Brilliantly beta-read by arg914. Happy New Year to All!

He knew it was nothing personal, but Superman always felt slightly offended by the number of children – teen-agers, mostly – who ended up going out as Doomsday on Halloween. The Kryptonian monster was nothing more than a Boogeyman to most of them: Parents of the youngest trick-or-treaters were in diapers when the murderous creature had "killed" the Man of Steel. Superman's demise had turned out to be temporary, but the sight of the pasty rubber mask, with its stringy cotton hair and frozen expression of demented rage, never failed to remind him of the anguish his "death" had caused Lois and his parents.

Halloween night was a mandatory patrol for most costumed crimefighters. Incidents were rare, but children were to be protected, even when the risk was low. It would take only one madman, one ruthless sociopath – or even a self-righteous teen who thought being bullied gave him a license to lash out at the world – to snuff out a dozen tiny lives in an instant – and to send their loved ones on an infinite trek through living hell.

It was an evening Superman took seriously, but it was also one he relished. The streets of Metropolis were alive with children shuffling around in oversized nylon costumes. Trends changed every year, but superheroes were always in fashion. Wally seemed to be the favorite this year. There had been dozens of replica Flashes seeking treats tonight – Clark recalled Linda once saying that she couldn't trust Wally to give out candy because half of it would mysteriously disappear – and a decent number of little men and women of steel. Superman couldn't fly a block without glimpsing youngsters in baggy blue suits and red capes skipping ahead of their doting parents. He always got a kick out of the cheaply-made blonde wigs that invariably slid from the heads of small girls masquerading as his daughter. The occasional sight of a rubber Martian Manhunter mask made his heart tighten in sad nostalgia.

The night had gone well until a few hours past sunset, when he'd noticed a pudgy little Superwoman toddling beside a small, solemn Batman. The girl had eagerly opened her bag of candy and urged her black-clad companion to examine her treasures. Superman had felt himself very close to vomiting.

He wound through a tight cluster of high rise apartments and watched the last of the trick-or-treaters disappear into their homes. A few days earlier, Bruce had called him at work to ask if he could take the Kents to dinner; he would be in Metropolis later in the week. Clark's automatic reply that he and Lois already had plans for that night might have sounded more authentic if he'd given Bruce the chance to say what evening he had in mind.

He wasn't a fool; he knew what the invitation was about. Clark would not allow anyone to steamroll him into having a conversation he did not want to have, about a situation he found too painful and humiliating to think about. He was not going to legitimize this aberrant… relationship… by acknowledging it. It would be over soon; he was surprised that it hadn't ended already. Clark was not sure what it was that had caused his daughter to abandon her ordinarily good judgment when it came to men, but he was sure whatever it was that attracted her to Bruce Wayne could not long survive his usual self-destructive impulses when it came to women.

She would be leaving Gotham next summer anyway. The fellowship was almost over. Her aspirations would bring her next to Metropolis or to McGill University in Montreal or maybe back to the Sorbonne. Superman winced as he remembered his daughter's unfortunate dalliance with her Parisian professor. The thought of Philippe made him reconsider his belief that Martha's recent taste in men was particularly sound.

If Dave had not been killed…. Superman dove low over Metropolis Bay and mournfully remembered the affable young cop who had become like a second son to him. Martha would have been married nearly eight years by now. This… thing… in Gotham City wouldn't be happening.

When the sound of gunshots broke across the breezy night, he was almost relieved by the distraction. Superman's eyes flicked instantly to a warehouse about a mile down the bay, where a pair of police officers huddled behind a sea wall were exchanging shots with a group of masked outlaws as they attempted to flee in a wooden dingy. Superman was hoisting the small boat over his shoulders before the cops were able to reload. He wondered if the lawbreakers had stolen their latex Joker masks, or had just picked them up at a dollar store. They weren't worth what they used to be.

It turned out to be a busy night. North of Midvale, a teen-aged boy amped up on sugar, beer and arrogance attempted for force himself on his date. Superman wasn't gentle about handing him over to the local cops; he had a sore point about this sort of thing. He urged the girl to press charges – and seek counseling – before a fire in a nightclub in Providence, Rhode Island pulled him reluctantly away. He had hoped to speak to the young woman's parents.

There was a break in the action just as fingers of sunlight reached lazily into the gray morning. Superman allowed Clark Kent the luxury of showering quickly and slipping naked into bed with his sleeping wife.

"Mmmm," Lois mumbled as Clark enfolded her in oversized arms. She reached back and ran a hand through his slightly damp hair and smiled without opening her eyes. "Do you want a trick or a treat, little boy?"

"Surprise me," he murmured, pushing a silky strand of hair aside and kissing the back of her neck. After more than thirty years together, she still could.

They woke together a few hours later, still entwined, to the sound of Clay banging around in the kitchen. Lois pushed Clark groggily onto his back and slid on top of him, determined to make the most of this rare time together. The telephone rang.

"Answer it, Clay," she shouted, when their son allowed the phone to ring a second time. Clark laughed. The ringer bleated again.

"He's got his headphones on," Clark told her, after glancing through a couple of walls. Lois made an exasperated face, checked the caller ID and reached for the receiver.

"Hi, Martha," she said, and then, "Oh. That's great." Lois covered the mouthpiece and looked down at her husband. "She traded shifts with one of the other shrinks –" There was a burst of protest from the other side of the receiver. Lois rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Martha," she said, before turning back to Clark. "She traded with one of the other psychiatrists so she could make it to dinner tonight."

Clark smiled. Martha had skipped the last few Sunday dinners in her ongoing effort to catch up on the hours she had missed last spring, when she had been trapped on the desert planet with Parallax. "Tell her Gren will be here," he said.

Martha apparently heard him. "She knows Gren will be here," Lois said. "She says she's coming anyway." She listened again, then added delightedly, "She and Lian just got back from breakfast in Rincon Beach. She's bringing flan for dessert."

She suggested their daughter come over a bit earlier; they hadn't seen her in a while.

"Ask her if she's started putting out applications for next year," Clark said.

Lois did so, frowned, and asked, "One?

"All right," she said finally. "We'll see you around five."

"She can't come earlier?" Cark asked as Lois set down the receiver.

"No," Lois said. "She has 'some things to do.' "

"Oh," Clark said in a dim voice. "And she's only applied to one research center?"

"Gotham University," Lois said grimly. Her eyes moved across his pensive face. "Dead and buried?"

Clark's questioning eyes flicked up toward hers.

"The mood."

"Sorry," he said, as she shifted back onto the bed and pulled the quilt up around his shoulders.

"Martha's going to be OK," she promised, putting her arms around him. Clark didn't answer. Lois was usually right when it came to their daughter. He just hoped that "OK" meant "away from Gotham City." Soon.

Wally set Linda down on Roy's porch and did a quick change while they waited for Parker, who had insisted on running the distance alongside his father. The teen had fallen behind as they veered around Colorado Springs, but he had insisted that his parents go on; he would catch up.

A few minutes passed. Linda gave her husband a concerned look.

"Maybe –" Wally started. Linda's cell phone rang. It was Parker.

Where are you?" she asked. She handed the phone to Wally. "He thought he'd take a shortcut. He has no idea where he is."

Wally repeated his wife's question. Parker seemed to be somewhere west of Pueblo.

"You're not too far away," he said. "Take Route 160, then head right when you hit that cattle ranch with the huge cowboy boot –" Parker exploded onto the porch, chest heaving.

"Just needed – Route 160 –" he panted. Looking up at his parents, he asked, "Is Lian here?"

"Don't you dare act like a walking hormone-mobile if she is," Linda warned as Wally pushed open the front door. Parker glowered and followed his parents into the house.

Midori was sitting in the middle of the living room, engaged in deep conversation with a melon-sized ball of golden fluff. She beamed when she saw the Wests, then spoke excitedly to her furry companion.

"Look, RJ," she said, in the kind of animated voice one might use when speaking to a small child. "Uncle Wally and Aunt Linda are here! And Cousin Parker!"

Wally braced himself to be leapt upon. When Roy liberated the puppy from the SPCA three weeks earlier, he had described him to Wally in a phone call as a "wild, shedding, chewing drool factory." He hadn't said much about the dog since then, but Wally had warned his family to expect a less serene brunch than they usually enjoyed at Roy's place.

The puppy did not budge. He simply looked over his shoulder at the guests, unfurled a long yellow tail, wagged it furiously and looked inquiringly at Midori.

"Go say 'hi' to them," she urged.

RJ scrambled to his feet and Wally steeled himself again. But the puppy headed toward the Wests at a calm trot and sat placidly at Linda's feet. Wally noticed with discomfort that the living room was spotless.

"Cool!" Parker said. He dropped onto the floor beside RJ, who immediately rolled onto his back so his new friend could rub his belly.

"He's adorable," said Linda, squatting gingerly beside her son. "What kind of dog is he?"

"He's three kinds of dog," Midori said proudly. "Labrador Retriever, German Shepherd and Golden Retriever."

"Big shedding dogs," Wally said. He inspected the rug and couches and found not a single stray dog hair.

Midori rose from the floor just as Roy stepped through the sliding glass doors with some firewood. He greeted Linda and Parker with perfunctory pleasantness, but cast a dark look at Wally.

"Gonna need another armload," Roy said, tossing the logs into the fireplace. "Come help me."

"Take RJ," Midori called as they walked back into the yard. "He needs to excrete urine. Go with Daddy," she added to the puppy.

"RJ come," Roy said listlessly. The dog scrambled happily after him.

"I thought you were going to name him Wally," Wally said nervously, as Roy led him grimly to the woodpile.

"No," Roy said, and looked directly into Wally's face, as if daring him to laugh. "His name is Roy, Jr. I feel fortunate I got Midori to shorten it to RJ."

He looked down at the dog, who had remained devotedly at his heel during the brief conversation.

"RJ," he said. "Sit." The dog sat and looked up at Roy expectantly.

"Lie down." RJ obeyed.

"Fetch me a stick, please," Roy said tonelessly. RJ raced to the nearest piece of kindling and carried joyfully back to Roy, who tucked it under an arm and glared accusingly at Wally.

"You may now excrete urine," Roy told the dog, who trotted to the farthest corner of the yard to do so.

Flabbergasted, Wally said, "You told me he was a wild, shedding maniac."

"He was," Roy said. "Until Midori got a hold of him."

"But how –?"

"She. Did. Research," Roy said through his teeth. He thrust a pile of firewood into Wally's arms and added, "She came up with a special formula to stop the shedding. Some animal company wants to buy it."

"You'll be rich," Wally said, hoping the thought of additional wealth might mollify his troubled friend.

Roy looked at Wally as though he hadn't heard him. "Dick says I should get Midori to baby-sit Ryand'r. He says that'll put her off babies forever."

Dick and Kory's one-year-old had just started to fly. Lately, Dick had been peppered in oddly-placed bruises that had nothing to do with to his work as Nightwing.

"You going to take him up on it?" Wally asked, as RJ came bounding back to them.

"As soon as possible," Roy replied. He studied Wally with considerably more warmth. "How many bags of candy did you eat last night?"

"Me?" Wally asked innocently.

"It's just that I threw the M&Ms we had left over into the pancake batter," Roy explained. "I don't want you to go into a diabetic coma."

"I wouldn't worry," Wally said as they walked back toward the house. "RJ could probably resuscitate me."

Martha regretted the opulent breakfast she'd shared with Lian in Puerto Rico nearly as soon as she stepped onto the padded mat in the Batcave's expansive gym. Bruce had warned her not to eat too much – he'd thought the jaunt ill-advised anyway. She was stretching herself too thin, between her arduous hours at Arkham, her work with the League and their nightly patrols. He felt she should have spent the morning sleeping, specifically in his bed with him. But Martha had been feeling guilty about spending so much time apart from her roommate, especially during Lian's crucial first year of recovery. When the redhead had joked recently about subletting Martha's room, there had been an unmistakable undertone of longing in her voice that Martha refused to ignore. She had vowed to spend more time with Lian, who had never allowed anything – even the countless streams of faceless men who had coursed briefly through her life – to interfere with their friendship.

An overlarge breakfast mere hours before a Sunday workout session with Bruce might have not been the best way to express this friendship, Martha thought, as she gazed nauseously up at the Batcave's rocky ceiling. Maybe next time they would go to a movie.

"Get up," Bruce said tonelessly.

He was driven and humorless during their workouts, determined to achieve an impossible perfection, rarely impatient, but just as infrequently satisfied. As they had gotten closer, Martha's initial irritation at his demeanor had given way to an affectionate amusement she was careful not to show. Bruce had not completely recovered from what he had believed for six weeks to be her death. He was training Martha with the intent of keeping her alive.

She knew she was no Robin: With her bracelet suppressing her superpowers, she was an above-average fighter, with endless determination, decent instincts, unremarkable strength and adequate reflexes. During their first few work-outs, she could barely stay on her feet before she'd been swept, kicked, punched, thrown or pinned. She had gotten a lot better, which meant Bruce was pushing her harder.

In spite of her mutinous stomach, Martha did reasonably well during their stick-fighting drills and even better when they were sparring. Then she made the mistake of showing pleasure in her progress by smiling and Bruce had swept her to the mat.

"Your opponent's just killed you," he whispered into her ear as he pinned her wrists against the yielding floor. "OK, he's killed you again. Get up before he kills you a third time." Martha writhed under him, struggling for an opening with characteristic tenacity, but Bruce had trapped her limbs with his much larger body. She was completely immobile and he was intentionally aggravating her feeling of helplessness by upping her personal body count every few seconds. She became frustrated and bit him on the shoulder.

He rolled off of her quickly and for a terrible second she thought she had hurt him. Then she saw the aroused look in his eyes and started to giggle.

"Don't expect all of your opponents to react like this," he said sternly, as she reversed their positions, straddling him and pushing his wrists playfully against the mat.

"I didn't hurt you?" she asked seriously.

"You're wearing a rubber mouthpiece," Bruce pointed out. She expected him to insist that they resume training, but instead he looked thoughtful for a second and offered, "Guardian."

With a sigh of mock exasperation, Martha leaned against the knees Bruce had drawn up against her back. A few weeks earlier, he had cautiously suggested that her crimefighting name might carry too large a burden, reflecting as it did the capabilities of Martha's more powerful father. She needed a moniker suited to her own unique talents, not just a feminized version of Superman.

"That name makes people expect too much of you," Bruce had said. "And it makes you push yourself too hard."

"No one pushes themselves harder than you," Martha protested.

"I stay within my limitations," Bruce had countered. "And if I move past them, it's calculated and with ample safeguards. You just go crashing into bombs."

He had taken pains to emphasize that he was not advocating – as Roy had once characterized it – a rejection of her father and everything he stood for. The last thing Bruce wanted now was further tension between himself and Clark.

The disclaimer had been unnecessary; Martha understood where Bruce's heart had been in suggesting the change. But she couldn't seriously consider giving up her name.

This hadn't stopped him from throwing potential aliases at her whenever he thought of one. Martha had already dismissed Paladin and Star Woman. Guardian was a little better, but she was sure she had heard it before.

"Isn't there a Guardian already?" she asked.

"Not anymore," he said, as he watched her hands disappear under his t-shirt. With a quick twist of his hips, he toppled her onto the mat next to him. "Time to meditate."

"You'd rather sit on a pillow than make wild love to me on the floor of your gym?" asked Martha, feigning hurt.

Bruce rolled next to her and pried the bracelet from her wrist. "Last time we did that, you fell asleep on your cushion."

She considered this. "I could drink some coff–"

The rest of the word was lost in his mouth. He was pinning her again, but this time she felt neither helpless nor frustrated.

"I think that was very spiritual," Martha said afterwards. Bruce hooked a leg around hers and pulled her close.

"Mm-hmm," he mumbled into her shoulder.

She glanced back at him and asked, "When did you first realize you were attracted to me?"

"We should go upstairs," he said without moving. "Alfred could walk in here at any moment."

It wasn't the first time he'd tried to dodge the question. "Bruce…"

"When do you think?" he asked.

"When you woke me out of my nightmare?" Martha asked, as he started running his fingertips along her arm. "In the arboretum?"

"That's a good guess," Bruce said. "But not even close."

She considered a few possibilities. "When –"

"You only get one guess," he said, leaning around to kiss her temple. Martha turned into him so that they were nose to nose.

"Why won't you tell me?" she asked.

"I'll tell you," he said. He sat up and reached across the mat for her t-shirt. "Just not in this decade." He handed her the shirt and looked around for the remains of his own. In her ardor, Martha had torn it nearly in half. Alfred had been acquiring a lot of dust-rags that way.

"You're just making me more curious," Martha said.

Bruce smiled faintly. "I like to keep an air of mystery about me."

She laughed. "Right. Because other than that, there's no mystery to you at all."

A crash of alarming volume and duration caused Dick to rush from the front door before he had fully opened it, prompting Roy and Midori to exchange a baffled look as they stepped warily into the foyer. Roy had just started to crane his head into the living room, where he was pretty sure the sound had come from, when he found himself nearly knocked off his feet by one of Dick's older daughters.

"Hi, Mary," he said as the little girl clung ferociously to his waist. In an effort to spare his internal organs, he hoisted her into his arms. "You remember Aunt Midori, don't you?"

With a joyous nod, Mary transferred herself to Midori, who, Roy noted with grim satisfaction, darkened to the shade of a pine needle in reaction to the child's overzealous hug. He truly regretted the torment he and Dick were about to put Midori through, but Roy could see what she could not: It would not be long before she was going to have to choose between him and her desire to have a child. Roy was desperate to be her choice and he was running out of arguments.

Dick limped back into the room, an impish-eyed Ryand'r tucked under one arm. His third daughter, Valiand'r, danced happily by his side as he ran a hand through his rumpled hair and apologized for not properly greeting his guests.

"Thanks for doing this, Midori," he said, as he led them into the living room. Roy noted with equal parts guilt and glee that the room was in shambles and two large bay windows had been hastily boarded up. "I really need a break."

Midori replied eagerly that she would baby-sit for him anytime. Dick fixed her with a jaded stare and pointed to the long list of emergency phone numbers he had affixed to the refrigerator with a magnet.

"Where's Kory?" Midori asked, as a squirming Ryand'r burst out from under Dick's arm and soared straight at Roy's head. The leader of the Justice League missed by seconds being decapitated by a flying baby

Dick looked uneasy. "Oh… she's on a mission with the Outsiders. We don't have to mention this to her. It's sort of like a surprise," he added unconvincingly, at Midori's perplexed look.

"Should we get going?" Roy asked, ducking as Ryand'r did a quick loop through the den and hurtled back toward him, apparently drawn to his red hair like a tiny bull.

Dick nodded and shouted into the basement for his son, John, who now insisted on being called Tamand'r, his Tamaranian middle name. The teen-ager emerged scowling onto the top of the cellar steps. From the sounds exploding out of the basement, Roy guessed he had been engrossed in one of his many videogames.

"I expect you to step in the second the baby becomes too much for Midori to handle," Dick told his son sternly. They turned together toward Midori, whose attempt to gather up a momentarily stationary Ryand'r had left her rubbing a swollen nose.

"That should be about two minutes," Tamand'r groused. "Why do you have to leave? I just got this game."

Dick stepped close to his son and said in a fierce whisper, "You'll help Midori. And you'll call me if there's an emergency."

"What's an emergency?" Tamand'r asked sullenly.

"Injuries," Dick said. He stepped back and turned to Roy. "Let's go."

"Maybe this is a bad idea," Roy said nervously, as Dick backed his Toyota Americana out of the driveway.

Dick shook his head. "Midori'll be OK. John's a good kid. He'll help her out."

"She should have brought her rocket boots," Roy said, as his friend swung the car towards a nearby sports bar.

Dick laughed. "That might have helped."

As they wound their way around the suburban roads, now strewn with crumpled brown leaves, Roy watched his friend become gradually more relaxed.

"You never had this kind of trouble with your other kids," he said, as Dick pulled into a parking spot near a neon bedecked tavern called The End Zone.

"They started flying at a much later age. They could take instruction – and respond to threats," Dick said, adding laconically, "Ryand'r's a prodigy."

"Ah, the mixed blessing of the gifted child," Roy said loftily. Dick shot him a tired smile.

They found a dark, quiet place near the corner of the bar. Their server, a heavy-set middle-aged blond man with a soul patch and a pierced chin, thrust a bowl of tortillas at Dick and noted that he hadn't seen him around for a while.

"The baby's teething," Dick said. "She's kinda hard for the wife to handle by herself."

He ordered a Yuengling Light Lager. Roy asked for a bottle of water.

"No, wait," he said. "I'll have a Coke."

"Living the wild life," Dick teased. He reached for the frosty glass of beer. "You're dead set against this father thing?"

"No way can we both keep working for the League and raise a baby," Roy said. "And that's part of who we are as a couple." He shook his head. "And I know you do it, Dick, but I'm too old to start changing diapers again. And I was a crappy father," he added. "Look at everything Lian's had to go through to finally get herself together."

There was a wet thud as Dick set his glass down. "You were an inspiration to me as a father," he said passionately. "You were younger than John, and yet you did everything you could to make sure Lian was safe and secure and loved. And she is together now.

"If she heard what you just said about yourself, she'd slap your head off," Dick added, pretending not to watch as Roy blinked hard and took a long drink of soda.

They sat together for a while, the silence between them interrupted only by occasional sipping sounds and the tinkle of ice. Finally, Dick said, "The chicken nachos here are –"

They saw the tavern door sailing into the mirror behind the bar before they registered the deafening explosion that sent it there. As glass went flying and patrons started screaming, six armed men stepped into the hole they'd blasted into the wall. One of them held a bazooka.

Roy and Dick dropped behind the bar and exchanged a look of disbelief.

"I can't go out for a drink," Dick said in a frustrated whisper. He sighed. "You don't have your fighting suit?"

"Under my clothes," Roy said. He reached into the pocket of his jeans for his mask. "But I left my toys in the rental car."

"I've got stuff in the trunk," Dick said. "I'll slip out the fire exit and bring us both back something to play with." He was gone before Roy had the first button of his shirt undone.

As deep-throated threats and sobs mingled on the floor of the tavern, Arsenal crawled behind the bar, checked the pulse of the unconscious blond bartender and scouted around for potential weapons. He knew it was vain to feel validated at a time like this, but he couldn't help it: The hand-to-hand, powers-free training he had always insisted upon was designed for just this sort of scenario.

He grabbed a round tray from the fallen server and popped up from behind the bar just long enough to hurl it, Frisbee-like, into the temple of the closest invader. The man went crashing onto a pool table. Arsenal ducked back behind the bar, grabbed a trio of whiskey bottles and leapt over the counter, throwing them, in mid-air, at the robber holding the bazooka and two of his comrades. Only one of them went down, but by the time the remaining two had recovered, Roy had landed on the billiards table. He grabbed a pool cue just as Nightwing swung in through the tavern's plate glass window.

Arsenal took out a third bandit when his head jerked instinctively toward the sound of Nightwing's noisy entrance; only the guy with the bazooka and two of his cohorts were standing now. The resistance Arsenal had offered had distracted them from their weapons. Now all three men pointed their guns at Roy's chest.

Th-wap! With a snap of his wrist, Nightwing, who had still not touched ground, released three poly-carbon escrima sticks; two of them made crunching sounds as they drove into the skulls of the bazooka bearer and one of his Uzi-carrying companions. Arsenal ducked as the last outlaw standing opened fire. Nightwing, still airborne, finished him almost offhandedly with a thrusting heel kick to the jaw.

"Where's the weapon you promised me?" Roy asked with mock petulance as they met in the middle of the tavern floor. Nightwing reached into the back of his belt and handed him a small titanium crossbow.

"The pool cue seemed to do the trick for you," he said, looking around as disheveled diners started crawling out from under their heavy wooden tables. "Anybody hurt?" As if on cue, sirens began to howl in the distance.

"Bartender's out, but his pulse was strong and his pupils are OK," Roy said. "He probably got hit by the very edge of the door. Or he fainted," he added, shrugging.

As they headed over to check on the unconscious server, Nightwing commented, "You know, this was still a walk in the park compared with an evening with Ryand'r."

Arsenal stopped dead. "We'd better go back."

A quartet of police officers, weapons drawn, stormed through the wide, asymmetrical hole that had replaced the tavern door. They gazed around the room at the unconscious felons and battle-shocked patrons and slowly lowered their guns.

"We can't," Nightwing said. "We'll to have to go back to the station with these guys and give our statements. Don't worry," he added. "John hasn't called me yet. That means no one's been injured or they're all unconscious."

Roy knew he was kidding; John was almost as strong as Kory and she had nowhere near as much trouble with Ryand'r as Dick did. Still, as he led paramedics to the downed bartender, Roy hoped that Midori was neither harmed nor overly disheartened by her inability to handle a Tamaranian baby. He hadn't wanted her to see stars, just the light.

It was close to three in the morning when Dick turned the Americana back into his driveway. The house was mostly dark; one light shone from the basement window, another from Mary's second-story bedroom. Roy braced himself as Dick pushed open the door and guardedly flicked on the foyer lights. The house was eerily quiet. Dick hurried into the living room and hit the light switch there. His eyes swept across the room and his face assumed a mystified look. Roy stepped forward and saw that the room, which had been a disaster area when he and Dick had left for the tavern, seemed almost as neat as it had during Ryand'r's pre-flight days.

"I hope this doesn't mean Kory's home," murmured Dick. "She'll kill me if she finds out we left Midori alone with the baby."

A creak from behind sent them both whirling toward the basement. Tamand'r, his saucer-sized eyes bleary, peered at them from the top step.

"Did you guys leave yet?" he asked.

Dick said flatly, "You didn't leave Midori up here by herself."

"She didn't ask for any help," Tamand'r protested.

"Is mom home?" Dick demanded.

"No," said Tamand'r, as if his father was senile. "Mom's fighting aliens with the Outsiders."

Dick shot Roy a look of pure dread, then ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste to find what was left of Midori. Roy vaulted after him, nearly knocking him over when Dick stopped in the doorway of Mary's bedroom, then twisted around, stupefied, to gape at Roy. They turned together to stare at the small bed.

Mary and Valiand'r were curled blissfully around Midori, who dozed serenely on an array of fluffy pink pillows. Ryand'r slumbered contentedly against her chest.

"What do you prefer?" Dick asked after a long while. "Daddy or Papa?"

Next Chapter: The holiday before Christmas