ENDING THREE: This is the tragic ending . . . Set five years later. Read it, but be prepared.

WARNING: Strong Language, Extremely Disturbing Images and Topics, Alcohol Use, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH . . .


"Come on, Dick," Bruce cajoled. "You have to eat."

Laughter answered him and another mouthful of pureed vegetables was spewed out onto him. Bruce closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He picked up the third cloth he had brought with him and wiped his face off yet again.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "Joker never acted this way. I read his files from Arkham, and nowhere does it list this sort of behavior in all the years he had spent there." Bruce glared at the young man in front of him. "So, why are you acting so different?"

He had hoped to watch Dick grow up into a fine young man, but sometimes reality has a something different in mind. Dick retained his striking bone structure, but without good nutrition, the high cheekbones and strong jawline merely added to the gauntness of his face. The truth was, Dick looked terrible.

He had ever since Bruce had agreed to give the MoD device another go two months ago.


All their research into the workings of the Machine o' Doom, as Wally had dubbed it long ago, had led them to come up with a variety of theories. That a second blast of the MoD would give Dick the extra oomph he needed to rid himself of the insanity that he had absorbed from the Joker five years ago in a bid to save his teammates and Gotham from certain death. That a second jolt from the device would possibly remove the healing factor altogether and leave Dick the same as he had been before the first accidental shot. The third theory was that it would not only remove his healing factor, but possibly also Dick's own natural immunity and put him at risk of every scratch and every germ out there. The fourth and last theory was that the machine would do nothing at all . . .

Two of the four theories would leave Dick no better or worse than he was now. One theory offered him salvation, while the last promised death swift and likely painful. Bruce had spent close to a year deliberating over every possible outcome verses leaving Dick as he was and hoping that someday in the not so distant future he would somehow snap out of it.

It wasn't until Alfred had decided the risk was worth it that Bruce had agreed to try it.

The day had been fraught with worry, and twice Bruce had nearly backed out of his decision. The first time Dick had been struck by the MoD's laser, the setting had been at its highest range: seven. It had been determined that any setting higher than five would have a ninety-five percent chance of killing him; so, the controls had been set at five and Dick had been placed in front of it; strait jacket and all. Bruce insisted on hitting the switch that released the laser's beam onto his son himself. It was his decision; it would be his responsibility.

Several Leaguers and Wally West had been present. Wally had been a loyal friend through this entire ordeal; coming to help care for Dick every weekend, and helping to give Bruce and Alfred a much needed break. It was only right for him to have been present when they tried the MoD again.

The blast had hit Dick with enough force to send him flying. Superman had caught him before he had been able to strike the cave wall several yards behind him. It wasn't until Clark had set Dick down that they realized that the laser had stopped his heart. Bruce and Alfred had been surrounded as they struggled to restart Dick's heart. Bruce refused to take the chance that Dick could heal himself from this . . . What if he couldn't? It took several minutes of CPR to bring his son back.

Then, Bruce had watched as tiny line of blood seep from a nick in Dick's lip received when he had bitten it as the laser had hit him. He had reached out to wipe the stream with his thumb. It had been with a falling heart that he had watched that line be quickly replaced with fresh streak of blood. The cut wasn't healing! That had meant that the only theories that remained viable were that Dick had been returned to normal minus his healing factor or that his own personal healing ability and immune system had been completely obliterated.

But had the madness been obliterated as well?

It was one of the greatest disappointments of his life when the laughter returned with Dick's consciousness. The cut had slowly stopped bleeding, and it was determined within a few days that Dick had been returned to normal when no infection was detected.


Laughter met his words, but it had taken on an odd tone since that day as well. Bruce wasn't sure how aware Dick was of his current predicament, but no joy was detected in him. Neither was he sure what even constituted joy in Dick's strange world, but there was no denying that his son wasn't happy in his existence.

That made two of them.

Bruce attempted once more to get his now eighteen year old son to take another bite of food. Dick jerked his head away from the spoon so vigorously that he nearly toppled from the cot. The strait jacket he wore and the leg restraints meant he had no way to catch himself. Bruce dropped the spoon to catch at the buckles and haul him back upright.

Dick bent his head to snap at his fingers, but Bruce was faster.

He hadn't always been faster. His hands bore several scars from the times when his reflexes had been off or when Dick's had just been better. Alfred, too, was scarred from the various incidents when the boy had struck out senselessly. Only Wally, when he came to take over Dick's care on the weekends, didn't bear marks. Not that Wally hadn't been injured . . . Dick had caught the speedster off guard on a number of occasions, but the marks from those times had not left a permanent reminder.

Bruce looked at his boy unhappily. Dick hadn't eaten enough, but it was obvious that dinner was finished.

His hair is too long. The observation came out of nowhere, but, unfortunately, cutting it was a precarious thing. A scraggly beard covered Dick's lower face and was stained with tonight's vegetables. When Wally arrived this evening, the two of them with Alfred could do something about it. Bruce hated seeing Dick looking dirty and unkempt, but it was far less perilous to have the speedster cut and shave Dick while he and Alfred held him down.

Bruce picked up the spoon, keeping an eye out for any sudden movements. He dropped it into the bowl that was barely touched, sighing.

"You need to eat, son," he murmured.

He wasn't expecting an answer. Dick had stopped communicating after the third year, when conversation had degenerated into naught but grunts and threats. He hadn't said anything at all in the last two months, and Bruce wondered if the brief time without oxygen had damaged him more than they had realized.

So, it shocked Bruce to the core when Dick raised his head up and spoke.

"Let me go."

It was an ongoing thing for Dick to demand his release, so it wasn't the words themselves that gave Bruce pause. It was the soft, breathless quality to his voice, the almost rationale tone, and the tears that traced a path down his cheeks that made him hesitate.

"Dick?"

But the light in his eyes was merely the artificial lighting reflecting off of the moisture pooling there. The grin slid back into place, and the laughter renewed, and Dick began banging his head against the padded wall over and over again.

Why he felt so crushed was beyond him. Bruce had long ago lost his hope. Standing up, he heard the door behind him open. He handed the bowl and utensil to Alfred blindly. The threat wasn't on the other side of the door, after all.

"Help me," Bruce asked the elder man, and Alfred set the accoutrements aside to assist.

It was dangerous to leave the door propped, but the leg restraints were secure. The men ignored the laughter as they dragged the young man onto the cot and secured him there. It took the two of them to raise the head of the bed, but the past couple of months had prepared them for Dick's latest antics.

The teen tilted his head back and gagged himself.

They grimaced, but remained in the cell with him until they were certain that Dick couldn't asphyxiate on his own vomit. Only when the young man finally settled back, exhausted, did they prepare to leave.

"I'll come back with Master Wally and clean that up," Alfred said.

"We'll all come back," Bruce corrected. "He needs a shower and a shave tonight."

"Indeed," Alfred acknowledged.


The stale and sour smell of the room had gotten particularly strong. The stench couldn't be properly dealt with without a window and a fresh breeze, but with hot water and strong cleansers, it would be tolerable, at least.

Alfred looked at the stained floors and walls with distaste. It was time to replace the padding and waterproofed material that lined the room's every surface again. He made a note to contact Superman with a request for League assistance once he had ordered the new materials. The young master would need to be confined on the Watchtower in the interim.

A beeping alerted the two men that someone had entered through the front gate. The tone indicated the person had his own passcode.

"Is it that time already?" Bruce looked in the direction of the stairs.

"I'll meet Master Wallace while you change," Alfred murmured.

As Master Bruce headed off to his room, Alfred left to greet their most welcomed visitor.

He must be getting old, the butler mused. He had never before looked so forward to having a couple of days off. But then, never had life in the manor been so challenging either. He grimaced as he thought back to what he had just witnessed through the monitor.

It had almost sounded like their boy there for a second.

"Let me go . . ." Master Dick had said.

The butler's mouth turned down as he anticipated the return of their ongoing argument over the direction of Master Dick's care. It had been raging for the last two years with no promised end in sight. But then, he knew as well as Master Bruce that despite their debates, the results would never change. Everything would continue on as always, forever.

As much as it saddened him, Alfred also realized he would never be able to live with the alternative.


Wally let himself in the front door. After the first six months, Bruce had presented him with his own passcode and recorded him for the voice recognition program. It had taken another couple of years before the ginger-haired speedster actually grew comfortable visiting the home of billionaire, Bruce Wayne, however.

Well, the word comfortable was probably stretching it a bit. There was nothing comfortable about his visits to Wayne Manor. Even less so today. Wally felt like he was here under false pretenses.

But he wasn't here to visit Bruce Wayne. He was here to see the man's son as he had been doing every weekend for the past five years. Ever since the Batman had taken the team into his confidence and told them Batman and Robin's secret identity.

It should have felt like an honor, but after the events of that last disastrous mission against Gotham's clown prince, it felt more anti-climactic than anything. The team, or what was left of it, were all in various stages of recovery. They had all been in different areas of emotional stability or . . . not. Not everyone took the news well.

Artemis had already begun withdrawing from everyone by this time. Wally had tried to help her cope, but the wounds in her leg given to her from the Joker's acid had become infected and there had been no choice left but to amputate . . . She began to pull away from him as well. She blamed her injuries on Robin in the beginning, and his constant manic laughter prevented her from seeing him as a victim himself. It had taken years before she could admit that the consequences of that mission had been no one's fault but the Joker's; that she hadn't been coerced into going by a boy less than a year out of childhood. But to this day, Artemis still didn't want anything to do with Robin.

It was why they had finally stopped seeing one another, because Wally refused to give up his weekends with Dick.

"He won't even realize it if you don't go one time," she had argued. "And even if he did, he certainly won't care!"

Wally had picked up his overnight bag and walked out.

She didn't understand his guilt. This was his fault! Events would have turned out much differently had Wally just not turned on that blasted machine! Certainly Dick wouldn't, even now, be suffering from the Joker's madness. It could be argued that they would have all been dead otherwise, but what they all dealt with now could hardly be called a life.

Each of the members of the team had moved on. They all had scars, either emotional or physical, but they also managed to eke out an existence that didn't constantly revolve around that one event. All of them, that is, except for Robin. Robin had, for all intents and purposes, died in that basement five years ago. But then again, so too had the team.

Artemis and Aqualad had both left the business of crime fighting for physical reasons. M'gann had been sent back to Mars to recover. When she had awoken in that basement, M'gann had immediately tried to assess everyone's condition by mentally linking them. Wally still sometimes woke in a cold sweat to the sounds of her screams in his head. That brief glimpse into Robin's shredded mind had been enough to create a gulf between him and his teammates that would remain unbridgeable. That M'gann had chosen to remain on Mars rather than return to earth was unsurprising.

Only Superboy could claim something good as a result of that episode. That last shock given him by the neural collar had been so great it had taken him nearly two days to recover. Superman had sat by the clone's bed the entire time and it had been the start of the relationship that Conner had been longing for since the day that he, Robin, and Aqualad had helped him to escape Cadmus. Conner now split his time between staying in Smallville with the Kents and staying with Superman in Metropolis.

Unless something was dire, Wally didn't don the suit anymore. Superboy was the only one of them that was still active fighting criminals on a full time basis.


Sitting down his overnight bag by the stairs, Wally looked up. Dick was quiet today. That was odd. Usually Wally could hear sounds of muffled laughter even from the ground floor.

Bruce had refused to place the boy in Arkham. Wally had agreed with that assessment. Arkham was a revolving door to the criminally insane that it housed. He had, instead, created a special cell for Dick right here in the house with the help of Superman, Green Lantern, and Martian Manhunter. It was only supposed to be temporary. Dick was supposed to heal from the insanity he had absorbed, but it was five years later, and still there was no sign of the boy they had known and loved.

Two months ago, in an act of desperation, an attempt had been made to spur the healing. Batman had authorized using the MoD once more on Robin. It didn't have the effect they had hoped for. Instead of helping Dick throw off the madness, the device had merely removed the healing factor. Dick was normal once more, but the insanity apparently still had Dick's psyche firmly in its talons.

No more attempts were made with the MoD. It was finally dismantled and several key parts destroyed. Immortality was a dangerous thing to have lying about. If Dick was to never find his way back to himself, at least he wasn't doomed to suffer forever. It made things that much harder even as everyone breathed a sigh of relief. One worry was gone, even as another reared its ugly head.

Dick's health began to deteriorate.

But this was different. It wasn't illness that plagued the teen. This was new behavior, and it had started two months ago.

Dick began refusing to eat; spitting out his food and forcing himself to vomit. Although everyone consulted seemed to believe it was just another unforeseen facet to the insanity that was making him do this, Wally wasn't so sure. It wasn't something he could pin down exactly, but a part of him had begun to wonder at the underlying cause of this self-destructive behavior.

While Dick had had the healing factor, starvation would never have been an issue; his body would always somehow manage to recover despite the lack of nutrition. Of course, Dick had always been a skinny, little kid, and the healing factor hadn't actually changed this physical characteristic about him. But as he aged, Dick had continued to grow and fill out. Still he had remained lean; his genes adhering to Dick's acrobatic body type.

Since losing the healing factor, however, Dick had lost his lean build. He had become thin; too thin. The fact that he wasn't eating was beginning to show in an alarming fashion.


"It is good to see you again, Master Wallace," greeting Alfred as he made his way down the staircase. "How is the family?"

It was the same question Alfred asked him every Friday evening when Wally would show up at the manor. He long since decided that the butler was merely keeping up pretenses of good manners and really didn't care one way or the other. It hadn't always been like that, but the years tended to grind a fellow down; even one that sported that magnificent, British stiff upper lip.

"They're fine. Thank you for asking, Alfred," Wally said automatically. The conversation was rote by now.

"Master Bruce will be down momentarily," Alfred said as he picked up Wally's bag. "He wished to change first."

Wally would go up to his assigned room later and find everything put away neatly; either hung up in the closet or tucked away in one of the drawers. He hadn't had to pack a toothbrush, deodorant, or shampoo in years. Alfred had taken note of his preferences and his in-suite bathroom was always stocked on his arrival.

Alfred was nothing if not efficient.

He checked the time. "Ah, dinner time," he said knowingly, following the butler to his room. "I take it things didn't go down smoothly?"

"It is a most upsetting situation."

"I'm sorry that I wasn't here earlier." Maybe if Wally had been here . . .

"We can hardly complain about your tardiness," Alfred interjected. "Your presence isn't required although we are always most grateful to have you."

"What are you trying to say, Alf?" He smiled at the elder man's back.

Alfred glanced back over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "If you are searching for compliments, Master Wallace, you have to look no further. I, for one, have been anticipating the respite your visit brings in an almost undignified manner."

"Really?"

The butler's shoulders seemed to slump. "It has been an exceptionally difficult week."

Concern replaced his amusement. "How so?"

But they had reached the third floor.

Bruce had stopped hosting parties at the manor five years ago. It was worried that a guest might wander up to this hall, and that was if visitors didn't notice the sound of laughter. Wally knew Bruce could have made the cell completely soundproof, but being able to hear Dick's constant laughter was just another security measure. Silence was guaranteed to bring Bruce or Alfred up to investigate.

Bruce's room was at the end of the hall, next to Dick's cell. Alfred's was just opposite, and Wally's was on the other side of it. In fact, he shared a wall. In the beginning, it wasn't easy to fall asleep with the sounds and thumps that never seemed to stop. Now, however, the sounds were almost comforting. If you could hear him, then it meant that Dick was still where he was supposed to be and Gotham was safe.

He frowned at the quiet of the hall.

"I can't hear him," Wally commented, but the butler was already heading toward the cell door.

Bruce was exiting from his room wearing sweats and a t-shirt. He was still rubbing the dampness from his hair with a towel. He only acknowledged Wally with a nod; his mind obviously on the same concerns they were having. Silence in the manor wasn't a good thing.

"What's going on, Alfred," Bruce asked as he met them.

"Oh no," Alfred murmured, his hand fumbling for his key.

"What's happening?" Wally couldn't see past Alfred's head.

"He's seizing," the butler explained; yanking open the door.

Bruce and Wally followed Alfred into the room at a run. Dick's back was arched hard and his head turned back and forth as if he were in great amounts of pain. He fell back onto the bed only to rear up again almost immediately. Bloodied foam gathered at his mouth, and when Dick choked, more blood sprayed upward splattering Bruce in the face and staining his clean shirt.

"Wally," Bruce barked as he and Alfred attempted to hold Dick down. "Call Leslie!"

"I'll do one better," Wally yelled, and then he was gone.

Barely a minute later he reappeared at the door, settling the ruffled doctor on her feet.

"What the hell, Bruce," she snapped. "I was in the middle of . . ." her voice trailed off as her brain caught up with the activity in the room. "Good Lord! What happened?"

"I have no idea," he admitted. "He was fine when Alfred and I left the room only thirty minutes ago!"

"He is still experiencing difficulty keeping things down," Alfred volunteered.

"I can see that," Leslie muttered.

It was obvious that Bruce and Alfred hadn't had time to clean up after feeding Dick. The smell alone was almost enough to send Wally running from the room. Now Dick's blood joined the rest of the mess.

Bruce pried Dick's mouth open and Leslie used the edge of Bruce's towel to soak up the blood in order to determine wear it was coming from as Alfred and Wally helped hold the teen down. Despite the fact that he hadn't been eating properly, holding Dick down was hard work.

"I don't . . . Oh, God!" Leslie gasped. "He's bitten his tongue! That's where the blood is coming from."

"That much blood?" Wally was surprised.

She pulled a pair of scissors from her pocket, an item that would never normally make it past the doorway, and began slicing the towel into strips. She yanked out a couple of tongue depressors and wrapped each of them in strips of terrycloth. One by one she shoved the wads into each side of Dick's mouth, effectively holding it open.

"He's almost severed it," she told him. "So yes, that much blood. I need to knock him out. I can't stop the bleeding while fighting him. Bruce . . ."

"I got it. Wally, take over here." Bruce snapped.

"I'm faster. Just tell me where it is," Wally argued.

"It's in my room," Bruce told him. "But the cabinet's locked, and you don't know which syringe Leslie needs."

Wally blinked as he moved into Bruce's place; shoving at Dick's shoulder and chest with all of his strength. "How many syringes do you have?"

"One for every occasion," Leslie muttered. "We only use them for emergencies. Bruce and I agree that we don't want to drug him unless it is absolutely necessary."

Wally thought back to all those times they had been forced to wrestle a psychotic Dick into the shower. It might have been nice to have had a little medical assistance. Several of those times it had felt pretty goddamned necessary.

It seemed like a hundred years before Bruce was back, syringe in hand.

"Turn him over," Leslie ordered.

Wally gaped at her. "Does it really matter where you inject him?"

She didn't even glance at him. "Some places are more effective than others, but also he's choking on the blood. Turning him over means less blood to have to pump out of his lungs later."

Oh. Well. When she put it that way . . .


It had taken several more long moments before the drugs took effect. Wally watched numbly from the side as Leslie and Alfred stripped Dick of the strait jacket and worked feverishly over his friend. He felt superfluous; unneeded and in the way. Bruce had showered and changed once more, but Wally still wore the same blood-splattered clothes he had arrived in.

"Why don't you take a moment to get cleaned up," he suggested, quietly.

"How many times has this happened," Wally blurted out.

"What?"

He gestured at the grim tableau just a few feet in front of them. The room was too small to comfortably harbor five full-grown adults, but no one wanted to leave.

"This," he snapped. "You have a cabinet full of drugs and medical supplies in your room, Bruce!"

"Wally, you've been coming here for the weekend for the past five years. In that time, you've witnessed how many injuries have occurred when dealing with Dick. There are five more days of the week that you aren't here. Do you think nothing happens while you're gone? I would think that having a cabinet full of medical supplies nearby would be considered prudent." Bruce asked him; being annoyingly reasonable.

And it was . . . prudent. But Wally couldn't shake the feeling that had come over him as he watched the practiced and easy movements of Alfred and the doctor. The thoughts that were drifting through his head weren't nearly so easy.

"He bit off his tongue, Bruce!" Wally's voice rose in his growing agitation. "And Leslie said just a few minutes ago that this wasn't a seizure at all. Dick bit off his tongue on purpose! Why do you suppose that is?"

"Dick isn't in his right mind, Wally. Why would you think that he would act in a way that seems reasonable to you," Bruce countered.

"Oh, I don't know . . . Maybe because Joker had never tried to bite off his tongue before. Why would Dick? Isn't what Dick is suffering from the same as the insanity that Joker lived with for years?"

Bruce sighed. "Joker had an outlet. He acted on his aggressive tendencies by lashing out at others. Dick doesn't have that sort of luxury here. Because he is monitored so closely, he's not had the opportunity to harm others. So . . . he harms himself."

"That's it? That's your argument?" Wally wasn't convinced.

"Joker has been known to self-harm."

"To the extent of starving himself and biting off his own tongue in an effort to drown himself in his own blood?" Wally stared at him. "I don't think so, Bruce."

The tension in the elder man's carriage seemed to double. He turned away to watch Leslie finish the last of the stitches.

"What are you trying to say, Wally," Bruce asked finally. "Go on. Speak your mind. Don't keep us in suspense."

"He's miserable, Bruce," Wally cried out. "Dick is still in there somewhere, and he's wanting out!"

Bruce turned on Wally so fast, that even the speedster was surprised.

"Do you think I don't know that," Bruce snarled furiously. "Do you think I don't care that my son is trapped inside his own body; inside his own mind without a hope of ever finding his way back? He's lost to this madness, Wally! I search every single day for just a glimpse of him; a glimmer . . . something; anything! But it is only the insanity that ever stares back at me!"

Wally stepped back at the man's vehemence.

"So, what is it, Wally? What would you have me do?"

He didn't know what would come out of his mouth. If anyone had asked him later, Wally would have said his mind was a blank at that moment.

"Let him go."

The words were whispered, but they had the effect of a cannon going off in that small room. Leslie and Alfred turned to face him and the unnatural silence of that moment weighed on him like a hundred tons.

Bruce tilted his head and stared at him with an odd expression.

"W-What . . . What did you say?"

Shut up, Wally! Just shut the fuck up! Shut up; shut up; shut up . . .

"I said, let him go, Bruce. You need to let him go."

Long moments passed . . . No one moved. No one said a word. Alfred and Leslie weren't staring at Wally, however. They were staring at Bruce.

"I-I can't."

The words were as soft as Wally's had been, but the anguish that they held was the same as if he had screamed them. As Wally watched, moisture gathered in Bruce's eyes until one fat drop escaped and slid down the man's cheek.

He was shocked. Wasn't this man the Batman standing before him? Where was this level of emotion coming from?

It wasn't that Bruce didn't have emotions. Wally knew that Bruce cared deeply for Dick, but . . . He didn't show it! Bruce didn't wear his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see, and damned if Batman showed anything at all.

"I love him, Wally," Bruce choked out. "I love him too much to let him go."

Silence followed . . .

"I'm sorry. I can't," Bruce whispered finally. "I'm not . . ."

Wally watched as the man turned around to leave without finishing his sentence. He stopped only to briefly run a hand through Dick's too long mess of tangled hair. To his surprise, Bruce leaned down and pressed a kiss to his son's sweaty brow.

"I'm sorry, Dick," he said against his boy's forehead. "I just . . . I can't." He left the room without looking back.


After several long moments, Wally cleared his throat.

"How long will that sedative work, doctor?"

Leslie seemed to snap out of herself. "Oh, um . . . Not long; maybe another fifteen minutes at most. That's why Alfred and I set up this IV earlier. I didn't want to risk him coming out of it in the middle of the procedure."

"I'll bring in some towels and supplies," Alfred offered. "Now would be a good time to clean him up."

Wally spoke up. "Don't bother, Alfred," he said. "I know where everything is. I'll do it. If you want to get me a pair of shears and a safety razor, I'll even cut his hair and shave him for you."

"That's not necessary, Master Wallace. I can handle this if you want to go clean up and change before dinner."

"No, Alfred," Wally insisted. "I came here to help, remember? If he's going to be out for a little while longer, I can handle this myself."

"He'll be waking shortly, though," Leslie reminded him once more as she packed up the medical supplies and waste.

Wally smiled. "I'm a speedster, remember?"

"Very well, sir," Alfred conceded. "I'll lay the scissors and razor on the table outside the door."

"That's fine," Wally agreed. He had less than fifteen minutes . . . More than enough time for a speedster.


Wally set the razor inside the bowl of water, and wiped Dick's face with a towel. He looked cleaner, but not necessarily better. With the haircut and without the beard, the gauntness was even more noticeable. He took the last of the supplies and set them outside of the door.

Wally had only taken the IV drip out a short time ago. Dick would be coming around soon. It was only because of the drugs that the door had been left open and Wally left alone. Normally, he doubted even the drugs would have been excuse enough to forego the house rules concerning Dick, but the last hour had been fraught with stress and emotional trauma. Leslie had left to go home, and Alfred and Bruce had retreated to the kitchen.

He moved back into the room and stared down at the man who had once been his best friend. The loss of muscle mass meant that Wally could count Dick's ribs. He noted each and every bruise and scratch that marred the skin. Not even the restraints had prevented Dick from injuring himself.

Right now, a new strait jacket lay on the floor awaiting Wally to put it on the younger man. His leg restraints dangled from the cot, unused. Dick lay in naught but a pair of flannel pajama bottoms on fresh, clean sheets. He looked like he was sleeping; peaceful. Lord knew that this was a sight rarely witnessed anymore.

Wally sat on the side of the cot and waited.

It didn't take long.

He watched Dick's eyes begin to dart beneath his lids. Wally wondered what dreams his friend was having. Dick's head jerked to the side and back as he became agitated.

Wally sighed. It seemed that Dick found no lasting peace, not even in his dreams.

Dick sighed heavily and his eyes cracked open. Wally knew the drugs would keep him calm and mellow for a while longer. It would take time for them to wear off enough that Dick would be able to move with any sort of coordination.

"Hi," Wally said.

Dick's lips lifted into a sleepy smile.

Wally's breath caught. Was this him? Was this his friend?

"I've missed you," he told him.

Dick blinked.

"Are you ever coming back," Wally asked. He didn't expect Dick to answer him, and he didn't. Not in words, anyway.

Dick looked sad all of a sudden, the gentle smile sliding away. So sad . . . And then, all too quickly, the smile was back. It grew until it was stretching the sides of his mouth almost painfully. Dick chuckled, but the look in his eyes were of panic and fear and . . . Something else. A plea? A tear formed and slithered into Dick's hairline.

The chuckling grew louder, more manic.

He was losing him. He had only a few minutes more before Dick would become a danger to both Wally and himself.

"It's okay, Dick. It's all right now. I heard you," he reassured his friend. "Loud and clear."

. . . His very best friend. He knew he would never have another friend who was better Dick Grayson. What would you be willing to do for your best friend? Wally already knew the answer to that question.

Wally picked up the pillow. "And I love you, too."


Wally entered in the kitchen a short time later.

Bruce and Alfred glanced over at him, startled. He was still wearing the soiled clothing from earlier. The young man's face was pale and his eyes were huge, but he looked almost as though he were in shock.

Fear shot through him, causing Bruce to catch his breath.

"Wally?"

"It's okay now, Bruce," Wally told him. "Everything is all right now."

He set his coffee cup down with a bang. Hot liquid splashed out over his hand, but it went unnoticed.

"Wally, what happened? Is Dick all right?"

Wally smiled sadly. "Dick is fine now."

Ice formed in Bruce's gut. "Wally, what did you do?"

"What you couldn't," Wally told him.

When a tear formed and dropped from Wally's eyelash, Bruce jumped to his feet so quickly that the chair crashed back behind him.

"What did you do," Bruce repeated his demand.

"What he's been begging us to do for the past five years. I let him go," Wally said simply. "Robins were never meant to be caged, Bruce. I just set him free."

Bruce was shaking his head in denial. "No."

"I'm sorry, Bruce," Wally told him softly. "I loved him too. Too much to leave him this way any longer."

"Dick?" Bruce was yelling as he shoved Wally out of his way.

He ran up the stairs and skidded to a halt. The door was wide open. Alfred caught up with him and stopped beside him. Neither said a word as they moved slowly to the entrance of Dick's cell.


He looked like he was sleeping. It had been so long since Bruce has seen Dick sleep; really sleep. His vision blurred and he moved forward without conscious thought; until he was standing beside the cot and looking down at his son.

He dropped down to sit next to the unmoving boy . . . Man, he corrected himself. Dick had grown into a man in this tiny padded room. His hand hovered, as if by not touching him Bruce could put off reality for just another moment.

Dick's face was . . . peaceful. Relaxed. The slightest of smiles lifting the corners of his lips. As if he were dreaming of something pleasant.

Bruce's hand ran through the still damp strands. Wally had done a good job cutting it. The stray thought caught him off guard.

"He looks good, doesn't he, Alfred?" His voice cracked.

"Indeed, h-he does, s-sir," the butler's voice shook.

Bruce scooped Dick up in his arms and held him. It had been so long . . . so long since he had just held him like this. His boy. His son . . .

It felt different holding him now than it had before. That was because Dick had grown a lot in the last few years. It was hard to tell since measuring him had been next to impossible, but Bruce had guessed that Dick had reached at least 5' 7" or perhaps even 5'8". He probably hadn't reached his final height yet, but they had all known that Dick would never have achieved Bruce's own 6'2" stature.

Bruce held Dick's head to his chest and rested his face against that soft, black hair. He smelled like shampoo.

He was still warm . . . The realization caught him off guard, as did his sob. And the one following it.

This wasn't supposed to be how this ended! Dick was supposed to have had a better life than his. Bruce wasn't supposed to have been left alone again . . . Abandoned by the ones he loved at the behest of a cruel and exacting fate.

"My boy . . ." Bruce wept. ". . . My son!"


Night had fallen before Bruce walked back into the kitchen. Wally sat at the counter, but it wasn't coffee he was nursing between his hands. The speedster had found his way to Bruce's liquor cabinet and to a bottle of twelve year old Scotch that was kept within; although judging by the height of the whiskey still in the bottle, very little had actually been consumed.

Wally set the glass aside and turned to face him.

"I'm ready," he said.

Bruce blinked glassy, blood-shot eyes at him; finally focusing on the only other person in the room.

"Ready for what," he asked, numbly. His voice was hoarse; strained.

"For you to take me into custody," Wally told him, frowning.

Bruce stared at him as if not comprehending what the younger man was saying.

"I'm a murderer, Bruce. I killed him," Wally spoke with a quiet desperation.

Bruce shook his head as he walked further into the room. He picked up Wally's untouched glass, drained the contents, and poured himself several fingers more.

"You're not a murderer, Wally," Bruce scoffed. "You didn't kill Dick."

Wally blinked at Bruce's words. His heart began pounding. Could it be? Part of him begged for this to be true and for his best friend to still be alive, but Wally had been careful. He had checked for a pulse before placing the pillow behind Dick's head and closing his eyelids. If he had somehow screwed this up, Wally knew he would never be able to bring himself to the sticking point again.

"But . . . I did," he insisted. "I know I did. I checked . . ."

"You freed him," Bruce interrupted. "You're his liberator, Wally, not his killer. Robin's free . . . at long last."

"He's really . . ." Wally stopped and tried to swallow past the lump caught in his throat. "H-He's really . . ."

He couldn't say it. Why couldn't he say the words? The tears were suddenly flooding his previously dry eyes. Wally dropped his head into his hands and began to sob; sliding to the floor as if his heart broke.


When finally the tide ebbed and Wally could breathe once more; he found himself sitting on the floor, leaning against the kitchen island. Bruce stood beside him; one hand resting lightly in his hair.

It took him several minutes before he could climb to his feet and face his best friend's adopted father. Wally scoffed at that one. One look into the grief-filled eyes of the elder man put that foolishness to rest. For despite the cold, harsh composure of the Batman and the restrained, aloof affection of Bruce Wayne, the man before him had loved Dick Grayson enough to give him everything he had to give; his home, his wealth, his name and his heart. He knew without saying that Bruce would have given Dick his life as well without a second thought.

Bruce Wayne was Dick Grayson's father in every way that mattered.

Not knowing what else to say to the man, Wally stammered, "I'm s-sorry."

Bruce gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.

"Go home, Wally," he told him carefully. The glazed look was gone, and in its place was hard glare. "Go home . . . And don't ever step foot in Gotham City again."


REACTIONS?

This one was so difficult to write. Even going back and editing it has me weeping yet again.

I can't imagine that I'll write another tragedy. It takes too much out of me. But despite that, in this particular version, this was a "good", if heartwrenching, ending. Please, if you read this one, tell me what you thought of it, which of the three endings you liked the best and why!