The Family Business

by spoileralertitsme

After Bruce's death at the hands of the Joker leaves Gotham City vulnerable, it falls to his family to keep up the fight. As Dick takes up his mentor's mantle, and Barbara regains her mobility, the two senior Batkids face their most harrowing challenge yet: parenthood.

26. Chapter 26: Distrust

This chapter was...difficult, to say the least. And I think you're all going to hate me after reading it. I can promise that everything works out in the end, but that's all I can really tell you.

Just bear with me, I guess. Thanks, guys.

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Dick usually drove.

Everything was contingent on the kind of night they were having, but most of the time, it was Batman who helmed the Batmobile. There was a certain control that Dick had that resulted from years of experience. He had logged the most hours behind the wheel, after all, and no one could drive as quietly, as stealthily, as Dick Grayson.

But Barbara was different.

Car chases were her specialty. She could spin the Batmobile on a dime, whip it around corners, weave it through traffic and wield it like a battering ram—all without even breaking a sweat. She was a pro when it came to fancy driving and stunts that would put any professional to shame. Granted, she had a lead foot, especially when she was emotionally compromised, but no one really minded so long as they caught the bad guy—

—unless they were just trying to drive home after a long night.

The Batmobile listed to the side as Barbara shot around a corner, and a scream went up from the backseat. Stephanie was clutching a giant plushie for dear life, shrieking into its fuzzy purple fur. Damian was crushed against the car door, muttering obscenities that no child his age should know, and Tim was staring blankly ahead, pale as a sheet, and anticipating certain death.

Jason was in the passenger seat, clutching onto the 'Holy $#!^ Bar' for dear life. His head whipped around as he shouted, "The #$%% is going on with you!?"

Barbara grit her teeth and spun the wheel. The Batmobile flipped around, tires screeching against the pavement as it slid perpendicular to oncoming traffic.

At least before she gunned the engine, and took off like a shot down a side alley. One that was barely wide enough to fit the vehicle.

If Dick were driving, it might have taken them thirty minutes to get back to the Cave. Twenty-five, if he was feeling dangerous.

But Batwoman had the wheel, so that time was sliced in half. And the needle never dipped below 80.

When they slammed to a halt in the BatCave, everyone was silent. Gripping onto whatever was closest and most stable; be it a seat, a handlebar, a sibling, or a giant stuffed rabbit. Barbara thrust the gearshift into park, and slammed the button that released the hatch with a dull hiss. The others watched as she wordlessly grasped onto the car door, and flipped herself out of the vehicle and onto the ground outside. Her stomping boots and swishing cape were the only human sounds in the Cave as she stalked towards the computer.

Stephanie looked at Jason, who looked at Tim, who looked at Damian. They all wore a frown that was darker than the hidden depths below the Batmobile's platform. Because they'd all stared at their older sister's left hand at some point on the drive over (when they weren't too busy watching for oncoming cars and stray pedestrians).

There was no ring.

And Barbara's cheeks were streaked with tears.

"Well, something…happened," Stephanie decided quietly, hugging her stuffed rabbit a little tighter.

"Someone should talk to her," Jason muttered, looking at each of them in turn. His expression was tight, drawn, and more than a little concerned. "And I think it should be someone she won't be mad at."

Jason, Stephanie and Tim all turned to Damian, who blinked blankly.

Then, he caught on.

"What?" The kid's eyes narrowed. "What am I supposed to do? Talk with Delphi about her feelings?"

"He makes a valid point," Tim muttered darkly.

Steph nibbled her lip. "Mmm…maybe this isn't the best idea, bud. But she'd never snap at you. Okay? Just go see what's wrong."

"Please, kiddo," Jason added.

Damian glowered at each of them in turn, making certain that his annoyance did not go unnoticed. Then, he tumbled out of the car, took a heavy inhaled breath, and walked across the floor towards the Computer.

Barbara had crawled halfway underneath the desk, and was muttering things in a tight, hushed voice that gave him the impression that his elder sister was likely to respond negatively to any questions. Queries such as 'is everything alright' or 'what happened' would most likely result in a small explosion. Damian knew this from dealing with Talia. His mother was prone to violent fits of rage from time to time, and whatever was nearest usually wound up sliced through with her favorite Shirasaya. So, Damian approached carefully.

He settled himself onto the floor, pulling his legs up beneath him. Now he could hear Delphi's whispered ranting at a better volume.

"—does he think he is?" She ripped a circuit board from somewhere out of sight and flung it over her shoulder. It clattered metallically across the floor, charred and warped. Just a melted hunk of plastic and metal. "First he goes off about trust, and…gah, how he expects me to trust him when all he ever does is try and control my every move, I'll never—"

Damian heard the familiar sound of a cable being yanked free. There was a small electrical buzz, and a flash from beneath the desk. But Delphi neither cried out or started convulsing, so he figured she must be fine…at least, physically.

"'Don't bother waiting up'," Barbara said in an exaggeratedly low tone. "&*!?#%(%. Sleep on the couch tonight for all I &!$%^#& care. Sleep in the Cave. &*!?#%)%."

A heap of singed wires was the next object to fly out from the space underneath the desk. It bounced twice, then spun to a stop. Damian stared blankly at the exposed copper wire and melted casing.

"—think I didn't notice him eyeing that circus chick? Oh-ho, well—"

Damian frowned at the hunched line of Batwoman's shoulders. And that frown only deepened when she let out a frustrated, grating groan. Her head smacked against the underside of the desk so hard that the keyboard and one of Tim's stray mugs rattled.

Barbara emerged from under the desk with a hand over her mouth. The other curled around the edge of the desk, keeping her upright and allowing her something concrete to grasp onto. She gasped, a thin squeak that made him jump a little. And this time, the movement didn't go unnoticed.

Delphi whirled around, glistening eyes wide and red-rimmed. She'd discarded her mask at some point between the car and the computer, and so her tears were on full display.

"Dami," she whispered. "You look like… Is everything okay?"

He nodded carefully. Unsure of how best to proceed. Growing up, whenever he was driven to tears, his mother would regale him with stories of his ancestors—brave men who never stooped to such emotional displays—and make him recite a passage from The Art of War for every tear spilled. Somehow, he didn't think this would work with Delphi. (He wasn't even completely certain it had worked with him.)

Barbara was watching him through teary eyes. And perhaps she saw enough explanation in his face, because she squeaked again, this time with both hands pressed over her mouth, and whispered through the overlapped fingers,

"Dami, you know you can talk to me, right?"

Delphi sounded so pathetic—so worthy of pity—and this was so detached from the way Damian was used to seeing her, that his spine straightened and his eyes narrowed.

"What has got you in such a state?" he demanded. His eyes roved over her quickly—no clear bodily injuries, though her uniform was a bit scuffed from the night's battle. "Did Grayson's question upset you?"

"Question—?" Barbara lowered her hands. Scowled, and said through her teeth, "He didn't ask me any questions. Just told me exactly what was on his mind."

"And that is…a bad thing?"

"Yes."

Emotions like this, Damian decided, were beyond even his level of expertise. And women's emotions were even more so. He turned his head, throwing his best 'pitiable' expression towards his cowardly siblings, who were pretending not to watch from their seats in the Batmobile. When Babs looked their way, they each slowly, carefully, and with as much reluctance as possible, climbed from the vehicle and made their way over.

"Drake," Damian said, as pleasantly as he could manage, "You have experience with tearful emotional expression. Perhaps you should be the one to handle this."

Tim's eyebrows shot up. The others glanced at him with similar expressions, but Tim just shook his head.

"Hey. I don't…" His eyes landed on Barbara, and then darted away. "I don't think…"

"Brown? You are a female—"

"Okay, I don't like where this is going—"

"—and so are better suited to the task of consolation."

"Damian," Jason hissed.

"What? You cannot just expect me to—"

Barbara could only watch them go back and forth through wide eyes, which seemed to grow more teary with every passing second. While they bantered and bickered back and forth, she sighed, pulling herself upright. Settled herself down in the swiveling chair and crossed her arms tightly over her stomach. When the yelling had reached its peak she barked,

"That's enough."

The snap of her voice was enough to jerk them all to attention. Spines went straight, mouths snapped shut, and eyes flicked to her tight frown. The sight of it seemed to make Barbara sick to her stomach, and she hugged her arms even tighter around her midsection, a nauseated twist to her mouth.

"Sorry. You…" She swallowed, then tried again. "You guys can—can tell me things, you know. I'm sorry if… I'm sorry if I've ever made it seem like you can't."

Jason's eyes went even wider. He opened his mouth, but if he was going to say something, it wouldn't come.

"I know I haven't been…the most approachable person, lately," Barbara said softly. "I know I've been a &!^$#—er, sorry, Dami."

He shrugged. "I have heard worse."

She bit her lip, eyes rolling up to the stalactites overhead. If her eyes hadn't been so bleary, she could've probably made out a few of the bat colonies that inhabited the spaces between the rocky spikes. But instead, her eyes flicked back down to look at the Cave's other Bat population.

"But I'm…going to try to be better," she whispered, voice squeaking. "I…want you guys to feel like you can…I care about all of you. I want to make sure that you all feel…feel safe, and loved, because—because I love all of you. You're my family. And…" She swallowed. "It's about time I started acting like it, I guess."

Jason lurched like he had been punched in the gut. "Babs—"

Stephanie crept forward, eyes searching Barbara's face for something that the boys could only guess at. When she seemed to hit upon something, her eyes widened slightly, and she carefully put a hand on her sister's shoulder. Then, as if speaking too loudly could cause an avalanche, Stephanie asked,

"Did Dick say something?"

Barbara huffed. "Nothing I didn't need to hear."

The heel of her hand swept over one eye, then the other. She'd had heavy eye-makeup on before, and now it smeared dark across her skin. Stephanie wet her thumb and carefully tried to minimize the damage, and Barbara's eyes flitted closed as her sister worked. She let out a shaky sigh.

"And…nothing that wasn't true," she said softly. Then laughed. But it was the breathy, terrible sort of laughter that was more self-derisive than anything. "I've…had a conversation like that coming for a while, I guess."

"Babs…" Tim muttered, scooting closer.

"Said…you were all scared to talk to me," she whispered, hunching a little further in on herself. "And he's right. The way I've been treating you all lately? Not fair. You don't…you don't deserve any of it." Then, a little more quietly. "But I could've done without all the yelling."

"Yelling?" Stephanie looked up at Jason, eyebrows raised. He returned the frown, looking absolutely bewildered. Even Tim and Damian were blinking in confusion.

Because Dick did not yell at Barbara. They raised their voices at each other from time to time, and they argued every now and then. But it never ended in tears. Right now, their sister was curled up in a chair and practically sobbing, one fist pressed to her lips, with her eyes red and swollen.

This was not one of their usual fights. There was something deeper going on.

"Babs," Tim managed, turning back to the girl in the chair, "What kind of yelling?"

"Uh…" she swallowed. "Just…yelling? What more can—"

"No, no, like…" Jason gestured vaguely, but his gaze suddenly very, very intense. It was a little frightening, but the others stayed still and silent. Watching to see what would happen. "Like, say, what was the volume like?"

"…loud?"

"And did he start bringing up random $#!^ that you thought he'd gotten over, but was like, dragging up all over again?"

A line appeared between Barbara's eyebrows, deep with concern.

"And—humor me with this one—did his eyes turn green?"

They all turned to watch their older sister's reaction silently. Barbara frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her fist returned to her lips, and she shut her eyes. Then, after a few tense seconds, she lowered it, and looked up at them all as she whispered, "Yeah. Yeah, Jay, they…they did."

"Green eyes?" Tim demanded. He turned, shaking his head. "That doesn't make any sense. He would've had to—"

He cut off sharply, whirling on Jason and Damian—who were staring back with solemn expressions—and Stephanie, who had possibly never looked more confused in her life. The unspoken word hung in the air like a glowing neon sign. Impossible to ignore, and achingly bright.

"Wait, did he?" Tim whispered in a harried hiss.

"Yeah." Jason's voice was as gritty as the broken shards of computer screen that dusted the floor under their feet. He dragged his fingers through his hair, sighing. "Remember when Dick and Babs went missing? Well, Dick…he didn't make it."

Stephanie straightened like she'd been tasered. "What do you mean he 'didn't make it'? You told me—"

"Gordon shot him. He died."

Jason's voice cracked through the air, whip-like. Tim and Steph both gaped, mouths hanging open slightly. Dazed as they seemed to struggle under the weight of that statement.

But Damian shuddered in spite of himself. He could still hear those psychopaths' leering laughter. He could remember the ordeal in its entirety. And seeing Grayson look away disinterestedly every time Damian was hit or burned or stabbed or beaten… He knew that it was all done for the sake of his safety; Grayson had apologized profusely in the hospital after the fact. Promised to never, ever, allow something like that to happen to him again. But still…Damian would never forget the way that…felt.

If he were a lesser being, he would have vowed vengeance on the two men who had held him captive for so long. As it was, he had been shown a higher method of thinking. They would find James Gordon Junior, and bring him to justice.

Though, perhaps, with a few more scrapes than necessary.

That man had killed Grayson. And in order to bring him back, Delphi had been forced to do the unthinkable—

"Babs went to Ra's," Jason continued "And they dunked him in the Pit. The green eyes? They're a side-effect of the water's ability to raise the dead."

He turned to Barbara, mouth pulled tight into a frown that meant all sorts of hidden things. Damian wasn't sure what the two were communicating—he'd never been able to cue in on nonverbal conversation like the others. It was a fact that irked him, but he supposed he would just have to be patient. Sooner or later, they always shared some information.

Tim frowned, leaning against the desk. "But Dick's eyes are still blue?"

"I don't know what to tell you, there." Jason shrugged. "But what we do know is this, guys: Dick died. Dick came out of the Pit. Sometimes his eyes are green, sometimes they're blue. Meaning…"

"Meaning?" Steph prompted.

"Meaning that something must've gone awry in the raising process," Barbara muttered, hunching her shoulders. There was something haunted creeping through her empty gaze. Like she knew something, but was still reluctant—or maybe even unwilling—to share with the group.

"But, still. He was dead." Tim shook his head in a daze, fingers tightening over the desk's edge like it was a life raft, and he was lost at sea. "And whatever else happened, the Pit healed him."

"It would definitely explain the mood swings." Jason scratched at his arm absently. Damian could see a muscle in his jaw tense up. "Right now Dick's probably…he's probably just super pissed, super cagey, and he doesn't know why. Honestly, I'm surprised the guy's lasted this long."

Tim frowned. "How come?"

Jason looked down at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers as if he was trying to grasp something that was just out of reach. "Cause when you come out of that water, everything else kind of goes away. It's like…'fight or flight', and all you can think is 'fight'. Your brain's telling you you're in danger, and everyone's an enemy, and the only thing that matters is escape. It…takes a while to wear off, but in the meantime…"

"The Pit lowers the serotonin levels in the brain," Damian said with a shrug, "which regulate anger and aggression. But my grandfather used to say that the Pit brings out a person's worst qualities?"

"I don't think that's it. When I…" Jason swallowed. Tipped his head back, chin in the air. "Came back. When I came back, it happened right away. Bruce always used to say that my 'impulsivity' was my worst quality. That it'd get me killed someday. And, I mean, it did…but when I came back all I could feel was just…"

He waved a hand in the air. Even though the others waited with baited breath and patient frowns, Jason didn't seem able to continue that thought. At least, not without a little help.

So, Barbara dipped her head and asked, "Was it anger?"

He shook his head listlessly. "No…no, it was different. I mean, I was mad. #$%% yes, I was mad. I woke up in a &*#% coffin. Had to crawl my way out with my bare hands, make my way back to Quarac, and find Ra's. Came back to Gotham and Bruce had replaced me with him—" Jason flung a hand towards Tim, who scrunched his face up indignantly. "—you and Dick had already moved on, and the Joker was still alive. I was—"

"Hurt." Barbara's shoulders dropped. "You were hurt."

He snapped his fingers. "That's…that's it, yeah."

Then, Tim raised a palm and said, slowly, "Okay. But. Jason just said that the reaction was immediate. Why haven't we seen rage-monster Grayson?"

"I was not a rage mon—"

"You killed dozens of people and handcuffed me to a bed in your apartment," Tim snapped. "You were a rage monster. What I'm saying, is that we should have seensome sort of extreme reaction from Dick before now, so…why haven't we?"

Everyone frowned.

Barbara's eyes twitched a little wider. Her lips cracked open, as if she wanted to say something, but her mouth snapped shut.

"Maybe he is just…strong." Damian shrugged. "Grandfather was able to build up an immunity to the Pit. He no longer flies into a severe post-resurrection rage, and some of the assassins we have raised have managed to avoid the effects."

Jason tensed, arms crossing over his chest. "You saying I wasn't strong enough? That that's why I started killing people and $#!^?"

"Jay, no." Steph shook her head. She reached out, laying a hand on his arm. "Hey. Remember what the fortune teller lady said?"

Damian raised an eyebrow, but Tim was nodding. Barbara could only frown in confusion. She glanced around the room, as she asked, "What 'fortune teller lady'?"

"At the circus," Tim said with a vague wave of his hand. His eyes never left Barbara's face, though, and Damian could clearly see the silent question behind his sharp gaze. But he continued, "There was this pair of fortune tellers who 'read our futures'—our pasts, really. We heard some pretty…freaky stuff."

"One thing they said about you was how strong you are, Jay," Stephanie said. Her fingers tightened a little on Jason's wrist, and her frown deepened. "And that's true. Fortune telling may be a load of crap, but they got that right, at least. You're one of the strongest people I know."

Tim looked away, and Barbara's frown deepened. "Alright, I guess that makes sense," she said, like it had a question mark tagged on the end. "But—"

Jason pressed his forehead against his girlfriend's and said softly. "No, that title goes to you, babe. I don't care what you said in there. You're incredible."

Stephanie huffed a little, disbelieving, and pulled away. "Uh-huh. I appreciate that. But we both know it's not true." She squared her shoulders, and her jaw. "Now. Back to the Pit business—"

"Hold up." Barbara threw up a hand to emphasize her point, and the others paused when she leaned forward. Her frown was careful, her brows lowered in confusion. "What's not true? I feel like I'm missing something here."

Steph bit her lip. "It's not—"

Jason reached up, pressing a thumb to the side of her cheek. With an indignant frown, he snapped, "She said that none of us have any expectations for her. She called herself 'the dumb one'."

"Jay…" Steph muttered.

But Barbara had gone rigid, eyes blown wide. "What?"

Stephanie put up a hand, and sighed. "Look. It doesn't matter. Let's just—"

The words died in her throat as Barbara shot to her feet. She scooped her mask up off the desk and fixed it to the rest of her uniform. It attached with a small series of clicks, and only served to make her frown all the more menacing.

"You. Suit up. Now."

Stephanie's eyes widened. "I'm s-sorry?"

"You heard me, Batgirl," Barbara said, clasping her arms behind her back. She stood at attention, and just then, she looked exactly like Bruce Wayne. Batman. Commanding and stern, no-nonsense and all steel. The others reacted accordingly, going stiff, nodding slowly.

Without further protest, Steph bounded off towards the suit cases, slamming a hand on the glass and reaching inside for her uniform. Barbara relaxed her shoulders slightly, letting out a soft sigh as she turned to Jason.

"We'll continue this conversation later, I promise," she said.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "What are you…?"

"I need air, and she needs a boost. Besides, I think Batwoman and Batgirl are overdue for a girl's night out." Something like a smile twitched at the corner of Barbara's mouth. "Or, girl's morning out, as the case may be. And I think you boys have earned yourself a quiet night in. You think you can handle your brothers for a few hours?"

Tim frowned, raising a hand. "I'm eighteen, Babs. I don't need a babysitter."

"Oh, believe me, I know." She sighed, a hand on her hip. "Order a pizza or something. Watch a movie. Pretty sure Dami's never seen half of the DVDs up there. And Netflix is always an option, too. Go wild. Just don't set anything on fire."

"It's like…one in the morning."

"So?"

Jason chuckled. "So. Any guy that delivers to us this late's gonna be ticked as #$%%."

"So, tip 'em." Barbara shrugged. "No big deal."

Steph jogged over, panting, but dressed. Everything was in place—suit and boots zipped up, belt slung over her hips, and gauntlets buckled—except for her cowl. She stuffed her hair inside, pulling it out through the small hole in the back, and when they all heard the series of clicks, she grinned. Shot Barbara a set of thumbs up.

"Ready!" she gasped.

"Good time," Barbara praised. Checked something on her gauntlet. "Forty-five seconds."

"I'll cut that in half, next time."

"Tt. No one's ever gone below thirty. You're fine, Steph." She tapped her sister on her caped shoulder, and turned to the boys. "You've got this?"

Jason shot Barbara a two-fingered salute. "Please. I can handle these two delinquents."

"These two 'delinquents' might just handle you," Tim muttered with a scowl.

Damian cracked his knuckles.

"I'll pacify them with popcorn," Jason amended. He shot Steph a smile. "Good luck out there, babe."

She winked. "You too."

The girls turned, and strode towards the Batmobile. Their steps were perfectly matched, their capes making the same swirls behind their retreating heels. Two curtains of black, two she-bats going out to wreak havoc.

As they swung themselves into the car, capes flashing purple and red, they waved. At least, before the hatch slid shut with a hiss above their heads. The Batmobile grumbled as it woke, headlights glowing and engine humming like some snoring beast. But then the beast roared when Barbara hit the gas, and they shot from the cave like a pair of bats out of #$%%.

Jason turned to look at Tim, who turned to Damian, who turned to Jason.

"So." The oldest of the trio rubbed his hands together. "Who's up for a little Braveheart?"

"Jay, that's rated R," Tim groaned, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah. What's the problem?"

Tim waved a hand at Damian, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Eh, he's seen worse. 'Sides…" Jason spun towards the elevator and took off like a shot. "First one upstairs gets first dibs!"

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Dick felt terrible.

His mind was still reeling as Raya dragged him past curious bystanders and various loitering members of law enforcement. They threaded easily through the crowds, and people parted for them like the Red Sea. Their glittering costumes were the only ID they had to flash to prove they belonged. Still, he doubted anyone would have bothered them, anyway. A girl dragging a crying man along behind her could've probably been interpreted several different ways, given the context of the night's attack.

Dick had a feeling that the makeup they'd put on him was running.

And his chest felt scraped out and hollow, Barbara's words still ringing in his ears.

Last I checked, this was a relationship, not a dictatorship…

Just a pawn in the Bats' grand chess game…

Even louder were the words he'd said—no, shouted. He'd been so angry, and so…

Hurt?

That seemed like the only possible fit for the crossword puzzle of his scattered emotions. He wasn't just mad, or sad, or frustrated. He was hurt.

And all because of those phone calls. Maybe Dick had already been on edge from what that strange Talon had hissed at him, talking about hurting Barbara…plans to hurt her more… But when Alfred had called, he'd felt the blood drain out of his face, his heart sputter to a complete stop. His mind had flown straight to worst-case scenarios, back to that night—that fateful phone call from Bruce—

Dick…Son…I don't know how to tell you this—

—Barbara's been shot. And…

And he'd been scared. Terrified. Then, and now.

Granted, he should've handled it differently. Should've handled it better. He'd been cold. He'd been abrasive. But something about the angry set to Barbara's jaw and the way that her eyes and teeth flashed as she snarled rebuttal after rebuttal…it had put him on the defensive. And something inside of him had come running, roaring, ready to rip into the threat.

He never should have seen Barbara as a threat. Never.

There must have been something wrong with him…

But he didn't know what.

When Selina had called—she'd clearly been drinking; he could hear it in her slushing words and lilting tone—he'd been tempted to hang up, certain that she was too intoxicated for any real conversation. (Not to mention that he'd sort of been in the middle of something.) But before he had the chance, she played him a recording. Apparently, Selina took it from a tracker she'd put on Barbara, or so she told him in so many blurred words. And he could feel his pulse spike at the sound of his girlfriend's sultry voice, could practically see that sensuous smile, and every seductive movement.

That had stung a little. He wasn't sure why; it wouldn't have been Barbara's first time in the role of seductress. #$%%, how many operations had the two of them pulled off for Bruce by playing to their targets'…urges? And yet, for whatever reason, hearing his lover make those advances—advances that weren't directed at him—rubbed Dick the wrong way. Made something inside of him stir, growling possessively. Barbara was his, &*#% it.

Then the laugh. That laugh had jarred him to his core.

But it was nothing compared to hearing Barbara hand out her secret—the secret—like it was nothing…

Dick wasn't proud of how he reacted. Not at all. And yet…he had the sense that it hadn't been entirely up to him. The hazy cloud of rage that had settled over him seemed to coax the more rational side of his mind into a nap. Laying bare every sliver of pain or hurt he'd felt in the last few weeks, because Barbara said that she trusted him, but when it came right down to it, she wouldn't tell hima &*#% thing.

They'd worked together for years. A lifetime.

Dick didn't know a lot of things, but one thing he could always count on was his partner.

Or so he'd thought.

He knew her so well that it made her secrecy hurt that much more. There was something going on—something big. So big, and so scary, that it was giving her nightmares almost night after night. Bad dreams had been a constant for all of them—just an occupational hazard when you fought monsters and saw new, bloody, screaming, horrors every night—but these had been different. Usually, the Joker played the starring role in Barbara's dreams. A grinning reminder of her trauma, a phantom pain in the dark.

But not lately.

Lately, she'd been tossing and turning, muttering intelligibly into her pillow. Some words stood out: 'alive', 'save them', or 'please'. But it was mostly the quiet sobbing and whimpering that made his heart lurch as he laid beside her every night. Helpless to do anything but offer promises of support, a shoulder to lean on, a listening ear.

All empty, since she'd chosen to brush him aside like it didn't matter. Like none of it mattered.

He could handle secrets. #$%%, his whole life revolved around them.

But whatever secrets were churning inside of Barbara's head…they were hurting her. And seeing her so hurt and being unable to help was…it was…

…Infuriating.

Yes, there was something wrong—something angry—inside of him.

And he didn't know what.

"To not dying!" someone with a heavy Slovenian accent shouted, laughing heartedly. The sound was drowned out by a chorus of yells and cackling and little clinks and taps of plastic and glass. The sound jarred Dick back to the present.

He'd barely even noticed coming into the circus tent. Hadn't registered sitting down, balanced on the raised center ring with the rest of the circus and crew, all of them seated together in one large, happily familial circle, or having a paper cup of something blush-colored placed into his hand. Every movement had been robot-like, his mind in a haze. But with the next loud cheer that went up from the group, and the raised cups and glasses, he snapped back into the real world.

"And to old friends!" Raya announced, lifting her own glass. Her eyes flitted to him, and she shot Dick a quick wink.

He gripped his cup a little tighter, then lifted it.

"You don't drink."

The small voice made him pause. He looked to his right, found nothing, then to the left, and saw Christina perched at his side, looking up at him with her wide, all-seeing green eyes. There was something to the set of her jaw, the twist of her lips, and the arch of her eyebrows that set off warning bells in Dick's mind. It was such a serious expression for such a little kid. Even her statement, which could have been phrased as a question, had an air of conviction. Maybe even—

"Dickie?" Raya's breath puffed by his right ear. Laughter and old friendly jokes were barking and floating through the air. A comforting din. A familiar chaos. It buzzed through his blood, giving him another overdose on nostalgia. But Raya's voice smoothed that sound over into something gentler. Something more inviting. He could hear her continue softly, "Is something wrong? Do you not like Rosé?"

"He doesn't drink," Christina said a little louder. A little more insistent.

Raya hummed indulgently. "Setting a good example? It's okay, Chrissie's just having apple juice."

"I—" Dick swallowed his own saliva and looked around the tent. "No. It's okay. I usually don't…um, imbibe. Messes with my—" He almost said something else, before settling on, "job."

She blinked. Straightened. "Oh! Do you have work tomorrow?"

"Ehm, not really, but..."

A pout. "Tonight?"

"…no."

Her eyes lit up. It was really something. "Then why not let loose? Just have a sip or three. I mean, it's a celebration!" She waved an arm towards the center of the circle. Dick could see everyone around him—his old family and friends—laughing and enjoying themselves. She leaned in closer, pressed to his shoulder. The sudden contact made something inside him flinch a little, and he pulled away.

Her eyes were glinting beautifully in the Big Top's buttery light. A warm smile curled at her lips as she softly told him, "You saved my life tonight, Dick Grayson. I owe you for that. Can't I start by having a drink with you?"

It wasn't a moral thing. Bruce had just always 'discouraged' alcohol consumption, just like he 'discouraged' fast food or extreme dieting. If you were going to leap off of rooftops and lay a beat-down on thugs every night, you needed to be in peak condition. And it was best to avoid things that would impair your ability to think straight or throw a punch.

Still, though, it wasn't like Dick had never had a drink in his life.

And after tonight…

"I mean." Dick shrugged, managing a slight grin. "When you put it that way…"

Raya giggled, shoulders shaking as she knocked against him playfully.

His eyes drifted down to the liquid in the cup. Sure, it was cheap stuff—probably all the others had been able to get ahold of with such short notice. And, on the road, no less. Touring in Europe was one thing, but in America, or Gotham especially, the good stuff wasn't always readily available. He blinked, and saw his rosy reflection do the same. "I'll be fine if I don't have too much."

She glanced up, beaming, then raised her cup for a toast.

It wasn't hard to return the smile. But as he lifted his own cup to toast hers, something hit into his elbow.

He lurched a little, arm jerking. The blow was just hard enough that the contents of his cup splashed over the rim, spattering the dust at their feet with dark speckles. He and Raya both let out a sound of surprise, recoiling from the spill, though not quickly enough to avoid the splash. Droplets flecked over the toes of Raya's shoes. Dick's wrapped feet were suddenly wet.

Christina was edging away innocently. Maybe a little too innocently.

"Oh, &*#% it," Raya sighed with a laugh. "Here, let me go get you some more."

She took his cup and hopped off the ring. They both watched her saunter off to Bryan, who was guarding the stash of wine bottles and beer cans like a dragon hoarding gold. Dick swept his eyes off of her, and let them fall on the young girl next to him.

Christina was looking away, off towards the Big Top's entrance. She was so obviously not looking at him, that Dick didn't miss the hint. He tapped her on the shoulder, making her jump a little, and she blinked up at him.

"Hey." He kept his tone gentle. "Is everything okay?"

She bit her lip, eyes pleading. "I can't…"

"There we go!" Raya walked over, and remained standing as she offered him a new paper cup. "Not exactly our finest wine glasses, but I'm sure you'll get over it."

Christina's frown deepened. But Dick stood, accepted the cup, and held it up like an Olympic torch. The other performers looked over, and when they saw that it was him with a toast, they cheered and whooped. Glasses were raised all around the ring, and people shook with laughter and chuckling. Most of them still remembered little Dickie Grayson as a spunky pre-adolescent. Seeing him now, all grown up with a drink in hand, brought a smile to more than one face.

"To your best performance yet." He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Thank goodness you all picked up some real talent!"

There was a smattering of sudden barks of laughter and light-hearted jeers. Jimmy threw himself backwards with a howl and saluted Dick with his own glass. Bryan smirked. Some of the other performers let out gasps of mock-outrage.

Raya tipped her head back with a laugh. "Grayson, you #$$!"

But she tapped the rim of her cup against his anyway. There was no satisfying clink, but he figured he'd get over it. They raised them to their lips, and Dick could feel the cool liquid swish down his throat. He expected the burn, but the Rosé had a salty tang that he wasn't expecting. When it hit his tongue, it was subtle, and definitely a surprise, but it wasn't completely unpleasant. He smacked his lips with the flavor of it, and shot the girl across from him a cocky grin.

Raya was watching him with glittering eyes over the rim of her own cup. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she said,

"Hey. There's something I've been meaning to show you."

He found that there was a smile pulling at his mouth as well. "Yeah?"

"Hmm," she tipped her head. "Yeah. Follow me?"

The other circus members goaded him on, laughing, so Dick didn't have much choice. She wrapped his hand in her soft fingers, and pulled him along, giggling. But he didn't fight it, just felt a wave of relief wash over him. Something warm and bubbly that made him want to laugh.

Barbara was mad at him. There was no way around that. And he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little mad at her, too. So if Dick was going to be in the doghouse, he'd &*#% well better enjoy it. And what better way to enjoy it than with the only other people who knew him better than he knew himself? He followed Raya, chuckling and bantering with his old family as she led him out the front flap and into the night.

#######

#######

"So…as far as girls' nights go, I guess this isn't the weirdest thing we've done."

Stephanie rocked back and forth on her heels as she watched her sister work. A quick drive into the city—plus a few impromptu karaoke sessions with the radio—had brought them here, to the Diamond District. A.K.A: the least likely place Steph would have picked to go patrolling this time of night.

"I mean," she continued, stepping forward. "Club Penguin?" The thug in Barbara's grip let out another wheeze after she planted a fist in his face. He slumped to the floor in a heap that Batgirl stepped over daintily. All around them lay a plethora of similar heaps. Unconscious thugs wearing dapper suits and ties, and taken down like a line of shiny black and white dominoes. Draped over the railing, scattered across the carpet—they were everywhere. It was a mess, but since she wasn't one of them, Stephanie wasn't about to complain.

Batwoman clawed a lock of hair out of her face with a huff, and turned to Batgirl, eyes glinting dangerously. "You trust me, don't you?"

"Well, yee-ah, but I'm just wondering," Stephanie threw up her hands in a half-shrug, half-wave. In monotone, she asked, "What's the point?"

Barbara's breathing was still heavy, chest rising and falling with every labored inhale and exhale. With a sharp bark of laughter, she pointed at a heavy wooden door just down the hall and said, "The point is in there, BG. Shall we?"

It took both of them to kick down the door, boots thudding against the wood in a deafening crash. (Barbara could've managed on her own, but Steph appreciated the inclusion.) The door slammed against the wooden panels of the floor, and both men inside practically jumped right out of their tacky suits. The fatter of the pair almost fell out of his chair as they walked in, and the stringy one took a few hurried steps back.

"You again?" Beanpole demanded in a hiss. He clapped his hands over his nose, but Batgirl still recognized Edward Nygma when she saw him.

"Get out!" Fatso bellowed, pointing a finger at the gaping hole that used to be a door. The hand was bandaged heavily, and Steph could spot the red leaking through—a significant amount, which meant the injury must have been severe.

"Don't think so," Barbara breezed, fixing her cold, white gaze on Cobblepot. Then she swiveled towards the Riddler, who yelped, as if her eyes burned him. Stephanie could only watch as she strode forward and grabbed the man by the lapels, jerking him roughly as she hissed into his face, "We're going to have some more fun tonight, Eddie. Be good, I'll let you keep your tongue."

They dragged him from the room, kicking and cursing, and Batgirl shot her older sister a wide-eyed glance.

Barbara only nodded as they pulled Nygma into one of the other rooms, dumping him unceremoniously onto the rug. Then, after a quick nonverbal prompt, Steph latched the door behind them, sliding a series of bolts into place—the room must've been some sort of meeting place for less-than-legitimate transactions—and turned back to the center.

Batwoman was standing over the prone form of the Riddler, who was doing his best to shakily pull himself upright. With a wheeze, he managed to get on his elbows, before Barbara planted a boot between his shoulder blades.

"Batgirl and I are going to play a little game with you tonight, Nygma," she snapped. All authority and cold indifference. It didn't faze Steph—she was used to seeing the colder side her siblings put on display for the baddies, and Babs always played 'bad cop'—but she couldn't help but notice the way Barbara's jaw was set. It was so stiff, it would probably crack under the slightest pressure. "Here are the rules. You say nothing except what I ask you to. You don't make any sudden moves. You behave yourself, and we'll let you step out tonight with all of your bones intact. But if not—"

Barbara raised her boot. There was a familiar shink sound, and Stephanie could see the glint of sharp metal points on the bottom of the sole. During winter patrols, the little metal cleats helped them scale buildings and give chase even over the iciest of surfaces. But when used for interrogation—like this, Steph supposed—they hurt like a son of a &*^$#. Sure enough, Batwoman stomped on Riddler's back, and the man let out a mewling shriek.

"If not," Barbara continued gently. Almost too gently, "Then you'll definitely feel it in the morning."

Stephanie stalked over, cape swishing anxiously against her boots. She kept her face hard, indifferent, to hide the undertone of nervousness that was lurking beneath the surface. On the drive over, Barbara had been uncharacteristically…well, giddy didn't seem like the right word, but it was close. Steph could tell she was angry, eager to prove some sort of point. She knew her sister well enough to know that much, at least. But even she couldn't tell what Barbara had in store for them tonight.

"O-oh-kay," Nygma wheezed, and Barbara smiled.

"Perfect. First things first," she said, "hit us with a riddle."

There was a pregnant pause that suffocated the room.

Steph's eyebrows rose so high up her head, that they might have gone past her hairline if it weren't for her cowl. Even Riddler's breathing hitched, uncertain and shaky. It was like he'd expected torture, and had instead been asked to sing and dance. Judging by the pull of his mouth and the width of his eyes, Batgirl wagered a guess that he wasn't exactly delighted by the prospect.

"W-what?" he huffed.

"Do I need to ask again?" Barbara raised her boot, cleats gleaming. They hadn't been quite enough to pierce the man's thick suit coat, but Batgirl didn't think the material would stop the spikes a second time. "Because, I'd love to—"

"No! No, fine." Riddler raised a shaky hand. Swallowed. Closed his eyes in thought, then hissed, "You can see me in water, but I never get wet. What am I?"

"Reflection," both women moaned simultaneously. For a brief moment, they locked eyes and shared an amused smile, but Barbara turned back to the villain on the floor with a sneer.

"Please, Eddie," she groaned, "Actually try to stump us, how about?"

He nodded, head bobbing like one of those Hawaiian dancer figures Steph wanted to get for the Batmobile's dash. (Bruce had said no, Babs said no, and Dick said 'maybe'.) His Adam's apple bobbed, too, and he opened his mouth to say,

"A woman was sitting in her hotel room when there was a sudden knock at the door. She opened the door to see a man whom she had never seen before." Riddler grunted, shifting under the weight of Batwoman's boot. "He s-said 'Oh I'm sorry, I've made a mistake, I thought this was my room.' He then went down the corridor past the stairs and into the elevator. The woman went back into her room and phoned security. W-what made the woman so suspicious of the man?"

Silence. An approving smirk curled at Batwoman's mouth. And she, to Steph's surprise, turned to Batgirl.

"Well?" Barbara prompted.

Stephanie frowned, blinking rapidly. "Uh, you sure? It's kinda obvious."

Barbara's look told her that she knew, but her silence told her to continue. So, Steph wet her lips, and said, "Well, first, he knocked on the door. You don't knock on your own door."

Riddler and Batwoman were both nodding, but Batgirl wasn't done.

"Also, he went into the elevator. People sometimes slip up within a few doors of their hotel room, and sometimes mistake the floor, either one up, or one down. But he went into the elevator, suggesting that he'd been off by two floors or more, meaning that if he had made that mistake, he would've taken the stairs. But since he didn't, he probably wasn't really mistaken about the room." She shrugged, then paused.

One of Barbara's eyebrows was raised high; Steph could tell by the way her mask fit over her face.

"Good job, Batgirl," she said, with a note of approval that stroked Steph's ego unexpectedly. Then, she turned to Riddler and said, "Another."

"What 4-letter word can be written forward, backward, or upside down, and can still be read from left to right?"

"Noon," Batgirl said, not missing a beat.

"Another," Batwoman prompted. "But let's try something harder."

There was a beat, as the man on the floor considered. Steph could see his tongue working at the roof of his mouth, the bead of sweat that trickled past his ragged, greasy hairline. Even the hastily stitched wound over the bridge of his nose was leaking—likely due to his elevated heartrate.

"Guess the next two pairs in this sequence," Riddler wheezed, "SO, ND, JF, MA…"

Stephanie looked to Barbara. Saw the frown twisting her lips as she concentrated, lost in thought.

But Steph already had the answer.

"MJ, and JA," she said with a shrug. "You paired up the first letters of the months, but started with September-October. Nice try, though."

Barbara whirled on Steph with wide eyes, before her face lit up with a grin.

Then the next one: "If it takes 3 people to dig a hole, how many does it take to dig half a hole?"

Steph's lips quirked at the question, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "That's a trick question, Riddle-man. You can't dig half of a hole. A hole is a hole, regardless of the size."

"Oh my, my, my. It looks like the blondie's a Brainiac," Riddler sneered. Then cried out as Barbara planted the cleats into his back. This time, Steph saw blood. Still, he continued, "An undercover police officer needs to…hk…infiltrate an illegal gambling club, but does not know the password required for the entrance to the building. The day before, he p-plants a microphone in the door knob and listens to the recorded conversation. He listens to a man stroll up and knock on the door. The doorman says, "twelve" and the m-man replies, "six" and he's…nn…let in. A second man arrives and the doorman says "six" and the man replies, "three" and is let in. The police officer is confident now that he knows the password for admittance. So, he walks up to the door. The doorman says "ten" so he replies, "five". A gun appears through a slot in the door and the police officer is asked to leave." Nygma shifted, trying to press himself into the floorboards and away from Batwoman's boot. "W-why? What should he have said?"

Barbara looked at Stephanie, waiting. Judging by her posture and expression, she was stumped. Batgirl wasn't sure why—wasn't it obvious?—but she licked her lips and managed to say,

"Well, the idiot should've guessed that the password was actually three, and not five." She shrugged, and watched Barbara's eyes light up with sudden understanding. "Since the gambling club's password is based off the number of letters in the number. Six letters in 'twelve', three in 'six', and three in 'ten'. Obviously."

"Obviously," Batwoman echoed with humor.

She turned to Nygma. "Alright, then. One more."

The villain wheezed. Shifted. Then, slowly, "You are the ruler of a m-medieval empire and you are about to have a celebration…" He paused, eyes closed as he thought. "The celebration is the most important party you have ever hosted. You have one thousand bottles of wine you were planning to open for the party, but you find out that one of them is poisoned. The poison exhibits no symptoms until death. Death occurs within ten to twenty hours after consuming even the most minute amount of poison. You have just under 24 hours to determine which single bottle is poisoned. You also h-have a handful of prisoners about to be executed, and it would mar your celebration to have anyone else killed. So. Tell me, Blonde Wonder. What is the smallest number of prisoners you must have to drink from the bottles to be absolutely sure to find the poisoned bottle within 24 hours?"

Stephanie already had the answer. But she turned to Barbara, waving a hand.

"You go ahead," she said.

"What? But—"

"Please? I just wanna hear what you got, first."

Barbara bit her lip, but nodded carefully, contemplatively. It was hard to see through the white eyes of her mask, but she could tell her sister's eyes had rolled up to the ceiling as she thought. The only sound in the room was the slight laboring wheezes coming from the Riddler's nose as he breathed, and the creak of gears turning in Batwoman's head.

Finally, she lowered her chin, and turned to Batgirl, then Riddler. "Logistically? You'd need ten prisoners. With ten people there are 1024 unique combinations, so you could test up to 1024 bottles of wine. First, you'd need to label the bottles with binary digits. Then, you'd have each of the ten prisoners take a small sip from about 500 bottles. Small sips, because they'd leave more wine for guests, but also to avoid death by alcohol poisoning. As long as you give each prisoner about a milliliter from each bottle, they'll only consume the equivalent of about one bottle of wine each." Batwoman shrugged, sending Batgirl an apologetic glance (though Steph didn't see any reason for her to be sorry). "Each prisoner will have at least a fifty percent chance of living. If you do the math…" She trailed off, shrugging. "There's more, but the number's ten."

Riddler looked up from the floor, jaw slack. At least before his mouth curled into a sneer. "Be still, my beating, beating heart. If only I had more time to pick that big beautiful brain of yours, Miss P—auhghhh!"

Barbara ground her heel into the soft part of the man's back, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. She turned to Steph and said, "What about you? Same thing?"

The math mumbo-jumbo that Barbara had just spurted out made sense…kind of. If she'd had a piece of paper and a pen to work it out, Steph might've gotten the same thing. She couldn't do it all in her head, like the others could, but she was usually pretty good at solving this type of problem when she had a visual aid in front of her.

Not that it would help in this case.

She leaned back, rocking on her heels again, and managed a loose smile. "Well, that's…solid math, Batlady. But there's a simpler answer: just don't serve the wine."

Barbara's eyes widened with clear confusion. On the ground, Riddler spluttered, "No! No, that's not an option! You have to—"

"No," Steph insisted, "You don't. I mean, sure, you probably spent a lot of money on all those drinks, and what's a fancy party without wine? But, here's the thing—why risk it?" She spread her feet, waved a hand. "Even if you know there's a poison bottle—and you don't, really, 'cause it was never specified how you found out—and you go to the trouble of testing it, then, like Batwoman said, at least ten people die. But if you don't test it, then somebody else dies. Just…explainthe situation to the guests, and I can pretty much guarantee that nobody's gonna throw a fit over not getting their beverages for the night. Serve sparkling cider or brandy or something instead. If you can afford a thousand bottles of wine, for pete's sake, you can buy something else! But don't risk people's lives over something as stupid as a drink."

Barbara reared back. Riddler's jaw dropped.

"Because, I mean, really," Steph concluded, "That's not a riddle. It's an ethical question, which everyone knows can have multiple solutions... And…that's…my answer."

She trailed off, eyes widening in realization as she glanced over at Barbara. Her sister's face was lit up like a beacon of pride, and that beaming smile never went away, even as she planted her foot even harder into the Riddler's back. "We really appreciate the help, Eddie. As a token of my gratitude, I'm going to give you a five-minute head-start before we call in the cops."

Nygma's jaw dropped. "But—!"

"Batgirl, start the timer."

With a wicked grin, and a wink, Stephanie pulled up the holographic stopwatch on her gauntlet's computer. The seconds started to tick down, and with every passing beep, Riddler's face lost more and more color. He scrambled to his feet the second Batwoman removed her boot, and skidded towards the door.

"Oswald!" he shrieked, sliding on the wood floor. "Oswald!"

They could hear him scampering down the hall. The sound was like the one Titus made when he was chasing something across the polished floorboards—nails skidding, and body sliding. Both women exchanged a glance, then burst into peals of laughter.

"You—" Steph gasped. "You think we should call them in anyway?"

Barbara pursed her lips. Held up her own gauntlet. "Already did," she whispered, before cracking up again.

But their peals of laughter were interrupted by a piercing shriek. It wailed through the window and set Stephanie's nerves singing. Both women whirled towards the sound, glancing out through the glass and saw a thug racing out of a jewelry store, and through the crowded pedestrians below. In one hand, he was clutching a bulging sack. In the other, he grasped a gun.

Batgirl let out a whistle. "Well, well, well," she deadpanned. "How much more cliché do ya get?"

Batwoman shot her a thin smirk, then threw up the window sash and leapt out. Steph followed quickly, letting her grapple puff out of her gauntlet. She swung down, following her sister's flapping cape, and stuck her feet out, increasing her speed. Batgirl sailed past Babs, and shot her a salute. Then released, flipped, felt the grapple retract with a schnik, and rolled to the ground flawlessly.

She took off running, and felt Barbara join her on the right.

"Perfect execution," her sister praised, panting as she swung her arms.

Steph huffed as they rounded a corner. "T'was nothing!"

"Your landing—hh—could use a little work…"

"Hey, I'll have you know that I landed with the grace of an Emu!"

"Ha!" Barbara squeezed past two ladies walking their schnauzers with a hasty apology. Steph had to leap over one of the yappy canines, almost catching her boot in the bedazzled leash. "Do you even know what an Emu is?"

"Yeah, they're those Australian birds that sing in the trees? There's a song about it?"

Barbara flipped into a handstand, launching off the ground, and over a set of street performers, who were lying on the ground painted the color of concrete. Stephanie stomped between their legs, under their arms, and felt like she was doing one of those tire race thingies that Bruce always used to run her through during training.

"Sorry!" she gasped, when she stepped on one of their hands.

"Mike," she heard one of the performers chide as she raced past, "You are a casualty of gentrification! Casualties of gentrification don't say 'Ow!' They suffer in silence!"

"Gosh, Mike," another groaned.

Barbara twisted past a newsstand and barked out a laugh. She turned to glance back at Batgirl over her shoulder, mouth twisting mischievously. "You're thinking of a kookaburra!"

Steph cleared a fire hydrant, then pounded the pavement after her sister. "The &*%# kinda name is kookaburra!?"

She was sure that the good people of Gotham expected to hear a lot of crazy things on the streets, especially at this time of night, but judging by the slack-jawed expressions all around, that wasn't one. Barbara cackled. It was a harried, overly loud sound that got lost in the sound of traffic and car horns as their perp dove into the road.

"Emus are these huge, fluffy birds!" she shouted. "Which explains why you landed like one!"

A hand shot out, slamming on the hood of a taxi cab, and she slid easily over to the other side. Steph just leaped into the air, feet pounding the hood with a metallic thump, and flipped off onto the next vehicle. Car hopping was a dangerous sport, but a necessary one, it often turned out. She hit the pavement with a smack, then launched over the next. Smack, thump, smack th-thump.

Their boots battered the ground beneath them as they chased the man down a side-street. They were close, now. Steph could hear his ragged breathing from her position, accompanied by the ambience of Gotham, and punctuated by Batwoman's measured huffs of breath. Now, she could see his sweat, beaded on the back of his neck. The tightness of his shoulders. The flurried way he moved, desperate to escape.

"Hands in the air, punk, or we'll put you down hard!" Batgirl barked.

"Heh," Barbara chuffed softly at her side, a smile twisting up. "Punk."

The man spun on his heel, still moving, and they caught a flash of the whites of his eyes, the glint of his teeth. And then without pause, he dove through a door. Steph glanced lightning-fast up at the sign, saw that it was a dance studio. The kind that offered night classes.

Batwoman didn't hesitate to barge in, Batgirl right on her heels.

The screams of the dancers, all slicked-up hair buns and sleek leotards, pierced the air like a needle as they scattered. Prey animals scampering away at the sight of the hunter. The man himself staggered into the center of the room. His arm shot out, and he snagged a young girl by the throat, pulling his prize to him as she let out a strangled gasping shriek. Her back to his chest, he pressed the muzzle of his firearm into the coils of her thick dark updo.

Batwoman and Batgirl squared up.

"Stay right there!" the man screamed. He was a hunter clutching his prey, but cowering before the apex predators, who circled slowly. Waiting for the chance to lunge. Steph could see it in the whites of his eyes—he knew he was cornered—and it only made him that much more unpredictable.

"I don't think so." Barbara's voice rumbled in her throat, and Steph saw the eerily calm downward tilt to her lips. A cold frown. Calculating.

The man tensed, squeezing the girl as he dragged a quick inhale through his nose. The gun shook. "I will kill her. Back off!"

Their boots danced across the polished floor. Sliding, stalking, circling. Steph could see the twirling swishes of their caps in the mirrors, the shimmering lines of their pointed cowls as their reflections dragged from one panel to the next.

"You kill her," Batgirl said, trying to match her sister's lowing tone. "And your life's over. Do you hear me?"

He did. She could hear it in his breathing. In the way his pupils shrank.

"Gonna kill me?" he wheezed. The girl in his arms squeezed her eyes shut in a pained wince, teeth bared. He tugged her around to face Stephanie, and showed her the girl's desperate expression, flashing like a warning sign.

"No—"

"'Cause I'll take her with!" His fingers shifted on the gun, and it was a movement Steph recognized. No joke. No posturing. They'd gone past the point of hesitation. When you cornered an animal, they either cowered or snapped. And this man was about to lash out.

She raised her palms, still swirling around him, footsteps a bare whisper on the ground. "Hey," she soothed. "No one is killing anyone tonight, okay? If you hurt that girl, you'll end up in the state pen for the rest of your life. That's all I meant."

"Is that what you want?" Batwoman asked him. The way she circled was more vulture-like than Batgirl's sweeping movements. Her arms hung ready at her sides, eyes narrowed to slits. "To go away for life? The girl is innocent and isn't going to save you. Let her go, or else you will regret it."

Steph could feel the intensity of the words in her bones. She hazarded a glance across the room to her sister, and saw the brief flash of a fist clenched and then unclenched at Barbara's side. A signal. I'll hold his attention, and you hit from behind.

Which wasn't going to work. The angle of the gun—

Do it, Batgirl, Barbara's narrowed eyes told her.

Stephanie opened her mouth, but there was no way to reply. Her movements slowed. Barbara's voice jilted above the ringing in her ears.

"I understand that men like you are short-sighted," she snarled through her teeth, red cap flashing like a matador's as she moved her shoulders back. "But are you really that stupid?"

"Shut up!" The hand holding the gun shook, and the girl let out a whimpering squeal.

"Typical." Barbara's sneer was venomous, her movements as fluid as poison. "You think I haven't seen it a million times before? All grandstanding, all show. But you all fail to see past your 'big moment' with the hostage and the gun, or the knife, or the bomb, or the acid. You kill your victim, but then what? You have no leverage. You go down either way."

Go now Batgirl, the piercing gaze Barbara shot her growled.

But Steph couldn't move. Couldn't go for the gun, couldn't go for the head or the back. Any move she made now would make that weapon go off. She could see that as clearly as she could see the golden insignia in her stiff reflection.

So, why couldn't Batwoman?

"Typical man." Her sister's knees bent as she slipped into a crouch, still sidestepping her way over the floor. "You just don't know when to quit, do you? It was game-over the minute you set off those alarms."

"I said, shut up!" the man screeched. His arm jerked up. The bang was deafening. The sound clapped against Stephanie's chest. She staggered, collapsed to the floor. Screamed.

"No!"

She opened her eyes, and saw the man's heaving chest, his slack jaw, his arm pointed straight out. Across the room, Barbara stood frozen stiff. Her chest didn't move, her body didn't shake. She seemed made out of pale porcelain, with the color all drained out. She blinked once. Then twice. And then, Stephanie noticed the hole in the mirror. The spiderwebbed circle of jagged cracks around it.

Barbara turned, watched herself in the wreckage. She was a thousand faces staring back, wide-eyed and gaping. Her heart seemed to start beating again, because she turned away, looked straight at Stephanie, and clenched and unclenched her fist. One more chance.

"I don't know which is worse," Batwoman snapped, pivoting on her heel so that she once again faced the man in the middle of the room. "Your aim, or your IQ. What the #$%% was that supposed to accomplish?"

"Like you said. I go down either way." His thumb went for the hammer. It was now or never.

Stephanie lunged forward.

But the man whirled suddenly. Too quickly.

And when Batgirl looked up, she was looking down the barrel of the gun. It clicked and she froze. So did Barbara.

"But if I go, you &!^$ go too!"

"Batgirl!"

BANG.

Steph hit the floor hard, ears ringing. Something had hit her chest with the force of a freight train, and the back of her head smacked against the floor so hard her brains scrambled like a pan of eggs. The high, chirring buzz in her ears made her eyes blur in and out of focus. In and out. In and out. There was a shadow on her chest, crushing her down, down, down.

But just as Stephanie opened her mouth to groan, the shadow disappeared. A dark shape against the blinding fluorescent lights of the above. There, then vanished, along with the weight on her chest.

There was a distant scream. The sound was far away, but definitely male. She could hear bones crunching, and a few more bangs as a gun went off somewhere. A groan scraped past her lips as she turned on her side, world jilting.

There were hands on her shoulders, now. Her vision cleared just enough to see Barbara's face above hers.

"Batgirl!" Barbara shouted above the ringing buzz. "Batgirl, can you hear me?"

Steph blinked. Felt Barbara's lips brush against the side of her cowl. Right next to her ear.

"Stephanie Brown, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

Steph nodded dully. Her hand crept up to her chest-plate, gloved fingers scraping and searching for the slick of moisture. For some kind of painful epicenter.

She found nothing.

The buzz began to die out as Barbara helped her to sit up, one hand on her back and another on her shoulder. Steph blinked harder, clearing her bleary eyes. She glanced at the center of the room, and saw that the man lay in a crumpled heap, bloody and battered. The girl he'd held hostage was scooting away, whimpering. And standing over it all was a figure all in black. The dark shape. The shadow.

Steph swallowed hard and sat up completely, frowning in the stranger's direction. She wore a mask that made her face a featureless, blank black canvas, and when she turned, Steph gazed at the spot where the eyes should have been, and saw nothing. And yet, in that nothing, there was definitely something, and it was watching her carefully, like a hawk watches the mouse before the dive.

"Batgirl," Barbara sighed the word heavily, like it was some kind of miracle. She and Steph both shakily got to their feet, though Batgirl never tore her eyes away from the dark stranger.

"Who are you?" she demanded, shaking off Barbara's steadying hands. The adrenaline was still singing through her veins, making her limbs shake and her fingers tingle. But she stalked forward anyway.

The stranger didn't answer, just tipped their head up slightly to look at her as she approached. Steph guessed they were a girl, based off height and build alone, and she was just a smidge shorter than Stephanie's five-foot, four inches. But still, she seemed tiny, like a little black pixie.

"Answer me," Steph snapped. Her nerves were still on edge from the gunshot. She'd been shot before, and it wasn't something she'd like to relive. Ever.

The girl could only stare up at her silently. Then, she glanced over at Barbara, ignoring Batgirl completely.

Her hand came up, and Stephanie tensed.

But it only fluttered to the side halfheartedly before falling to the girl's hip. A wave. Small and simple.

Batwoman frowned, stepping closer. She approached carefully, as one would a strange, growling dog with a suspicious lack of tags. But through her narrowed eyes, Steph caught a small flicker of recognition, even through her mask's white eye-screens.

"You," Barbara mumbled vaguely. "We've…met before. Right?"

In reply, the girl reached up. Grasped her cowl in one gloved fist, and pulled it from her head. Black hair shimmered in the bright studio lights, falling down the girl's shoulder in a silky braid that reached to her waist. Her soft brown eyes watched them sadly. Carefully.

Barbara gasped, a soft sound that pulled at the air.

The girl was beautiful, in a quiet kind of way. Like a small puff of dandelion seeds on the wind, or looking at a sunset through an icy glass of Coca-Cola. She looked like a lazy summer evening felt, soft and faded. Innocent and serene.

Steph felt her heart flutter unexpectedly, then frowned.

"I'm sorry," she snapped. "But you didn't answer my question. Who are you?"

Dandelion girl blinked up at her slowly. Then raised a hand. It waved into shapes that Steph didn't recognize, and couldn't even begin to decipher. She frowned again, opening her mouth to speak. But Barbara cut her off with one breathy statement.

"I know her," she said. "Her name's Cassandra."

#######

#######

His head felt like bubbles…veins felt like sunshine…

Raya tugged him along, and he could feel his legs shuffling through space as if it were liquid. Something thick, like ink—or sludge. He could hear her laugh, bright and jingling, and it made his heart buzz with warmth. Dick Grayson hadn't realized he could be such a lightweight, but everything about tonight was getting him drunk.

They dashed through the cold air, wind nipping at their noses and cheeks and carding through their hair with icy fingers. The cops had disappeared. The crowds had thinned. And when they rounded the corner to the place where the trailers had all been set up, Dick couldn't say no as she led him to hers. They plodded up the little rickety steps, side-stepping potted plants and other various lawn ornaments. When your home was on the road, you did your best to make it feel that way. And sometimes, the best way to do that was with a garden gnome or three.

The door squeaked on its hinges as they threw it open, and as they stepped into the cramped space, Dick felt nostalgia wrap him up in a warm blanket. It stilled the buzz in his body by a little bit, letting him have the presence of mind to look around. Feel the familiar closeness of the walls. Smell the evocative scent of incense and microwave food. The rug below his feet was plush and inviting, the sofa against one wall even more so. He could feel his knees bouncing below him, ready to give out. All he needed was somewhere to land…

Raya's hand was on his cheek now. Her eyes were soft. So soft. As she smiled at him, he could feel his heart fluttering in his chest. It was too fast, like a hummingbird's, but he didn't care. All he could do was grin right back.

"Do you recognize this place?" she asked him softly, blinking.

He tilted his head. Gazed over the trailer's interior with a critical eye, but nothing came to mind. But then, his mind felt like a handful of cotton balls at the moment, so maybe that wasn't saying much.

"No," he decided. "Don' recognize it."

"Hmm." Her smile was thin as she grasped his hand. Led him to one of the corners, like she was guiding a hesitant child. There was something etched out onto the wallpaper. Small, scrawly, and shaky. A cluster of letters with different thickness, different shapes. Permanent marker, possibly, though it was hard to tell for sure.

Raya's finger pointed. Dick followed it to the messy black script, and squinted. He could make out a few pairs of letters. Initials.

JG

MG

RV

RG

"That's us," Raya whispered gently. "We did that after a show one night, remember? Your parents told us all to go to bed, but we didn't listen, and kept hiding in different trailers. Then Johnny stole one of your dad's markers and we all put our names up."

He smiled. Reached out and traced a thumb over the small letters, one by one. He remembered, now. Running with stifled laughter from door to door, begging with whoever answered it to hide them for a few minutes, before they got bored and ran to the next. They wound up back home at this one, and he could still hear the others' soft giggling. Could still see his mom's face when she saw the graffiti on her wallpaper—

His finger froze over the letter G. "This was my family's trailer."

He straightened, and glanced over to Raya. Her eyes were teary, all of a sudden, and she let out a short puff of a laugh. It was an almost mournful sound. "Yeah. Yeah it was."

Her fingers reached out to stroke the edge of a doorway. It led into one of the two bedrooms—his old bedroom.

"After the…after the accident, no one wanted it." Her eyes flicked up towards the ceiling, and he followed her gaze. There were sunny patches of color dappling overhead that caught the attention like beacons of light. When he was younger, he'd helped his mother paint stars there in thick yellow paint.

"Everyone's home looks the same, Dick," she'd told him, eyes glittering as she passed him a stubby paintbrush. "Let's brighten ours up a little, mm?"

It took them hours. They were covered in splotches of yellow, and they laughed as they worked, and took jabs at each other, painting skin instead of ceiling. Sword fights with paintbrushes that left gaping, dripping streaks of canary color. John Grayson came home to a pair of giggling, paint spattered Flying Graysons, and joined in on the fun.

Underneath the rug at their feet, there was probably a few spatters left.

"But this place," Raya continued, this time in Romani, words whisper-soft and lilting. "This place has always been a home to me. And…home is something you protect, isn't it?"

Dick was still staring up at the stars overhead. There were so many. How had the two of them managed to paint them all so quickly? "Yeah," he breathed.

"Even if…" She bit her lip. Shut her eyes. "No matter what it takes. You protect your home. Your family."

"Uh-hmm."

"The people you love."

He nodded, head bobbing listlessly. His eyelids felt like iron weights, just waiting to drop down. One hand reached out to steady himself against the wall, and he could feel Raya's fingers twine over his. He swallowed hard, mouth dry, but heard her whisper,

"Even at the expense of…"

Her voice cut off with a snap, and he swung his head over. Looked at her wide, tear-filled eyes. Dick wasn't sure why she was crying, but he felt something stabbing at his chest anyway, because he wanted it to stop. He wanted her to feel okay. They were in a happy place. Surrounded by so many perfect little memories. How could she possibly be upset?

Her breath leaked out of her in a shaky hiss. But then she looked up at him through her lashes, mouth pulled into a straight line. "I tried it the other way," she whispered frantically. "I need you to know that. Do you believe me?"

His head was rolling on his shoulders. Dick felt floating…floaty… He almost swallowed his tongue. Her words were treading water in his brain, not fully sinking in. But he tried another nod.

"Please," she whimpered. "I need to hear you say it."

"Y-ya."

Raya dragged in a breath. There was something final about the displacement of the air. Something…resolved? She reached out with a hand, cupping his face, before her hand slid to the back of his neck, grasping at the ends of his hair. And she set her lips on his. He felt them like a jolt of fire, at least at first. But it dimmed, becoming something softer. More…intense. Dick felt something burning behind his sternum, and his hands crept to her waist. Pulling her in. Wanting more. Needing it.

Like he was suddenly dying of thirst, his body craved hers like it was a brimming glass of ice water. She melted into him, mouth falling open to let his tongue inside. He could taste her, and she tasted like Rosé…

"Hmm," she moaned. Pulling at him. Dragging him.

He sighed, stumbling after her.

They lurched into his childhood bedroom, barely parting lips to shut the door with a click.

#######

#######

"Cassandra," Barbara gasped again. The tone of her voice betrayed her shock. Cassandra had made it more than clear that she wouldn't be showing her face in Gotham…and yet, here she stood. Still as a dark column, stiff as a rod. Barbara's eyes searched the smaller girl's face for any sort of hint as she asked, "What are you doing here?"

She made certain that she signed in PSL as she spoke. Tried to make her face as expressive as she could, and loosened her muscles to let her body do the same. Anything she could do to make her words as clear to Cassandra as possible.

The girl blinked up at her slowly, mouth twisted into a sad little frown. Barbara struggled to read the tilt of her shoulders, the pull of her brows, the way she tipped her chin. She may not have been as fluent as Cassandra when it came to body language, but she did her best.

Essentially, Cassandra's tone of posture conveyed one thing.

'I'm here to warn you.'

"Warn…" Barbara reared back. Her hands flew. "How come?"

On her right, Steph spluttered, holding up a hand. "Wait, wait, wait—are you talking to her?"

"Kind of?" Barbara shot her a sidelong glance, and noticed her sister's bugged-out eyes and gaping mouth. Stephanie had been through a lot tonight, but this was just one more thing they'd have to tackle before all was said and done. She turned back to the small assassin girl, just in time to catch the gist of a reply.

'You must leave Gotham. Tonight.'

"Excuse me?"

'I came here with someone…dangerous. Our task is to…' Cassandra shrugged one shoulder, grimacing. 'Take you. And this is something I do not want to do. So you must leave. Is there anywhere you can go?'

"Anywhere I can…? Wait. Someone else… is it Shiva?" Barbara asked carefully. "Did Ra's send you?"

Cassandra shuffled her feet. 'Not exactly…but in a way, yes. And…no. Not Shiva.'

The girl's chin dipped in a sheepish bob. Her braid shifted on her shoulder, and Barbara caught the glint of metal—a flash of gold woven into her hair. It matched the faint lines and decals on her costume. At her sides were twin sheaths for ornate daggers, and their handles were the same burnished gold as the wire in her braid. Cassandra's garb was traditional League of Assassins regalia; she was here on a mission.

Barbara didn't need to ask who the girl's companion was. Because Cassandra raised one hand, and began spelling out the letters in PSL. One by one, and with every passing sign, Barbara's heard clenched tighter, and tighter, and tighter.

On the last, it stopped altogether.

"Deathstroke," she whispered in a horrified hiss.

"Deathstroke?" Stephanie yelped. "What about Deathstroke? What are you talking about?"

Cassandra nodded.

"Okay. Oh-kay." Steph threw up both of her hands and stepped in between the other two girls, glancing between them as if trying to pick her way through their strange conversation. "I feel like I'm missing something kinda important here. You—" She jabbed a finger at Cassandra with narrowed eyes. "—can't talk? Is she deaf? Are you deaf?" To get that point across, she signed it again in ASL—which of course, Cassandra didn't understand.

"She's not deaf," Barbara supplied.

Stephanie's finger pivoted, stabbing Barbara in the chest. "Cool, so next question? How the #$%% do you know that? Can you understand her? Are you guys, like, psychically linked or something? Is this a Vulcan mind-meld kinda schtick?"

"I can…kind of get the gist of what she means based on body language." Barbara shrugged, taking a step back to escape Stephanie's jabbing digit. "But it's not exact. Anything else, we just use PSL."

"Which is?"

"Persian Sign Language, Steph, which you'd know if you'd paid attention during training—"

"Oh, wow, Babs, d'you really think now's the time to talk about—"

"Look, I'm not trying to argue, I just—"

"—tell me what's going on! I only—"

Cassandra threw up a hand, and both of them fell into silence, eyes wide as they watched her spell out another name.

'S-T-E-P-H-A-N-I-E?'

Barbara nodded, raised her hands. "Yeah. She's the one I told you about. My sister."

"Oh, great, so you've been talking about me." Steph grumbled. "You gonna teach me the secret handshake, or am I just gonna have to watch that from the sidelines, too?"

"Steph," Barbara sighed.

But Cassandra's head cocked curiously, a small furrow appearing between her eyes.

'You said…you had family here. Right?'

Barbara nodded. "That's right."

'Then you must leave. D-E-A-T-H-S-T-R-O-K-E came here for you. And he will not hesitate to kill anyone who interferes.'

Barbara bit her lip, dared a sidelong glance towards Batgirl, who was scowling through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Then, keeping silent, she signed quickly to Cassandra.

'This is about the O-W-L-S, isn't it?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'R-A-S is working with them?'

'I don't know the details behind the arrangement…but yes.'

'I have a plan.'

'Good. Then I hope you act on it quickly.' Her eyes darted to the side, jaw clenching stiffly. 'If anyone knew I was here…'

The implication was more than clear. Barbara frowned, then said, aloud, "Cassandra…Cass. You should stay here, with us. We can protect you from him, and the League."

"What," Steph said flatly.

Cassandra flinched back a little. Shook her head emphatically. 'No. It isn't safe.' She turned on her heel. 'I have to go—'

She stopped as Barbara's hand wrapped around her wrist like a vise. She knew that the assassin could snap her arm like a dry twig if she wanted to, and she probably would, if Barbara was too insistent on keeping her anywhere.

But still, she said, "You have a home here, Cass. If you ever need anything from us…come to Wayne Manor."

"Babs!" Batgirl gasped.

Cassandra's soft brown eyes went wide, and they betrayed more emotion than any spoken word ever would. The girl was visibly touched, mouth falling open slightly, some silent question on her tongue that she didn't know how to vocalize. Then, she bit her lip. Surged forward.

And wrapped both Bats in a large embrace.

Stephanie squawked at the unexpected contact, going stiff. But as the hug went on, she relaxed slightly, looking to Barbara with more than a little confusion, as she brought her arms up, and wrapped them around the smaller girl. Barbara laid her cheek on top of the tiny assassin's head. Ran a hand between her shoulder blades.

She hadn't known Cassandra long. But it was long enough to make her a sister, she decided. At least, if it was what the other girl wanted.

When they pulled away, Stephanie swallowed, bowed her head shyly, and held out a hand to the other girl. It hovered between them awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," Batgirl said sheepishly. "You seem pretty okay, though, so…let's start over? I'm Stephanie. Your name's Cassandra. Nice to meet you?"

Cassandra looked down at the hand. Then up at Stephanie. Then back down. She reached out, and poked her palm curiously, raising a pointed eyebrow at Barbara.

Barbara smiled. "She doesn't understand what you're saying, Steph. You're talking too…fast. But she says to tell you she likes the color you're wearing."

"Oh, a fan of purple, are we?" Stephanie's eyebrows shot up under the cowl. "Huh. Good 'nuff for me, then, I guess. Are we keeping her, or no?"

Cassandra shot one more meaningful look Barbara's way, and the message was crystal clear.

'Act soon. Get out of Gotham. And be safe.'

Then she slipped her mask back over her head, coiling her braid neatly under the edge, and turned on her heel.

"Thanks!" Steph managed, cupping a hand around her mouth. "For saving my life!"

Cassandra turned her head briefly.

And then, without a sound, or a sign that she'd moved, the small girl disappeared completely.

Both Batwoman and Batgirl blinked in surprise, turning to each other with twin frowns that did more than enough to convey their confusion. Stephanie's eyes narrowed, and she said,

"You've got a lot of secrets goin' on, don't you, Boss-lady?"

Barbara frowned.

The plans she'd formulated with Calvin and Dina weren't supposed to take effect for another week or three. She almost had all of her research together, had almost all of her preparations out of the way.

But Deathstroke was a factor that she hadn't been counting on. A blind-siding wrench in an already rickety plan. The mercenary's reputation preceded him like a blood-soaked banner. He was famous for his skill, his fighting prowess, his strategy, and most especially his perfect track-record. If Ra's and the Owls had sent him after her, then Cassandra was right—she had to get out of Gotham before things got bloody.

Something beeped inside of her belt, and she paused, glancing down.

Her phone. Third pocket on the right. She pulled it out and glanced down at the screen.

GORDON – The results are back. Stop by and pick them up asap.

"Steph," she told her sister, eyes never tearing themselves away from the message. Her heart shivered like static. "We need to make a quick stop."

#######

#######

Tim Drake had an ever-growing list of certainties—things he was absolutely sure of.

Topping the list was this: Bruce Wayne was alive.

But that had been true from the moment they lowered his coffin into the ground. Tim had been there watching while the undertakers worked, long after his siblings had left the graveside. It had made a sound as it reached the bottom that was…different. Tim, unfortunately, knew exactly what a casket sounded like as it was buried. He'd buried his mother. His father. Steph. Their caskets had had bodies.

Bruce's casket had sounded hollow.

But in a moment of uncertainty, he had hesitated. Why pry open the lid in front of random strangers? Why dig up the grave just to prove a point? And what if he was wrong? Hadn't they all been through enough, already? Why literally dig it all back up again? What would that accomplish beyond extra therapy sessions for everyone?

But still, he knew.

Second on the list was Einstein's theory of relativity. Then the Pythagorean theorem. And the fact that if one compiled all of the iron in a healthy adult human body and melted it down, you could make a single nail.

It was a compilation made up of nickel-knowledge, obvious constants, and odd facts. Things that helped Tim to ground himself in any given situation where a little 'grounding' was required. When one worked with aliens, magic, immortal Amazons, and technology that defied all scientific explanation…sometimes it could be overwhelming. If it ever became too much, Tim could always close his eyes and mentally recite the list. You don't know how the #$%% New Genesis tech works, but at least you've always got 'e=mc2'.

There was another thing he was certain of, though, and it was this:

Barbara Delphi was not nearly as 'fine' as she kept claiming to be.

But, Babs had fled the Cave in a hurry, and the offer to cheer Steph up was definitely an excuse. Tim didn't doubt her concern for Batgirl; Steph got down on herself all the time. It was something he'd never really been able to help her with, and he was glad that she had the support she needed, now.

But, still, Barbara was clearly anxious to keep avoiding a conversation about whatever was bothering her. So Tim chose to focus on two specific items on the list that he could confront at this moment.

One being that the BatComputer had been severely damaged, and needed fixing.

The other: that Dick Grayson had been dead…and Tim hadn't even known.

He snagged one of his gauntlets from his uniform's compartment, and pulled the USB cable from the spot below the heel of his hand. He plugged it into the port on the desktop, and pulled up the screen of his wrist computer to run a few quick diagnostics. Data streamed across his line of sight—none of it helpful.

Dick had been shot. (Tim had managed to wrangle that much out of Jason before he escaped back down to the Cave to escape Movie Night.) He'd probably even been on the other side of that wall in the basement when it happened, and he hadn't heard a thing. But Barbara had been there—had probably seen everything in gory detail.

Tim didn't want to picture her bent over Dick's body—reaching that firm resolution that would lead her to Ra's Al Ghul.

He tapped in a few commands, and tipped his chin up to stare at the BatComputer's screen. They'd need to replace the monitor for sure, but maybe he could get at least something to light back up again?

Ugh, it was stupid. The circumstances, the decision, all of it. Going to Ra's meant putting the ball in his court. Tim knew for a fact that the immortal assassin never did anyone favors out of the goodness of his heart—not without some sort of collateral. Not without gaining something back. Barbara had been desperate; Ra's had most definitely taken advantage of that.

Tim shuddered, unwilling to think about what kind of deal they might have struck.

The old man had a habit of becoming…fixated…on certain people. Back before Damian, when Tim had fought by Bruce's side under the Robin mantle, the dynamic duo had squared off against the Demon's Head many times. Tim wasn't sure when he began to notice the way that the old man's eyes would linger on him during their fights. The way that his lips would curl upwards in a thin, knowing smirk. The way that Bruce would step between them, or subtly try to remove or interrupt Ra's' attention from his younger partner.

It gave Tim a feeling that was like insects burrowing around under his skin. And he could feel it now, prickling at his arms and raising goosebumps underneath the sleeves of his jacket. An itch he couldn't scratch, and just one more thing he couldn't fix.

With a soft grunt of frustration, he ripped the USB cable from the port, and swept the chair aside with one hand. It rolled away, wheels whishing softly against the floor. Tim crouched, and stuck his head under the desk, where Barbara had been burrowing around earlier.

It was a mess. An absolutely melted, eviscerated mess.

He reached out with a finger towards a piece of scorched circuitry with a wince. Hackers, in his experience, could get in, swipe information, wipe hard drives, and install spyware or keylogging software to do the work for them. But this was another level entirely. Whoever had done this had managed to not only make it past the security protocols that Tim, Barbara, and Bruce had all installed…but they must have activated some sort of self-destructive programming in the BatComputer's system. One that Bruce himself had probably written in early on as a safeguard against intrusion. Or maybe even a failsafe if his 'other life' was brought out into the public spotlight. Whatever the case, it had roasted the entire system from the inside out.

So, all in all? Tim's diagnosis was this: Total loss. They were going to have to replace everything. Maybe even build the whole thing up again from scratch.

His head was spinning. All that information…

Gone.

He had some things on his laptop. Barbara had others on hers. But no other place had all the data, all the files, that the main computer did. Tim knew it was for security reasons—in the event of theft or hacking, no other party could get ahold of all the Bats' information. Many had tried, and all had failed.

Because the BatComputer should have been nigh well impossible to breach.

And yet, someone had sneaked past its defenses. They'd likely pillaged whatever data they desired, and then torched everything else to cover their tracks.

Tim let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Perfect.

When he opened his eyes to give the damage another once-over, they settled instead on something resting by his knee. It was small and square. Pale enough that it seemed to glow in the darkness under the desk. He reached out to brush it aside with his fingers, and felt paper.

It was folded over. He lifted it with a hand, and smoothed open the flaps, squinting to read it in the dim light.

He couldn't make anything out.

So, Tim unfolded himself from the tiny space, and grasped for the leg of the rolling chair. He'd no sooner settled himself into it when his eyes suddenly focused, and allowed the scrawled ink letters to jump into clarity.

Barbara, said the header. Tim frowned. Barbara must have dropped it…maybe left the flap on one of her belt compartments open? Whatever the case, however she had lost it, it was still hers, and that didn't exactly give Tim the right to pry. But still…

He continued.

I'm sure you've already read the other note from my partner, so you know about the whole time-travel situation.

Tim raised a single eyebrow. Time-travel…? He wracked his brain, trying to remember something like that happening. He remembered going back in time with the others during the League's summit, but after that…?

Wait. There was a protocol on Booster Gold's robot. Something that would've made him forget.

And you probably don't remember very much. And that's really kind of why I'm writing you this note. I know I'm not supposed to be doing this. It could mess up the timeline or whatever. I know the risks. But this is too important of an opportunity to miss. So. Here goes:

The only thing you need to know is this: In my timeline, your brother Tim Drake becomes the Joker.

Wait—what?

Tim read and reread the line five or six times before it sunk in, and he could practically feel the blood in his veins ice over. The insects returned, crawling and skittering through his nervous system as he continued.

No one really knows how it happened. I ask you about it once, and you say that as far as you know, Tim goes missing one day when you're all younger. Kidnapped by the original Joker, and tortured for months. When you find him he's…pretty messed up. You all put him through therapy, and you think it helps. For years, it seems like it does. But then one day, after getting married and starting a family of his own even, he just…I don't know how else to put it, but he snaps.

Your brother becomes one of the most prolific serial killers in Gotham's history, Barbara. Thousands are dead because of him. Members of our family are dead because of him. His daughter Minerva—

Tim's heart inflated like a helium balloon. 'I have a little girl someday?' he thought wistfully. He could feel his heartrate stutter as the possibility lit up in his mind—someone would actually give him the time of day, maybe settle down and have a kid with him. He'd have a family…a little girl…named Minerva… It was kind of a mouthful, but maybe he could call her something shorter…like Minnie…

—is killed when he beats her to death with a crowbar.

The balloon popped.

'I…I kill my little girl someday…'

Drake has made it his mission to wipe every member of our family off the face of the planet—himself included. And he isn't afraid to take as many innocents down with us as he can.

Tim would never hurt his family. Whoever had written this letter must be wrong. So wrong. If he had a wife and child someday, he'd die before he let anything happen to them. He knew he'd die before he'd ever let anything happen to the others. This…this couldn't be right…

That's why I'm writing you this letter. I went back in time to stop Joker from turning Drake, but something went wrong with the robot's programming, and I wound up here. But even though I couldn't, I know you can stop him. You're probably the only one who can.

I don't know what this information is going to do. I don't know how it's going to affect my timeline. But the way I see it, if I do nothing, then me and the others aren't going back home. We're going back to a bloodbath. I'll have to see the rest of my family die, and know that there's nothing I can do to stop it.

That's why I'm counting on you. Stop the Joker, however you can. However you have to. Save Tim Drake.

Please don't let him become a monster.

And for what it's worth, I can't wait to meet you someday.

—T.M.W.

P.S. Just three more things: 1. Talons really hate the cold. 2. You're right about Joker—every last detail. And finally, 3. You can trust Cassandra Cain with your life.

#######

#######

"Don't think I haven't caught on," Batgirl told her sullenly. "Because I totally have."

Stephanie's arms were locked in a vise across her chest, and her scowl was heated enough to melt the foggy glass of the Commissioner's office in front of them. Barbara supposed her little sister had a right to be angry; Batwoman had dropped the ball and almost gotten Batgirl shot. If Cassandra hadn't shown up at the last possible millisecond, then they'd be visiting the city morgue instead.

But, since both of them were still alive and well, they stood side by side in the GCPD precinct, just outside Jim Gordon's office. He was in a meeting at the moment, though it was impossible to tell who with through the frosted window. The only thing Barbara could see were the uniform black lines and swirls of the name:

James Gordon

Commissioner

"Mm?" she hummed, tilting her head towards her sister.

Stephanie's voice was hushed against wandering police officers, but Barbara heard it loud and clear. "The reason you brought me out tonight."

She couldn't deny the relief she felt at that; Steph wasn't angry about her carelessness. But it was still best to tread lightly here.

"Which would be…?"

Stephanie waved her hand as she spoke. "You want me to think I'm smart. The whole thing with Riddler? Just a way to 'prove' it to me." A soft huff burst out of her mouth. Her chin dipped. "But…it's not true, okay?"

Barbara started. "What are you talking about?"

"It's not true." Steph's jaw worked, and her eyes rolled up to the ceiling. "Look, at school? I'm a C student. Sometimes, I even get D's. Or F's. You all think I'm faking it to 'stay under the radar' or whatever, but I'm not."

Barbara's brow furrowed beneath the mask. "Batgirl—"

"I mean, take a look at my grades, but also take a good look at how I am on patrol. Like, Ti—um, Red Robin," she amended quickly as an officer blew past. Her recovery was instant, though, as she continued, "He can hack a supercomputer in three seconds flat. So can you. I've seen the way you can all hack security feeds and guest lists, and data stores on missions. But me? Let's just be honest, Boss-lady, you hand me a USB and I can't even plug it in right!"

Batwoman matched Batgirl's posture and pose, arms sliding into place just below her insignia. "To be fair, none of us can ever get it in right the first time."

"So not the point!"

"Then by all means," Barbara nodded. "continue ranting."

"You all just…" She pressed her knuckles together under her nose, squinting. "Make these connections. Who dunnit? Where? When? How? Well, guess what? I'm not exactly Sherlock Holmes when it comes to that either!"

"Batwoman, Batgirl," Montoya said with a nod as clipped as her voice as she hurried past.

"Detective," Barbara shot back pleasantly with a tilt to her chin. "How's Ms. Kane?"

The woman paused, heels skidding slightly on the tile, but managed a shaky smile. "She's…doing well. I think you might have made strides in convincing her that…perhaps 'not all of you Bats are so bad, after all'." There was a knowing smirk tacked onto the end of that statement, and Barbara suspected that there was some sort of story behind it.

Batwoman smiled. "Tell her 'hi' from me. And good luck out there today—we both know you're one of the best cops here."

Renee Montoya looked oddly touched by the gesture. Apparently, one was much more open to small talk and compliments when pulling the graveyard shift. She thanked Batwoman and hurried off, papers flapping in her arms, and heels clicking against the tile floor.

Steph watched her leave, then resumed with a short bark of laughter. "You know what Dad always used to tell me? He used to say that I would've made a good sidekick if I wasn't so &*##^?% stupid. Used to quiz me every night when he got home from 'work' and if I got his questions wrong, he'd…"

She trailed off, shrugging one shoulder defensively.

"Are you finished?" Barbara asked gently.

Steph nodded.

"Good. Because here's what I think." She settled her shoulders a little more firmly against the wall. "First of all, BG, you need to get him out of your head."

"I—"

"I'm not talking about stepping away. You already did that. You beat him, and you managed to escape the life he had planned out for you. But what you haven't done is gotten rid of his voice in your head." Barbara nibbled the inside of her cheek, then continued. "Fathers are…complicated. They have expectations. Rules. And, sometimes, Batgirl, we internalize those things until they sink into us. Maybe, a little too deeply."

Steph hunched her shoulders. Managed a glance up towards her sister. "I've—I've never asked, but…what was yours like?"

Barbara frowned. "I…"

In her mind's eye, she could still see his face. Tousled strawberry blond hair, thinning out on top. Hazel eyes that were wrinkled at the edges, especially when he smiled. He didn't smile often, but when he did, it was warm and soft, like a fluffy blanket right out of the dryer. But his face was a blurry photograph from another time…detached from her life as it was now. Her biological father was a subject that stayed locked in the far reaches of her mind. Where he was safe.

"I don't know how to tell you," Barbara replied quietly. "He died when I was little."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. But, nice try, changing the subject. We're not talking about him, right now, Steph. We're talking about Arthur Brown. Specifically, all the things he's said to you through the years, and all the ways he's cut you down." Barbara eyed a pair of sergeants stepping through the hall, and waited for them to pass, boots clipping against the floor with a reassuring rhythm. "I want you to promise me something, okay?"

"Um…okay?"

"Start today. Every time you hear him in your head—and trust me, you will recognize it—tune it out. Replace it. You can be free of him, if you want to be. I want you to want that." She turned her head to look at her little sister and her tight frown. Her voice came out as a whisper as she said, "Because you are so smart, Stephanie Brown. So incredibly quick-witted and intelligent."

Batgirl's eyes squeezed shut. "I'm not—"

"No." Barbara's hand came up. Cupped Steph's shoulder firmly. "You are. You should have seen your face when you answered Nygma's riddles. You just knew, and your whole face lit up with this…this confidence. And you should have heard yourself, too. You sounded so sure, and you were right. You came up with answers that I know I wouldn't have thought of."

Steph threw off Barbara's hand with a bark of derisive laughter. "Yeah, BW. I'm great at trivia and brain teasers! You know what else can do that? Google!"

"I don't know," Barbara mused flatly. "I've never had the time to open a search engine on my gauntlet when I'm caught in a deathtrap. I can't exactly say 'Hey, Siri' when I'm bound, blindfolded, and hanging from a rope above a vat of acid. And I sure as #$%% can't fire off the answer as quickly as you can. Remember a few months ago, when you and Damian were caught in that escape room with the Team?"

"Yeah," Steph said, clearly remembering the mission in the Brain's compound gone awry. "But—"

"You got them out of there in three minutes. It would've taken the rest of us at least five times that, but you saw right through all the puzzles and clues, and went right for the heart of the mechanism to open the door."

In the end, it had been a simple combination lock. The metas and Robin had been so transfixed by the distractions and challenges, that they hadn't even thought to check the door. Stephanie had picked the lock while Traci Thirteen and Kid Flash were still trying to answer the question 'what walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening?'

"That doesn't count—"

"Batgirl." Barbara cut her off. "It absolutely counts. You see things more clearly than the rest of us do. If there's a trick, if there's some kind of twist, you're the first to catch it. If that's not intelligence, then I don't have a cluewhat is."

Steph floundered, eyelids fluttering and mouth gaping. But Barbara wasn't finished.

"Like, that last question. I was too focused on the math. But your answer made so much more sense." Batwoman smiled, and nudged her sister's shoulder. "As for 'having no expectations', I think we both know that's not true."

"Oh, yeah? And how's that?"

"Because I never would've picked a mental slouch to take up my mantle." She smirked at Stephanie's expression. "And I can see bigthings ahead for you, little sis. You're going to go so far."

Batgirl's jaw and shoulders both slackened.

The Commissioner's door opened with a click, and swung inwards. They could catch the back end of a stiff conversation between Gordon, and the man emerging from his office, cane first, and when she heard the man's voice, Barbara's lips twisted downwards.

"—my regards to your lovely wife. I'll be—"

He turned, and their eyes met briefly.

Batwoman's frown deepened.

Abraham Vanaver was tall and imposing in the already small hallway, and his stiff posture only served to make him appear even larger. The sound of his grip tightening on the head of his cane was starkly audible. As was the sound of Barbara's arms crossing a little tighter over her ribcage. When he caught sight of the two Bat women, his mouth curled into a sneer, and he looked down the stiff bridge of his beak-like nose at them.

"Ah," he clipped. "Gordon, I believe your building has a rodent problem. I'd be happy to contact an exterminator for you, if need be."

The Commissioner appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowed with a question, but then he saw the Bats, too, and he wisely stayed silent.

Batgirl, on the other hand, didn't.

"Funny," she snipped. "I was just about to say the same thing."

Vanaver stiffened, and Gordon pressed himself a little further out of the room, possibly to keep the two from flying at each other if the need arose. Judging by the looks on Abraham's and Stephanie's faces, he wasn't too far off base.

"Batgirl," Barbara chided. "Don't be rude. The man's already got one foot in the grave—another jab like that might send him over the edge."

Steph's head cocked towards Batwoman, a surprised grin painting her lips. Even Gordon couldn't keep the confounded delight off his face, though he, at least, did his best to play it off with a cough and a shrug.

"Impudent," Vanaver muttered with one raised eyebrow, like it was a disappointing observation, but pasted on a thin smile as he turned to Gordon. "Do keep in mind what we discussed, yes? Allies are wonderful things to have in trying times such as these."

The Commissioner's frown was deep, suddenly sobered. "I'll think it over," he replied flatly.

"Mm, yes, I do hope you will." Vanaver made to exit, stepping lightly across the tile. But his shoulder brushed dangerously close to Batwoman's, and he whispered, "I look forward to seeing you again, my dear. Preferably upon your knees."

Barbara turned after him, lips pulled into a snarl. "I beg your pardon?"

Louder, he replied, "There are people in this city that you do not want to disappoint, Commissioner. Batwoman."

He swept away, the flaps of his overcoat swishing through the crowd of officers as he disappeared. A few tense moments later, they could hear the sound of a door opening and shutting, though it may have been just a coincidence in timing.

"Man," Steph muttered, "I'm so glad school's on break, otherwise I'd have to see that guy's loser kid walking around…"

Barbara hushed her, but Gordon already knew their identities, anyway. He gave a noncommittal shrug, and waved them into his office with a weary sigh.

"The results crossed my desk an hour ago," Gordon told them quietly, latching the door as the two women seated themselves in the pair of plush chairs in front of his large desk. Batwoman could feel herself settle into the cushion, but it did nothing to settle her nerves.

The Commissioner crossed the room, and sank into his own seat with a soft wheeze. The leather chair creaked and crackled below him, a sigh just as weary as its owner's. Gordon then pulled open a drawer in his desk, and tossed the beige file folder onto the desk with a small slap. It slid towards Batwoman, and she scooped it up with a quick glance at the man across the desk for permission. Gordon nodded, and she opened it.

"I had Bullock and Montoya guard the lab while they were running the tests," the Commissioner said, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward, leaning against the desk as if for support. "No one got in or out, and that file never left Montoya's hands. You're actually the first person outside of that room to see it. I don't even know what it says."

They watched Barbara with interest as she carefully thumbed through the pages of the report. Her eyes skimmed over the graphs and data charts, dashed through the introductory paragraphs and abstract, and then she started in on the bulk of the results.

Sample displays molecular anomalies…human, but with further evidence to the contrary…reacts negatively to cold temperature…do not store at temperatures below thirty degrees…sample began to grow within hours of collection…'self-healing' and cellular replication occurred after two hours and continued at an exponential rate with each following hour…

She'd suspected some of it. Most of it, she'd heard from Calvin Rose, a Talon himself, who probably knew a thing or two about his own 'molecular anomalies'. She thumbed through the rest of the report, skipping past data she could go back through at a later time.

All she really cared about at the moment were the DNA analysis results.

"Sooo, Commish," Stephanie managed, in an attempt to break the stiff silence. "What were you and Vanaver talking about? Did he invite you to his country club?"

Gordon's mouth quirked a little at that, but his eyes maintained their steely coldness. It was the look he got whenever he'd been tasked with a new secret, a new burden, a new worry. Over the tips of his fingers, he muttered, "We were discussing politics. He thinks it would be a great idea if I…joined his country club."

Barbara paused, eyebrow raised as her eyes flicked up to the Commissioner. "Oh? Joining a club like that takes a lot of…commitment, I'm sure. I assume you told him you'd think about it?"

"I told him as much, yes, but…" His eyes darted around the room, briefly, and Barbara was suddenly very aware of the fact that he'd been keeping his voice lowered and hushed for the duration of their interaction.

"Batgirl," she said pleasantly. "It's very rude to stick gum under people's desks."

Stephanie shot her a look that very clearly said, 'what the &*#%?' so Barbara cleared her throat meaningfully, eyes dropping. Batgirl followed her gaze, then her eyes widened with understanding.

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Her fingers swiped under the edge of the desk, and, sure enough, stuck on something that had been placed there. "Just habit, honestly. Lemme take care of it." She twisted her fingers, and pulled a small object out into the open. It was small, circular, and bronze in color, with a dim red light that told them they were being recorded. "You wouldn't happen to have a trashcan in here, would you, Commish?"

"Right here," Gordon replied shakily, eyes wide as he took in the small bug. He lifted a trashcan with a rustle from his side of the desk.

Stephanie crushed the bug easily in her fist. It made a weak fizzling sound as it died, and Batgirl dropped the corpse daintily into the bag.

"The Court," Barbara decided, going back to her reading. "I assume Vanaver came to recruit you?"

"He did." Gordon nodded carefully. "Said that if I told anyone else, they'd go after Sarah."

"Speak not a whispered word," Batwoman said darkly, flipping the page. "Or they'll send a Talon for your head."

"That's…that's exactly what he said. Actually."

"Your wife'll be fine," Stephanie promised with a bob of her head.

"Yes." Barbara squinted at the page she was reading, scanning for what she was looking for. She hoped that the small skin sample she'd managed to collect had been enough to run a complete set of tests—it should have been enough—and yet, the fear of not knowing, or maybe never knowing, nagged at her. There was something about that Talon that didn't sit right, and it wasn't just his crude advances and attempts on her life.

Barbara's tone turned guarded as she said, carefully, "There's a plan in place to put a stop to the Court, don't worry."

Stephanie shot her a sidelong glance that she didn't miss, but Barbara had just seen the words DNA ANALYSIS, and her attention was riveted elsewhere.

"Y-yeah..." Steph's voice was careful and confused, but she nodded again. "We definitely do."

"Good. You think I'd know by now to trust that you people know what you're doing." Gordon glanced at Batwoman, a suddenly wistful frown pulling beneath his graying mustache. "Which is better than I can say for myself. How…how are you doing, Barbara?"

Her eyes flicked up at the sound of her name, and she frowned. When they were suited up, Gordon rarely used anything but their codenames. She lowered the file to her lap. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"I'm told the Joker paid you a visit this afternoon?"

Barbara could hear Stephanie tense up beside her. Practically felt the air freeze in her sister's lungs. But all she could do was stare into the Commissioner's sad eyes, and try to decipher the hidden depths behind his intense gaze. There was something hidden, there. Something guilty.

"No," she replied tensely. "He just sent me an…'anniversary' present." She played with the edges of the papers in the folder distractedly, trying to keep focused. Anything to steer her mind away from her nemesis's taunting words—the &*#% photographs— "He's early, but you've got to admire the dedication, I guess."

"Babs," Steph whispered. Almost whined.

"But I'm fine. Thanks for asking." Barbara refastened her eyes onto the page. Onto the words below the relevant heading, and went back to her skimming. She mumbled, "Never better."

Gordon seemed as likely to rip his own mustache off as believe that statement, but instead of pressing the issue, he only sighed. And with that release of breath, he seemed to shrink five sizes. He seemed tiny in that moment, and his voice was even smaller as he said, "Well, that's…that's good. Very good. But if you ever need someone to talk to…I'm here."

You and everyone else who pretends they can understand a &*#% thing, she thought, maybe a little bitterly.

But then her eyes snagged on a name.

Barbara pushed out her chair. It slid across the floor with an earsplitting creak as she shot to her feet.

"Batgirl, we need to go."

Stephanie's eyes widened. "What—"

"We need to go now." She turned, and stalked towards the door, file folder tucked in the crook of her elbow. "Thank you for everything, Commissioner. We'll keep in touch."

"Yes, but…" Gordon pushed out his own chair, standing more slowly as his fingers spread across the desk. "What does it say? Is it—"

"It's something I should have suspected," Batwoman clipped, casting her eyes downward. "But I've been…distracted. Batgirl, now."

Steph stumbled out of her seat, shooting the Commissioner a few hastily mumbled apologies, and they both strode from the room, boots clacking urgently across the floor. They elbowed their way through the precinct, capes flapping and cowls bobbing through the crowd of Gotham's finest. The officers fell silent, watching them leave, so Batgirl knew better than to speak up until they stepped out front. The chill air blasted them in the face—the only skin open to the air—and Barbara resisted the sudden violent urge to shudder.

The Batmobile was waiting at the curb.

"Babs, what is it?" Stephanie whispered as they hurried towards the vehicle.

They flipped themselves inside, and Barbara pounded the hatch button until it slid into place overhead. The car fired up with a roar, her boot slammed the gas, and they shot forward in a burst so powerful, the backs of their cowls hit the headrests with a bang.

"Babs!" Steph demanded. "What'd it say?"

Barbara grit her teeth, spinning them into traffic. "I'm an idiot," she told her sister.

She had to get to the circus.

She had to get to Dick.

He was pissed at her—rightly so. And Barbara would be lying if she said that she wasn't still a little angry with him. But the words in that file changed things, and it changed them drastically. She could no longer pretend that keeping her plans under wraps would protect him, because this…this was…

Barbara grit her teeth and spun them around a corner.

No more secrecy. No more lies.

It was time to tell him. Everything.

#######

#######

Tim stumbled into the kitchen, coaxed forward by the buttery smell of popcorn and lured by the sounds of the TV. His entire brain was static, his senses numbed to dullness, and essentially, he was running completely on auto-pilot.

He could still see the words of the note—like they'd been seared into his retinas. He could still decipher their meaning, one by one. But when he tried to think of the sum of their parts, string them together into something more interpretable…his mind drifted back into static.

Don't…don't think about that…it can't be true…doesn't make sense…I was kidnapped by the Joker one time…and nothing happened…except for the scar…and Bruce…but I'm okay…Black Canary told me that this doesn't have to…that…I'm…I'm okay…just don't think about it…

Tim wasn't certain about a lot of things. But he could add one more to his list:

There were some things that were better left ignored. At least until they were relevant. And this was one of them.

He found Damian in the kitchen.

Tim wandered in, legs shaking, arms jerking, nerves twitching. He was walking like a zombie, eyes flat and staring straight ahead, but his little brother didn't seem to notice. Damian was seated at the bar, legs swinging in the air as he perched on the high stool. He was looking down at something in his lap with wide eyes and tight lips. A bowl brimming over with movie-theater-butter popcorn sat untouched on the counter nearby.

From the other room, Tim could see Jason at the TV. He was sprawled out on the couch, flipping idly through channels with a remote raised like a threatening pistol. Voices, music, and bursts of sound effects flickered and changed at lightning speeds.

'But Paul! You said you'd always be there for me! I—kkssshhh…the blue-ringed octopus is a native to—kksssshhh…call 1-800-MORTGAGE for a free—kkssshhh…Lincoln March leading in the polls as the elections draw closer and closer. Gotham city officials encourage all citizens to vote in the—kkssshh…switch to NEW-T to save 6 percent on life insurance—kkssshh…Carnes was arrested early this morning for slaughtering her entire…kkssshh…it's never too late to put your child on the path to a bright future! For just pennies a day…kkssshh…'

Jason tipped his head back, hair falling out of his face. When his eyes landed on Tim, he grinned, waving his free hand in the air. "Hey, bro. Turns out, I decided you're totally right, Braveheart's a little muchfor short-stack over there. Remember that one part? So we're just surfing to see if there's something family-friendly on."

"At three a.m.?" Tim muttered, pulling out a stool at the bar.

"Four fifty-seven, Master Timothy," Alfred amended, appearing out of the woodwork to place a steaming bowl of popcorn in front of Tim with a flourish. Tim dug his hand into the puffy whiteness and stuffed a handful into his mouth.

Jason gestured towards the TV, where one of the Star Wars movies was playing. "Yeah, so far, it's a choice between New Hope, and The Man from Snowy River. Guess which one I'm leaning towards?"

Tim wasn't listening. He was too focused on transporting popcorn from bowl to hand, and hand to mouth. The soft, pillowy texture of the food was comforting. Having food in his mouth helped to stem the anxiety fluttering around in his mind, wings beating against the insides of his skull.

And then he caught sight of what was in Damian's lap.

He snagged it with his free hand, ignoring the sharp 'Hey!' that came from his little brother as he squinted down at it. The paper was stark white, with three smooth edges, and one jagged—the note had been ripped in half.

But it was the scritchy handwriting that Tim recognized instantly.

The note flew from his fingers like it had teeth, and he almost fell off the stool.

"Where did you get that?" he demanded, as soon as he'd choked down the popcorn.

Alfred and Jason looked up at his raised tone, and Damian stuck out his chin. Reached for the scrap of paper. "Give it back, Drake. We should—"

"No," Tim insisted, sliding it away with one tentative finger. "We shouldn't! Where did you get it from? Tell me, now!"

"Whoa, Timbers," Jason said, standing. The couch creaked as he got to his feet and stepped into the kitchen, hands raised placatingly. "What's up?"

"What's up?" Tim shot out of his seat. Jabbed a finger at the offending slip of paper. "That's a note from Joker!"

Jason's hesitant big-brotherly smile died in an instant. He squared his shoulders and swiped up the note with one sweeping hand. Tim, Damian and Alfred watched his eyes dart from side to side, and his throat bobbed.

In a hoarse voice, Jason asked, "Dami, where did you find this?"

"It was behind the trash can."

Jason reached down and swept the can aside. The metal screeched against the floor, and they all winced. But when their brother looked down at the supposed spot, his face drained of all color. He stooped to pick something up.

"The Joker was not in this house, boys," Alfred assured them gently. "Miss Quinn stopped by to deliver a package to Miss Barbara while you were all out. Its contents were…unsavory, to say the least. But no one was harmed, in fact—"

Jason straightened, holding another slip of paper. In his large hand, it looked tiny. But whatever was on it had caused every bit of the color in Jason's face to drain away. He swallowed. Hard.

"What is that?" Damian demanded, reaching for it.

Jason pulled it away so fast that they all jumped.

"It doesn't matter," he barked, a little too loudly. He folded the paper with one savage stroke of his fingers, and stuffed it into his pocket. "What matters now, is—"

Barbara and Stephanie burst into the room, and the boys fell silent. They watched, wide-eyed, as Barbara marched towards the stairs. Her cape flew behind her, while Stephanie lagged.

"Hey, guys," she breathed, stepping towards the hallway.

Jason wet his lips. "Steph? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, just…" Steph shook her head, and reached up to remove her cowl. It slid off with a series of clicks and she ran a set of gloved fingers through it with a shaky sigh. "We gotta head out again. We'll be back soon, but…yeah."

Barbara appeared in the doorway, dressed out in civvies. To say that she looked frazzled might have been an understatement, and the way she squeezed onto the doorframe for dear life did nothing to detract from that conclusion. Her head whipped towards Steph as she said, "Change in the car, we're leaving now."

"Would you like any popcorn, Miss Barbara?" Alfred asked, a little dryly. Tim raised his eyebrows at the tone, and so did everyone else.

Except Barbara, who hurried over to wrap the butler in a quick hug. "I'm so sorry for leaving you in the panic room and taking off without saying anything."

Alfred raised one gray eyebrow, unamused. "And yet, here you are, taking off once again."

Barbara snagged Steph's wrist, and was halfway out the door when she said, "Well, at least I'm saying something this time, right? Enjoy the movie boys, we'll be back soon!"

Without another word, the girls were gone.

Jason, Tim, Damian and Alfred were left standing in the kitchen, gazing at each other with open befuddlement. Then, over the TV speakers, Han Solo's foreboding voice spoke the words on everyone's minds:

"I got a bad feeling about this."

#######

#######

Dick's head felt like a three-ton weight against the pillow.

All he could do was stare up at the ceiling, watching his vision swirl into focus, then out of focus. In and out…in and back out. The stars in this room were the glow-in-the-dark kind, relics from a simpler time—an easier time—and they spun overhead like a Van Gogh painting.

He was vaguely aware of the body breathing next to him, slight inhales, and soft puffs of breath. Sound asleep—or, judging by the frequency of the breaths, only pretending to be. But that wasn't what concerned him at the moment. To be honest, he wasn't completely sure what did…only that he was lying on his back, completely naked, in what looked like his childhood bedroom…

With no clue how the #$%% he got there.

Every time he tried to think about it, his train of thought scattered like a flock of startled birds.

"Babs?" he whispered into the dark. Hoping that it was her next to him. Praying that it was.

His voice sounded wrong to his ears. Scratchy…blurry…the one word drawn out like a final breath.

The figure next to him rolled, jostling the mattress a little as she curled into his side. An arm draped possessively over his chest, her face nestled into his neck. The sudden weight was simultaneously comforting and discomfiting, and out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw a smudge of orangey-red, turned darker by the dim lighting. The woman…looked like Barbara. Relief flooded through him, warm, and soft, and safe, like the morning sun cresting over the horizon. She was here, in his arms, sheltered in his embrace and settled beside him in his childhood bed. They must have made up…he hadn't really meant those horrible things he'd said to her…she must've forgiven him…he was glad she did…

Dick had the urge to reach up. Run his fingers through her hair. But as soon as he tried, his brain sleepily decided that movement took too much effort, and so he settled for staring up at the ceiling again, head in a dense fog that he was too weary to peer through.

But his ears were still in working order, it seemed, because through the tiny window above the bed, he could hear a soft, slightly frantic voice demanding,

"I'm looking for Dick Grayson."

Weird. The voice didn't sound like any of the circus performers, and definitely didn't sound like a cop's. Who else would be looking for him at—his eyes darted over to glance at the dusty clockface hung on the wall—a quarter past five in the morning?

"Da. Figures." Another voice. Lower. Gruffer. Dick might've recognized it, if he cared a little more about 'thinking' at the moment. Searching his mind for a face to match the rough tone took too much effort. He settled on indifference, instead.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, girlie, what makes you think he wants to be found?"

Dick wasn't sure if he wanted to be found. Who was looking for him? Why did they want to 'find' him? He was perfectly fine where he was, thank you very much.

"Look, mister," a third voice—younger, and female, probably—snapped. "You can either help us out or get out of the way. Understand?"

"No audience members are allowed back here. Now go, before I call security."

"Sir. Please. I need to speak with him immediately. It's an emergency."

"You're the girl who caused this mess, aren't you?" The man growled. "Reduced the poor boy to tears. Now, unless you're here to apologize, I'm calling—"

"We are!" the younger girl piped up quickly. "We definitely are. Right, Babs?"

Babs.

The word echoed in his ears, reverberating again and again and again, until Dick's eyes flew open wide. The girl nestled against him stiffened slightly underneath the sheets, but then relaxed, curling even more deeply into his side. She let out a soft purr, and he knew that the sound didn't belong to Barbara.

"Yes," the real Barbara snapped, "I am here to apologize…" She trailed off. Then, after a few moments, he heard her tight voice once again. "Please. Just tell us where he is."

A slight pause. Then the man replied, "Grayson family trailer. Right over there."

He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He couldn't move. And he definitely couldn't think…

"Steph, stay put. This isn't…" Footsteps. Slow and pounding. They may as well have been pounding into his skull like a ten-pound mallet. "Never mind. I'll fill you in later."

He was frozen in place, every single cell in his body vibrating with dread, but unable to move a millimeter. All he could do was listen in horror to the footsteps that clattered too loudly on the stairs out front. The agonizingly raucous squeak of the door hinges.

And a tentative, nervous, small voice asking, "Dick?"

She was just outside the room. He could hear her feet padding over the rugs, could hear them pause. Then, there was a slight slide against the door as she leaned against it, just outside. Waiting.

"I know you're mad," he heard her say. Heard her sigh. There was a hesitant tremor in her voice. "You have every right to be. I'm…really sorry about how things went."

His mind was foggy, but he forced himself to action. It took every straining muscle in his body, but he pulled himself upright. The other girl slid off him with a gasp of surprise. Her hair fell over her face, but through his squinting vision, he could recognize Raya Vestri with a sudden uptake in his heartrate. She grit her teeth and reached for him, but Dick jerked away.

"And you were right. I…I've been keeping things from you. A lot of things." There was a shaky exhale. "Like you said, trust is a two-way street. So…I'm here to…"

She trailed off. And Dick ignored Raya's grasping fingers as he reached for the covers. The blanket felt like an iron curtain draped over his lower half, and he wanted it gone. But the effort of reaching down made his head spin violently, and he let out a soft pant of pain, eyes blearing out completely as his vision burst into whiteness.

"Just… Look. I know you're in there, Wingnut." Barbara's gentle voice felt too close, pressing in against him from all sides. He clapped his hands over his ears with a groan.

One that was too loud, apparently.

"…Dick?"

He heard the knob jiggle.

Raya slid upright, the sheets shivering around her as her hand slithered up his chest. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist to pull it off, yank it away, something—

But then the door swung open.

Barbara stood silhouetted against the kitchen light. A dark shadow surrounded by a halo of brightness.

She was as stiff as a marble statue, still as a frozen moment in time. And he could hear her sharp intake of breath, jagged and piercing like a serrated knife.

It cut him to his core.

Because, as her eyes roved over the scene—clothes strewn across the carpet, messy sheets spilling off the mattress, and two bodies pressed close—they bulged, and brimmed with sudden pricks of moisture. The hand on the doorknob went slack, fingers sliding. The other rose to her lips, pressing against them in a fist. Dick could see the whites of her eyes, glowing in the darkness, and glistening in the light. Staring at him with horror and anger and disbelief. And for an eternity, all they could do was stare at each other. Silent. Unsure.

It was a silence that carried a special kind of scream with it.

Then Raya's voice pierced the stillness, as she brought her free hand up to coil in Dick's hair. The gesture was possessive. Her smirk was triumphant.

"I'm sorry, do you mind?"

Barbara spun on her heel and stalked away.

"Wait!" Dick pulled himself up. Ripped himself from Raya's grip. The mattress squealed as he lurched to his feet, stumbling for his costume. But the second he was up, flashing pain exploded behind his eyes, and he staggered, gasping. His head spun, his body swung, like his soul had come disconnected from his frame, and was flapping violently in some unfelt breeze. Dick pressed his fingers into his eyelids to stem the flow of what must've been blood; it was hot, and wet, and so, so painful.

Deciding against clothes, he ripped the sheet from the bed. Raya gasped, suddenly exposed to the cold air, but Dick couldn't bring himself to care in the heat of the moment. He wrapped it hastily around his waist and legs and hurried out.

Something was wrong. Every step felt like he was walking over a trampoline. His muscles shuddered and shook, each and every one of them screaming at him to go horizontal as quick as possible. But his hand shot out. Caught the edge of the trailer door as it started to creak shut, and pushed it open. Were doors supposed to be so heavy?

The light was dim—morning sun just beginning to turn the sky a dusty shade of purple—but he could see Barbara's red hair flowing in the breeze as she stomped away, coat pulled tight around her shoulders. Her steps clipped across the boardwalk. Staccato and piercing—every step a stab to his chest.

"Babs," he croaked, stumbling down the stairs. On the last step, his left knee jiggled dangerously, and he stumbled. Only just barely catching himself, before he looked up.

She'd dared a glance over her shoulder, and her eyes were filled with poison. They practically glowed with it.

"Babs," he rasped again. Shuffled forward, fingers tightly tangled in the sheet. He reached out with his other hand. "It's not—"

"Don't."

It was a snarl. A whispered snap of sound through the air that made him stop short. His fingers shook in the cold air. The chill seeped under his skin, and it crept towards his heart when he saw the look on her face.

Tears were beading in Barbara's eyes, glinting in the string lights above their heads. Her jaw was tight enough to snap. Her arms hugged over her stomach as if they were the only things keeping her together. Lower lip trembling, eyes wide and wary, she took a step away from him. Then another. Turned and started back on her course.

"You think…you think I…" he whispered to the air. But he staggered after her, reached out again, trying to grasp her hand. Through the shakiness in his head, he knew that she'd be enough to steady him. She was always—

Barbara's hand cracked across his face.

Dick lurched violently to the side. His vision went white, legs and feet tottering below him as he reeled. One hand—the hand that had reached for her—came up to gingerly touch the spot on his cheek. The center of the sting. His heart had stopped beating altogether, and he looked up at her through wide, bleary eyes.

She was beautiful under the string lights. They caught the loose curls of her hair, edging them in gold and amber…and if they weren't here, like this, in the aftermath of something terrible, he might've taken her into his arms and never let her go. But Barbara's eyes were alight, glowing in the dark, flickering between teary blue and furious emerald, and she bared her clenched teeth. A sob ripped through them.

"Don't touch me!"

Dick flailed, words failing him. Barbara shook her head, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. It was as if she couldn't decide whether to hit him again—or if she was horrified that she had. Every shattered breath she took seemed to cause her pain, forming ghostly puffs in the air as she rolled her eyes skyward.

"Trust." In Barbara's mouth, the word sounded like the clipped wail of a wounded sparrow. Her fingers dragged through her hair, and the soft hiss of her voice scraped him raw. "Trust? You son of a &!^."

Dick's mouth went dry, tongue scaping at the roof of his mouth to find some kind of moisture. His fingers dug deeper into his skin as he whispered, "I didn't—Babs, you have to believe me when I say—"

"No, you—you don't get to talk." Barbara took another step back, eyeing him through a tearily narrowed gaze. She tipped her chin down, hugging her arms tighter against herself, chest heaving out a breathy, tattered scrap of a laugh. "And I have nothing to say to you."

"That's not—"

"Fair? I know it's not." Barbara's eyes flicked back up, unfocused. Haunted. As if she were staring at him through a haze, seeing him, but sure as #$%% not recognizing what she saw. She bit down on her lower lip, suddenly snapping into focus as her jaw shook."But let me tell you what's worse."

He took another step forward, legs shivering below him. "Please. Barbara. You don't unders—"

"What's worse…" Barbara's voice was hollow, empty. She breathed in with a rattling gasp, then back out, chest rising and falling. The sound was raw. Condemning. Two tears slipped down her cheeks as her eyes flicked back up to his, and then, like it was tearing something out of her to say it, she whispered with a shattered hiss, "Is that you may not have trusted me, Richard Grayson…but I always—always—trusted you."

The last word came out as a cry, a piercing sound that hit him like an arrow to the chest. He could feel the sting, sharp and searing, and it almost sent him to his knees. She could reach out and hit him again—punch him in the gut, throw him off the pier, shoot him in the chest—and it wouldn't have hurt as much as the look she was giving him now. It would never even come close to the sound of her voice.

"Babs? Babs?"

Stephanie materialized at Barbara's side, grasping for her arm. Their little sister's eyes roved over her tearstained face, her bared teeth, and her shaking shoulders. Barbara was managing, somehow, to keep it together, but they could both see the cracks beginning to form at the seams.

"What's wrong?" Steph whispered, eyebrows lifted into a terrified arch. "Babs? Are you hurt? What happened?"

Barbara shook her head listlessly, head rolling on her neck, hair falling over her face. With a small rise and fall of her shoulder, she shrugged off Stephanie's hand. Stepped away. Took another staggering gasp. Now, Dick could see her eyes glittering dangerously, and they snapped to meet his with ferocity.

She reached for something that had been tucked beneath her arm. A folder—papers peeping out the edges like crooks peeking around a corner. She brandished it like a threat, and snarled, "Here. I figured some of my $#!^ out…thought I'd share. That's what you wanted, right?"

It hit the dust at their feet with a dull slap. Some of the papers flew loose, fluttering gently in a breeze that wasn't strong enough to let them take flight.

"Hh. United front. You and me." Barbara's tone was bitterly passive, now. She bit her shivering lip and looked away, brow furrowed. "But, you…" she huffed. Huffed again, and it turned into a soft, tart breath of a gasp. "I don't have anything left to say, really. Except, thank you."

Stephanie froze, eyes widening. And so did Dick. Because whatever he'd expected from her—curses on his name, tearful declarations of hatred, or a pleading reminder of everything—it wasn't those two words. But somehow, they cut more deeply than anything else she could have said. At least, that's what he thought, before the next words were out of her mouth.

"Thank you," Barbara said, like it was a glittering revelation. He could see her eyes light up, her back straighten, her shoulders square, with the brilliance of it. Her hands burrowed into the pockets of her leather jacket. And she whispered, "The only thing that was holding me back, keeping me in check, was…" Her throat bobbed. The statement seemed to die out there, swallowed down, and left unsaid. She met his eyes. "There's nothing left, Grayson. Is there?"

Was she talking about them? Was she talking about—?

The meaning behind those words was a shadowy mystery that Dick didn't have a prayer of solving. At least, not in time to keep her from whatever resolution she'd just made. He could see that spark in her eyes—cold and gleaming—and knew that she'd reached a decision.

"Barbara," he cried softly, voice shattering. "Please... I would never—"

"Everyone says that, Richard—that they'll never leave." Barbara turned away. Shook off Stephanie's grasping fingers and took one step in the other direction. Then, another. "But has anyone ever meant it?"

The sound of her boots on the boardwalk was like a smattering of raindrops—one or two, then more, and more, before the soft patter on the ground turned to a dull roar. She swept away, leaving him to stand in her wake, shivering and numb. Something sharp had lodged in his heart, but he knew the internal bleeding wouldn't kill him before the pain set in.

"Dick?"

Stephanie's soft whisper sliced through the deafening ringing in his ears. He turned his head, eyes bleary all of a sudden. She was looking up at him with open confusion, naked shock.

"What…just happened?"

Dick's mind was radio static, hissing and whishing in his ears, drowned out by the building whine of a single note, ringing audibly above everything else. He could still see Barbara in the distance, shoulders hunched, before she disappeared from view completely. And once she was gone, it was like a light had switched off. He could feel his jaw slacken, his heart stutter, his muscles go limp.

He staggered. Steph caught him. That was all he could determine from his surroundings.

"What happened?" Stephanie repeated into his ear.

Dick wet his lips, throat soar, head pounding like a bass drum, rhythmic and painfully loud. When he spoke, it was in a fractured whisper.

"I don't know." His voice cracked like thin glass. He turned his eyes on Steph desperately as he cried, "Steph, I don't know."

#######

#######

Mornings at the Clocktower were always peaceful. Quiet.

It was why Dawn Granger made a habit of waking up before the sun each morning—no matter how much shut-eye she'd gotten the night before. There was something comforting about crawling out of one's warm bed, feeling cool air on the skin, and stretching the blood back into one's limbs. Hank always slept like the dead, his breathing slow and steady even as she felt her own heart speed up, ready for another day. As she padded barefoot out of the room every morning, she always got the same little zing in her chest.

Especially when she saw the sun peeking up through the clockface.

It turned the tower's insides a pale shade of gold. The color of butter, or daffodils, or something warm, and she could feel that warmth spread through her veins like syrup.

It was such a shame it was almost winter. But snowy mornings could be nice, too, she supposed.

Dawn's fingers curled around the balcony railing as she headed for the stairs. The Bird's Nest was a series of levels built above a central section of the tower. One could open a bedroom door, and look out on behemoth bells and giant gears. The gears still turned, creaking and moaning in a way that you only got used to with time, but the bells had been decommissioned years ago. If you looked down, you'd see the floor, where workers used to gather to work on the Clocktower's moving parts and little mysteries in a time before a flock of Birds had come to permanently roost. Now, it was a collection of couches and chairs and throw rugs, with a flatscreen up against one wall, and a fireplace below that. There were bookshelves and paintings, and little display cases for costumes—though almost everyone kept their work uniforms up in their rooms. Or, if they were feeling particularly trusting, in one of the off-shooting training rooms.

She stepped lightly through the domestic forest, sparing only a glance for the hub of softly humming computer equipment placed against the lower half of the clockface. It used to be that Barbara Delphi could be found here at all hours, typing away at a new project or inspecting a new angle for a case. Dawn often woke up to greet her, and the two would share soft greetings, small talk, or even literary discussions and scones when Babs had reached a lull in her work.

But their Oracle had regained her wings, and flew from the nest without so much as a glance back. Now, Dawn was the only conscious soul in the tower.

The kitchen was equally deserted, and equally quiet. It was nice to be able to listen to your own heartbeat, and hear your thoughts as clear as a cut diamond. Usually, things were too loud—which made for scattered focus and poor thinking.

Dawn started a kettle of tea. Helena and Zinda—barbarians that they were—always insisted on microwaving it. Zinda, because the microwave was still an enigmatic wonder when she'd grown up in the age of Victory Gardens and FDR, and Helena…because she was Helena.

A blink of an eye later, she turned back to the clockface, steaming cup and warm saucer in hand, and sipped slowly. She focused on the temperature, the taste, the feeling of warmth that blossomed in her chest as she drank. It helped her to ground herself, getting ready for a newly chaotic day. If it was slow, everyone would be trapped together inside the tower, chattering and cooking and watching TV, blasting music and swapping patrol stories. If it were busy, there would be robberies to stop, murders to solve, and villains to battle. Either way, afternoons and evenings rarely compared to the gentle lull of the early morning.

She'd already have to deal with hungover Helena, who teetered on the edge between grumpy and downright savage when she was in pain. And Dina was going to pop out of her room at any second, accompanied by her gentleman-friend, Kevin (or whatever this one's name was). They'd share an awkwardly silent breakfast, or a brief goodbye at the door, depending on how last night went. Either way, Dawn's peaceful morning was preciously short. Time was running out, and she was &*#% well set on enjoying it.

That train of thought had barely crossed the tracks in her mind when, of course, there was a quick tap-tap-tap at the door.

A weary sigh fluttered from Dawn's mouth. It used to be that there was an elevator that led up directly into the Birds' Nest. It was inaccessible to the public, but any of the Birds or their operatives could press a specific string of buttons, input a code, and arrive safely at the top without waking anyone.

Please, Dawn thought weakly, Don't ring the doorbell.

But, sure enough…

Bbbbrriiiiiinngg-Brrrrooonnggg

"Nn," Dawn whimpered, casting her eyes up to the balcony.

On cue, doors swung open all around the rings of rooms as ladies poked their heads out. Not everyone could be woken by the doorbell, but vigilante super-women are light sleepers by nature. Mari hissed out a string of death threats—Vixen was always prone to being more snake-like when just woken up—and slammed her door shut again. Beatriz and Tora emerged from their room, and hung over the railing, watching her with two sets of narrowed eyes. Fire's gaze was cold, Ice's was heated. Barda thundered out of her room, staff raised in warning.

"Who dares to come calling at this hour?" she boomed, looking down at Dawn as if she had the answer.

Helena's door was, if possible, even louder. She winced, fingers pressed to her forehead, and glowered at the air with malice. "Somebody better stop that &*#% ringin' before I stop their life," she slurred.

Dina was the last out, but she, unlike the others, was dressed.

"I'll get it," she proclaimed, already halfway down the stairs before Dawn could open her mouth to protest. If they just ignored the bell, wouldn't whoever it was on the other side eventually give up and go away?

But the Black Canary swept to the door, fingers twisting around the knob, and Dove hurried over to flank her. Whoever was—

Instantly, she regretted her annoyed response.

"Barbara?" Dawn cried.

The other woman looked up, eyes puffy and bloodshot, makeup smeared over her eyes. Her hair was wind-ruffled, her clothing even more rumpled, and wore a haunted, quivering stare that Dawn hadn't often seen outside of the poor girl's nightmares. Barbara looked, for all the world, like a woman who'd just been hit by a speeding train.

She looked up, voice choking as she gasped, "Dawn?"

Dove folded Oracle into her arms, holding her tightly. She could feel the poor thing shaking like a leaf in her embrace. Shivering. Whimpering. Barbara buried her face into her long white-blonde hair, and Dawn shot Dina a frantic frown.

Dina's brow was pinched. "Babs? Babs, what's…what the #$%% happened?"

"'S that Babs?" Helena was marching down the stairs, one hand pressed over her left eye. She had a scowl fit to murder. "Gotta lotta nerve, showin' up here after what shepulled last night. Whaddoes she want?"

"Helena!" Dawn chided, holding her friend closer. Dina had joined her, and they sandwiched their Oracle between them, guarding her against whatever phantom she'd come running from. Softly, she whispered into Barbara's messy red curls, "Can you tell us what's wrong, hon?"

"I need—" Barbara's words were gasping chokes of air. "I need to—to stay here. 'S that okay?"

"Of course," Dina soothed.

"Abso-f*****g-lutely not!" Helena snarled. She'd made it to the door, a stinging rebuke clamped between her clenched teeth. But then she saw Barbara, and her fire blew out immediately, giving way to open concern. "Why…why is she…?"

"Are you hurt? Tell us where…" Dina worried over Barbara, tipping her face up to inspect for cuts or bruises. Their eyes all roved over their friend's body, checking for the telltale signs of injury, but finding none. They couldn't make sense of it; the way her chest stuttered with every breath, the painful whine of every dry sob…

There was something broken inside. Cracked, if not shattered. Like a rib, maybe, but probably worse…

Barbara's eyes brimmed over, and the tears streaked down her cheeks. "I…I just…" she whimpered. Then, before they could stop her, sank to her knees. Her arms wrapped around her ribcage as she bent in half, a heavy sob ripping from her chest. The sound scraped at the other three women, and made the others up above stop, look, and listen.

Dina knelt next to Barbara, a hand laying gently between her shoulder blades. Her knuckles rubbed smooth circles into the tense muscle, and she shushed the girl on the floor with soothing whishes of breath.

"Shh, shh, Babes." Dina hushed softly, and drew Barbara upright, into her arms. She let the sobbing woman lay her head against her chest, and ran a hand over her messy hair. "I'm here. Let it all out."

"Di—Dick," Barbara gasped. Cried. Wailed.

"Shh. I know." Dina's eyes were far away, lidded and unfocused as she stroked Barbara's hair again, and again. "Tell you what, hon. Let's get you changed into something soft, and make you something sweet. Dawn, we still got cocoa in the pantry?"

Dawn blinked rapidly, but nodded.

"Good. See? It's all going to be okay..." Dina's voice was hauntingly sweet. A warm trickle of molasses, slow and rich with familiar comfort. Barbara drew in a staggering breath, digging her face into her best friend's shoulder, shoulders shaking with renewed weeping.

"…we've got you, now."