"

"No, Pennyworth." Damian headed back to the manor, with every intention of returning to his room without passing the foyer where his father was no doubt entertaining the guests. As he passed, her could hear the clattering of Nike's paws on the hardwood floor. She sounded anxious, nervous of the new people.

But Damian hardened his resolve and continued past.

It didn't mean he didn't watch the car pull away from Wayne Manor.