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.

32. Chapter 32: Someone You Loved

"Name?"

Dick was shaking his head furiously. "Again. Blonde hair, blue eyes, five-foot-four. She came to us a few months ago to escape an abusive situation, and chose to keep her name confidential. Now, please. May we see her?"

The nurse behind the desk raised one of her thick eyebrows, supremely unimpressed by the small army of young people crowded right in front of her. Her gaze flicked back and forth between each of them. Dick, with his finger tapping insistently against the counter's surface, heavy bags beneath his eyes. Tim, leaned over the edge with both arms crossed tight over his chest to ease the pounding of his own heart. Damian, biting his lip and glaring at everyone wearing scrubs. Alfred, wringing his hands as he stood to the side. Artemis, sending the receptionist her best death-wishing-scowl. M'gann (disguised as Human Megan) trying to bargain with a passing doctor, not the mention all of the despondent Birds of Prey sitting in the lobby's ancient padded chairs.

The nurse indicated them, first. "And they are, again?"

Tim knew the Birds kept a lower profile in this city than the Bats did in theirs, but this was just ridiculous. They were all in costume for crying out loud! "They're the people who got her out and brought her to us," he explained, ignoring everyone's eyes as they swung on him. "Please, ma'am. We just want to know if she's alright."

She studied him carefully for a moment, then clicked her mouse and typed out a few keywords. "Well, boys, if I don't have a name, I—ah-hah. We've got a Jane Doe in room 420…suppose that could be your girl."

Stephanie, Tim thought wistfully, would find supreme satisfaction in knowing her hospital room was number 420.

"Let's see…blonde hair, blue eyes. I think this is her." The nurse's fingers ticked against the keys, and she looked up at Dick. "'Course, we'll need you to fill out some forms for us before we let you back…"

Dick's relief was almost tangible. "Yes, of course! Of course, where's a pen…?"

Tim nibbled his lip as he watched his brother accept the offered papers, and snatch up a pen with a ridiculously gaudy plastic flower taped to the end. Dick leaned over the forms, arms braced on the desk. With a quick slash of the dry nib, he marked 'N/A' for name and DOB, filled in a few lines of basic info…but then a heavy, uncertain line began to appear between his brows.

So Tim reached out. Tapped his older brother on the arm.

"I can take care of this." He jerked his chin towards Damian. The kid was a few feet away, having a glaring contest with one of the white-coated doctors. "Go take him to the gift shop. Pick something out. Just get him out of here before he gets us kicked to the curb, yeah?"

He added a thin smile. Dick blinked, but nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." He turned to do so, but paused. "Wait. You're sure?"

It was Tim's turn to nod. Twisting the pen between his fingers, eyes tracing the glittery pink petals as they spun, he said, "I've…done this before. When she…you know..."

Had her baby.

Tim remembered it like it was yesterday—which was cliché and cheesy, but so very true. Just barely fifteen years old, but sneaking into Gotham Memorial to help the nurses wheel his then-girlfriend into the birthing room. He could still see Steph's sweat-slicked forehead and bared teeth, hear her pained cries as she gasped and huffed.

"Tim," she'd mumbled between her groans. "Where's…where's Tim?"

He'd slipped his hand in hers, counting on the other two hospital workers nearby to be sufficiently distracted as he whispered, "Right here, babe."

Steph's face had cleared like a sunny summer sky. Her smile was loose, and her eyes were lidded as she breathed, "You made it…"

"I wouldn't miss this for the world."

And once Steph had gone through it, once she'd been handed the bundle that held her little girl, Tim slipped respectfully out of the room. He handled all the paperwork ("I'm the father," he'd lied a little too easily) while his girlfriend spent her last moments with her child.

The adoptive parents had shown up soon after.

And he'd held Stephanie in his arms while she cried, and cried, and cried.

Now, he watched Dick and Alfred steer Damian towards the bright lights and displays of the gift shop. An oasis of color in this otherwise bleak hospital lobby.

The forms practically filled themselves out. Tim knew all of Steph's past medical history. Surgeries, mental health conditions, her allergy to sulfonamides…

He paused at the box that asked for details of past and current drug abuse.

The nurse pursed her lips, watching him. Then, carefully, she said, "The doctor only needs to know that so he can prescribe medication. If it would be easier, sweetie, you can just make a separate note, and we can keep things discrete."

Tim shot a sideways glance at M'gann, who was observing the exchange with very wide eyes. At the look on his face, she dipped her chin and retreated to the ring of chairs at the edge of the waiting area to sit with the other Birds.

Accepting the post-it the nurse passed him, Tim scribbled down a few names. Oxycodone, fentanyl, marijuana, ketamine…

He pushed down the surge of anger that mounted with every scratch of the pen. The *$$#*%^ who'd knocked her up had gotten Steph hooked on most of these. The rest she'd stolen from convenience stores or from her mom. She'd popped anything that would make the pain of the bruises and cuts she got from her dad melt away. Anything to dull the edge.

The second she'd seen her positive pregnancy test, Steph had gone cold turkey. She got clean for her baby girl, went to classes and support groups (many of which Tim had driven her to) and never picked it up again.

None of the others knew. Bruce might've figured it out, or at least suspected. Maybe Jason, if Steph had told him. But that was it. Tim could only count himself lucky that Steph had ever trusted him enough as a friend to let him into the closet where she kept all of her skeletons.

After all, it wasn't exactly a time in her life that Stephanie liked to revisit.

Tim gingerly handed the note to the nurse, and watched her eyes go sad.

"Poor baby," she muttered, before her eyes flicked back up to his. "Thank &*# you got her out of wherever she was. How long has she been off these?"

"Five years sober," Tim said with a note of pride.

"Good, good. I'll walk you back." With a huff, the nurse got to her feet and waved a hand towards the assembled guests. "Not everyone can come with, though."

"Course," Tim said. He waved to his brothers and Alfred, who were emerging from the gift shop with a plastic bag. They caught his signal and hurried over. But before they were in earshot, Tim asked one last question.

"Can you tell me…how bad is it?"

The nurse's brows pinched. "Oh, sweetie," she said softly. "It isn't good."

#######

#######

The moment Dick saw Stephanie, he nearly burst into tears.

They'd set her up in a nest of beeping monitors and machines. Steph lay soundly in the bed, with thin covers draped over her legs and stomach. She was out cold; eyes fluttered shut, hair spilling angelically over the pillow around her head, arms laid out at her sides, palms faced up, as if welcoming everyone into her room.

Worst of all, she'd been intubated.

"She has extensive damage to her esophagus," the nurse explained, moving to check over Steph's vitals. "Whatever she took burned holes in the tissue."

The others were grim and silent. Dick himself had to wrap his fingers around the footboard to keep himself from tumbling over.

The nurse's eyelids drooped as she reached over to gently move a stray hair out of Steph's face. "Her vocal chords are completely ruined. And, I'm sorry to say, it's only a matter of time before the foreign compound she inhaled begins to eat away at the rest of her throat lining. We've…we've never seen anything like this before."

Tim's voice was heartbreakingly small. "You mean, she's…?"

"Afraid so." The nurse's throat bobbed, and she glanced away. "All we can do now is keep her comfortable."

Dick dared a glance at the others. Alfred was standing stoically by the door, his glistening eyes the only thing that betrayed his emotion. Tim's jaw was clenched tight, and he shook his head. "No," he breathed.

And Damian, eyes wide and brimming, looked like he wanted to fall right through the floor.

But Dick only felt anger well up inside of him, replacing that whirlpool of helplessness that threatened to drag him under along with the others. They'd lost Stephanie before, and it had almost ripped the family apart. And now, with Barbara missing, and the rest of them holding onto the shreds of their composure and sanity with their bare fingertips—now was not the time to sit around and mourn.

Now was not the time to lose anyone else.

Dick felt his posture straighten. To the nurse, he managed to soberly say, "Can we please have some time alone with her?"

The nurse gave them that, at least, ducking out of the room to give them privacy. His brothers looked to him, but Dick didn't waver.

"Alfred," he said gently, "Would you go to the waiting room and get Zatanna for me? And M'gann."

"M'gann?" Tim frowned.

"We need someone to…convince the staff to keep out for a while." Dick nodded towards Stephanie, whose eyes had begun to twitch beneath their lids. "And she's going to wake up soon. When she does, it'll probably be best to let her rest her voice."

Understanding lit up his brothers' faces, and Alfred hurried off to comply.

The waiting was the worst part. When he could feel Tim's and Damian's eyes burning holes into the back of his head. He knew they were both thinking the same thing—a little over two hours ago, he'd killed his own cousin. The fact that he'd revived and gone right back to taunting them and laughing in their faces was irrelevant. Dick had still wrapped his hands around Johnny's throat.

He'd still crossed that line.

And even if the consequences hadn't lasted…Dick could still feel that something inside of him had…shifted. He wondered if his brothers could feel it, too.

It was a definite relief, when Alfred walked back through the door.

But instead of the two women Dick had asked for, six walked in. Zatanna and M'gann led the group, but Artemis, Helena, and Dawn were close behind.

Last of all to enter the room was a very small, very sheepish Dina.

When she saw Stephanie, Dina's face went chalk-white, her expression drawn. She moved as if to rush over to the younger girl's side, but jerkily stopped. Helena laid a hand on her arm and led her to the other end of the room, farthest away from the hospital bed.

"Hope you don't mind if we crash this little party," Helena snapped. "But she needs to see what she did."

Dawn frowned. "She wasn't herself, and you know it. Stop making it worse, Helena."

"I don't give a single &*$%!" Helena's eyes brimmed over, and she swiped away the tears with a drag of her fist. "That's our little Batgirl in that bed, and it should've been one of us. So you take that uppity little accent, Dawnie, and shove it right up your—"

"Okay," Artemis interjected, waving a hand as if to slice through the mounting tension. "That's enough from both of you. We're here for Steph, remember? So, shelf the argument, and focus on what's really important right now. Dick? How can we help?"

Technically, the Birds and Artemis couldn't do much in the way of actual 'helping'. But he wasn't about to shunt any of them out the door. Instead, he turned to Zatanna. She was watching him earnestly, both hands clasped together at her front.

"Zee," he said softly, "What would you need for a healing spell?"

He knew enough about Zatanna's mojo by now to know that there were some things that could be fixed with the wave of a hand and a single word in reverse, and there were some things that took…more. Many a time after missions, Zee had helped patch everyone's wounds. But the more serious the injury, the more effort it took to make a dent in the healing process. So, Dick wasn't surprised in the slightest by her answer.

"Time," she said, biting her lip. "More time…than I think she has. Corrosive injuries, especially with something as delicate as a windpipe…Dick, I can't make you any promises."

Dick's throat felt tight. "Just promise to do what you can."

"Of course."

"M'gann," he said, switching gears. "The nurses—"

"Already done. They're all convinced the room is empty." M'gann's eyes never left Stephanie, tracing up and down her face, searching. Whatever she found, she clearly wasn't excited about it. "And I can try to link us all up, but the second I do, she could come around. Are we sure?"

The easy answer was yes. They all wanted Steph to wake up, because the alternative meant that she could slip seamlessly away. One second here, asleep, and the next, the EKG monitor letting them know she'd left them.

But Dick also knew that the second she woke up, she'd be in a world of pain. There was a morphine drip in her arm (that Tim, for whatever reason, kept eyeing nervously) but knowing his little sister, the trauma alone might be more than enough to push her off the edge altogether.

M'gann read his mind. "So maybe we shouldn't—"

But at that moment, Stephanie's eyes twitched open.

#######

#######

To say that her head hurt was putting it lightly.

Barbara felt like someone had scrambled her brains in a blender set on puree.

And opening her eyes to the light did her no favors, whatsoever.

Even if it wasn't the harsh lighting of the Maze she'd come to know so intimately, it still stung her retinas like acid. The ambience of the room she was in was a little more muted (though to be fair, anything was 'more muted' than glaring fluorescents), but there was still bright light streaming in through a source behind her.

Odd, though. It almost looked—almost felt—just like…

…sunlight?

Barbara whirled around towards the source.

It was…a window. A window with lacy white curtains just thin enough to let the sun stream through the little holes and swirls. Barbara reached out tentatively, fully expecting some kind of shock or jab, but when her fingers brushed the material, all she felt was the light caress of fabric and thread.

Wait. Wait, this wasn't right.

There were no windows down in #$%%, so what…?

Her head turned sharply, eyes scanning her surroundings. Barbara could feel her jaw go slack at the sight of a small living room. Smooth wood floors beneath her feet, polished to a gleaming shine. Leather sofas and armchairs set tastefully around the room, and pushed up against walls painted a sunny canary yellow. There were more windows like the one behind her, each dressed up with equally frilly curtains. There were paintings on the walls—still life pieces that featured bouquets of flowers, and robins perched amongst the petals. The whole effect was a half-idea of sorts, almost as if the room were still trying to decide what it wanted to be.

"What…the…$#!^…" Barbara whispered, spinning on her heel as she took it all in.

Was this some kind of messed up hallucination? Again? More of her repressed memories being thrown in her face? Again?

No…no, that couldn't be right. As she eyed the room more closely—saw the magazines on the glass coffee table with no discernable headlines, added to the fact that there was no &*#% door to be seen—something didn't sit right.

This was no memory.

Barbara's ears pricked at the sound of metal sliding against glass. And she turned again, this time towards the source of the noise. There was a small hallway, leading into a separate room.

She crouched, sliding forward into the corridor.

The sounds grew louder; small thumps and clinks. (More instruments of torture, maybe?) She glanced up at the hallway's walls, and noticed framed pictures hung up intermittently.

Barbara paused. Straightened. Gaped.

The pictures in the frame showed a smiling family of four, pressed close together and posing for the camera. A mom, a dad, two beaming children. Some of the frames had cheesy staged portraits—a shot of them at Disneyland, mouse ears and everything. Others showed just the kids, building sandcastles on the beach, with sand sticking to their skin and clinging in their hair, or riding their dad's shoulders, or displaying artwork they'd finger-painted all by themselves…

Barbara reached out, pressing a shaky finger to the mother's face.

It was her own.

Just when her heart had stopped beating in her chest, the voice started it back up again like a full blast from an AED.

"You're more than welcome to stand there all day, but I could use a little backup in here."

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't even remember how.

All Barbara could do was step into the room—a kitchen—and brace an arm against the wall to stay steady.

Checkered floor, pictures of roosters and chefs with roly-poly cheeks and puffy white hats, pots and pans hanging everywhere…it was the most stereotypical, white-suburban-family kitchen Barbara had ever seen. But that wasn't what made her lungs screech to a full stop, along with her heart and mind.

Oh, no. The thing that gave her pause was the sight of the man behind the kitchen counter. His back was turned, but he was busily slicing vegetables and tossing them into a sizzling pan. A tantalizing, savory smell wafted through the air, and the way it made Barbara's mouth water was absolutely Pavlovian. Plates and cups and utensils had already been set out in a pile on the counter, waiting for both the food, and for the diners. With a quick jerk of his hand, the man snatched up a jar of spice, and sprinkled it over the contents of the frying pan.

Then, satisfied, he took the end result off the burner, and tweaked the knob on the stove. With a pleasant sigh, the stranger planted both hands on his hips, turned around, and Barbara's legs almost gave out completely.

"Dick?" she whispered, disbelieving.

He grinned that devilish grin and shot her a wink. "Yes?"

"You're…" Barbara swallowed hard. "You're here."

"Um…yeah? I live here, babe."

Her eyes drank him in greedily. The quirk of his brow, that small squint-and-smile he always made when she said something he found to be amusing and confusing all at the same time. His eyes—those gorgeous blue eyes she loved—and his shoulders and hands, and lips and nose, his wavy dark hair and his &*##*$% chin and his—his—his—

"Babs?" Dick's easy smile melted away, and he rounded the counter, rushing toward her. "Hey, hey, what's wrong? Why the tears?"

His arms were around her now, holding her close. Barbara hadn't even registered the tears streaming down her face until they were soaking Dick's shirt, and she let out a broken gasp.

"Dick?"

"You're okay." He squeezed her tight. "I've got you."

Barbara shook her head, nose crushed against his chest. "Dick. Dick. Where are we? What is this place?"

He pulled away, just a little. Just enough so that he could look her in the eye, his expression a mix of confusion and anxiety. "Hey, you're scaring me. What do you mean, 'where are we'?"

"I mean, where are we?"

Dick blinked, startled. Then softened, rubbing her shoulders in soothing circles. "Breathe, Angel. We're in our house."

Her ears pricked at the nickname. Angel. An older relic from their Batgirl and Nightwing days, when their relationship had still been young. Dick didn't use it much, anymore. Only when he was holding her close after a nightmare, whispering soft, calming nothings into her ear in hopes of getting her heartrate down. It was his way of letting her know the world wasn't crashing down around her. Of letting her know she was safe.

Then the word 'home' registered like a stiff slap to the face.

Barbara's head shook sluggishly. "No…that's not…" She reached up, gripping his arms desperately. "That can't be right. Dick, the Owls took me! I've been trapped, and they've been making me see things, and there was no way out and—oh, &*#, did they get you too? Dick?" Her chest seized as she whispered, "Dick, are they making you do this?"

His hands enveloped hers gently, and he lowered them to her sides. "Hey, nobody's making me do anything, babe. I know what the Court did to you, but…that was a long time ago." Dick reached up, caressing her cheek with his fingers lovingly. "It's over. We got you out, and you're safe. And now we're home, baby. Everything's okay."

"Home…?" Barbara shook her head. This Martha Stewart reject of a hallucination wasn't home. Home was Wayne Manor, Gotham, her family—

"Mommy!" a voice cried out.

And Barbara didn't think it was possible for her chest to tighten even further, and yet here they were. She whirled towards the sound of pattering bare feet, and saw a little girl with inky black pigtails burst into the kitchen.

She couldn't have been more than six or seven years old, but she bounced in place like a little pogo-stick, her gap-toothed smile on full display. "You're home!" she gushed, "I painted a picture for you today! I worked on it for hours! It's a dog, just like Uncle D's, but it's white with brown spots instead of black like Titus, but I always wanted a white dog with brown spots so that's what I painted, and—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, princess!" Dick advanced on the little girl and scooped her up into a fireman's carry. Her shriek of laughter carried through the room, ringing off the walls. "Slowwwww dooowwwn."

He spun in slow circles, his voice dropping into long, drawn out groans. The girl giggled uncontrollably into his shoulder.

"Daddy!" came her muffled protest. "Daddy put me down! Aah!"

She screeched in delight as Dick twirled her around and set her carefully down on the floor. With a gratified sigh, she flopped backward, limbs sprawling on the tile.

"What am I gonna do with you?" the girl groaned dramatically.

Dick threw his head back with a full-bellied bout of laughter.

And Barbara could only look on, as she did her best to keep her own head from exploding.

"Hey, Marie." Dick crouched, poking the girl's foot with one finger. "Mommy's had a long day at work. So while Daddy's finishing up dinner, is there anything you could do to help?"

The little girl—Marie—sat up straight as if she'd been electrocuted. With a wild smile, she gasped, "I know!"

And before Barbara could even blink in response, the girl was on her feet. Before she could even open her mouth to speak, Marie's arms were wrapped around her legs in a tight, desperate embrace. Barbara hobbled a little bit, shocked at first. Then, slowly, her own hands came down to rest gently on the girl's shoulders.

"Is it working?" Marie whispered loudly.

Barbara bit her lip. "Is what working…?"

The girl turned her face upward, hitting Barbara with the full brunt of her wide, blue eyes. It was enough to melt the stoniest heart, and Barbara found herself relaxing in spite of herself.

"I'm hugging you," Marie said, like she was stating the obvious. "'Cause you had a hard day and you need the In-dolphins."

"I-in…what?"

The little girl nodded very seriously. "In-dolphins. Uncle Tim told me all about them. They make your brain happy!"

"Ha! I think you mean 'endorphins', princess." Dick laughed over by the stove as he spooned the sautéed vegetables into a serving bowl. The dry sound of the wooden spatula on the metal rim set Barbara's teeth on edge. "Uncle Tim is pretty smart, but remember what Daddy told you?"

"He's not as cool as Uncle Jason," Marie said dutifully.

"Uh, no, I think that's what Ja—don't you remember?" Dick turned towards them, and settled the bowl on the counter. "Always…"

Marie bit her lip in concentration. "Always fat check with Mommy and Daddy first?"

"Perfect, sweetie!" Dick rolled his eyes as he shot Barbara a knowing smile. "Always check your fats." He patted his stomach with a chuckle. "That's something Daddy's gonna have to do before we have dessert—now…"

He waved his hands over the spread—steaming vegetables, warm homemade bread with a crisp golden crust, a seasoned pot roast—and his smile stretched from ear to ear. "I'm gonna go grab Tommy, and then we can eat! Marie, can you help your mom set the table?"

"Uh-huh!"

Dick hurried off, ignoring Barbara's breath of a protest, and she was left standing with an impish little girl grinning up at her.

She had Dick's eyes. They were wide and innocent, and so full of light and hope. So full of everything. It took Barbara's breath away, and she found herself laying a hand cautiously against the little girl's round cheek. She stared right back down at her daughter, eyes tearing up. "You're beautiful," she whispered, swallowing back a sob. "You…how old are you?"

Marie giggled into her shoulder. She held up one hand, fingers splayed wide, and lifted one more finger. "Mommy! You know how old I am!"

"Um…right. You're…" Barbara counted the fingers quickly. "Six…?"

"No!" Marie pouted. "I'm six and three quarters! My birthday's almost here!"

This was insane.

Barbara was standing in front of the sweetest little girl, and she was saying that she was almost seven years old. And, most incredible of all, that she was Barbara's. (Barbara's and Dick's…)

What the #$%% was happening? Dick said it was over…but what did that even mean? Had she been in a coma this whole time? Maybe the others had gotten her out, but she'd finally succumbed to her injuries? Maybe she'd just been in a hospital bed—no, no, wait. If Barbara had just woken up from a coma, Dick wouldn't have been acting like everything was normal again, he'd be…and they wouldn't have a seven-year-old…

Barbara gathered up the dishes Dick had set out, and started helping Marie move them to the scratched-up dining table on the other end of the kitchen.

Maybe this was a mental break. She'd been rescued from the Owls, then suffered acute amnesia, forgetting everything that happened after that? No, that couldn't be right, either…

She set the first plate down with a soft clink. Maybe…maybe she'd finally died? A Talon had hit too hard, a scalpel had gone too deep, and the Lazarus water had, at long last, failed to revive her?

Was this some kind of pseudo-heaven?

Barbara watched Marie bring over the steaming basket of bread, and her thoughts spun madly. For one thing, everything looked amazing. The bread smelled downright heavenly, and the pot roast looked like something Alfred would have slaved over for hours. Even the vegetables, seasoned with spices Barbara didn't think she could name, looked like they'd taste phenomenal.

But unfortunately, looking at that mouth-watering meal connected a pair of dots in her mind. Even if she had been in a coma, even if she had suffered amnesia…#$%%, even if she'd died and gone to some sort of afterlife, there was no way—no way—

—that Dick Grayson had made any of this food.

Her boyfriend, bless his heart, was incredibly talented. He knew and could hack security systems inside out. His acrobatic prowess was unmatched. His way with people was uniquely proficient.

But Dick knew how to make cold cereal and Kraft mac n' cheese—anything more complicated than that wound up so burnt that it would take an entire Major Crimes unit to identify the remains.

So she looked right at her sweet little girl, Marie, who was blinking up at her again with a smile that was missing two baby teeth. And she told her through sudden tears,

"You're not real."

"Mommy…?" The little girl pouted.

Then she froze. Like a movie set on pause.

It turned Barbara's veins to ice. There was an alarm going off in her head as she felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle in warning.

And she heard a slow, dry clap behind her.

Barbara turned. The woman standing behind the counter was giving her a lazy, close-lipped smile. She wore a crisp gray pantsuit that made her appear more predatory than a lioness, and with her red hair and gleaming eyes, her face was as recognizable to Barbara as her own.

Because it was her own.

"You know, that's no way to talk to a kid," the woman mused, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. "You're going to give her some kind of complex."

Barbara glanced back at her daughter, still frozen in place. Reaching out, she laid a gentle hand on Marie's cheek, cupping it carefully before she glowered up at her evil twin.

"It's you," she said venomously. "My conscience."

"Dingaling!" Not-Barbara gave a trill of a laugh, and struck an alluring pose. "In the flesh. Or, your flesh, to be more specific. You know, I've been having a lot of fun rooting around in here. Found a lot of little treasures tucked away inside the dust bunnies of your brain. For instance…suit jackets! Last time we wore one of these was for an undercover job in Milan, right?" She tugged at her lapels and shimmied her shoulders a little, quirking an eyebrow. "Very sexy. I'll have to wear them more often."

"What the #$%% is this?" Barbara demanded, waving her hands in the air. "This…"

Not-Barbara blinked. Then grinned. "Oh, you mean 'this'?"

She snapped her fingers, and Dick appeared in the space next to her holding a sleepy toddler in Thomas the Tank Engine jammies on his hip. The boy's eyes drooped, like he'd just been woken from a nap. And it was obvious that he was their son—his skin was just a touch lighter than Dick's bronze tone, and he had a mop of curly auburn hair. He blinked slowly, then looked up at her.

"Mami?" he said, and reached out, little fingers grasping at the air.

Dick chuckled. "Little man's been napping so good. But if we keep going at this rate, we'll never get him to sleep through the night. Wanna hold him?"

"Stop." Tears pricked in Barbara's eyes. Through gritted teeth she groaned, "You aren't real."

Dick reeled, and hurt flashed briefly in his eyes. But then he and the baby froze, just like Marie, and Barbara was left standing with her double. Who, as soon as she saw the first tear track down Barbara's cheek, let out a satisfied hum.

Reaching up, she laid a hand on Not-Dick's chest. "You know, you've really got yourself a stud, here, babe. Drop-dead gorgeous, killer brains, and good with kids? Hot &*%#! A real keeper, if I ever saw one. Shame you messed it up in the real world, though, hm?"

Barbara flinched.

"And kids!" Not-Barbara's fingers trailed up, and she ran them lovingly through the little boy's curls. She stepped around the counter and stalked forward, never stopping until she stood beside Marie. Laid a gentle hand on top of her head. "Beautiful, aren't they? Absolutely perfect. Especially for you."

"Stop it," Barbara whispered.

"Sooo afraid of bringing children into this world," Not-Barbara sang as she tilted her head. "Because what if your Jenga tower of a spine can't take the stress? Or worse…what kind of life could you possibly provide? Every kid that ever trusted you wound up dead."

Barbara clapped a hand over her mouth just in time to muffle a sudden sob.

And Not-Barbara pouted sympathetically. "Go ahead. Face it, sweetie. Out in the real world, your life is over. It was over the second you put on the Bat. You just didn't know it 'til the Owls pried you open and dug me out."

Barbara took a step backward towards the table, a hand resting on the wooden back of a chair.

"But in here?" the woman gestured to the room, "In here, you're free. Free to live out every fantasy, every whim, every desire you've ever had! The kids you always wanted? Yours! The man you love—you know, the one you betrayed? In here, he never stopped loving you! He never abandoned you, and left you to the Court. He never—"

"Enough!" Barbara dug her fingers into her scalp. "Enough! He didn't abandon me. I took care of it, I told him not to come, I—!"

"You're absolutely right." Not-Barbara said sweetly, marching up towards Barbara with smooth, fluid steps. She could feel the slight prickle of her body double's touch as she stroked a hand down her face, but it was nearly intangible. The woman wasn't really there at all. And as she leaned in to whisper, her breath against Barbara's skin didn't feel quite right, either. "You did take care of it. He's not coming. And thank &*#, too! That's just what they want, after all. They want Dickie so that they can do to him what they did to us."

"Like you'd give a &*#%," Barbara snarled.

Her twin blinked, surprised. "Oh, but I do, sweetie. I very much give a &*#%. I give all the &*#%s! Because you do."

"Excuse me?"

"Hm." Not-Barbara smiled tightly, without a trace of warmth, and tapped Barbara's cheek. "I can't stop giving a &*#%, honey. I've got my claws hooked nice and firm in this lovely little mind of ours. Almost managed to wrench the steering wheel from you, too! But for some reason, you just keep holding onto it. And as long as you're in the driver's seat, babes, I'm just here to fulfill all of your precious needs. Namely? Protecting your interests. Keeping you safe."

Oh.

Barbara had read about this. Studied the theories and academic literature written on the subject. In cases of extreme trauma, the human brain had ways of adapting. It had ways of protecting itself from further harm…

"I'm not some alternate personality, you know. Like the ones you see in low-budget cable shows and horror flicks." Not-Barbara smirked knowingly, as if she'd read Barbara's thoughts from a teleprompter. "If I was, you'd know it. Trust me."

"Then what the #$%% are you?"

"Isn't it crystal-clear, yet? I'm you. And I've been here a very long time."

Barbara's fingers wrapped around the other woman's wrist. The place where their skin touched buzzed slightly, like static electricity. Gently, she asked, "How long?"

Not-Barbara's eyes flashed. "You really want to know? Please."

With a snap of her free fingers, the woman flung Barbara across the room. She hit the wall with a thud, sliding down to the white and black tiles. A pained groan edged past her lips.

"I've been trapped in your head doing damage control ever since we were a kid, Barbara. The first splinter of me was struck into being the night David and Eileen Kean were murdered." Barbara heard footsteps approaching her, slow and echoing. "And the rest came from our brother dearest and his sick little games."

She rubbed a hand over her eyes, and moaned, "Brother? What—"

Not-Barbara huffed out a mirthless chuckle. "You really haven't figured it out, have you? Hn. Maybe I've done my job a little too well." There was a click of a tongue, before her double added, "Moving on…"

When Barbara managed to look up, the room shifted into a modern penthouse. White walls, wood paneled flooring, hanging plants everywhere. Dick, Marie and the baby were gone. She blinked again, and it was a medieval castle. Again, and it was a plain gray room.

"Here's how this is going to work," Not-Barbara growled, settling on the blank slate of a setting. "You're going to stay here, in this cozy little corner of our inner mind, while I figure out how to keep you that way. I'm not sure what you'd prefer—heaven or #$%%—but, believe me Barbara, I can make it happen. Any scene, any characters, any story. Play nice with me? Let me take the wheel? I'll let you live out the rest of your life with Dick. I'll even let the others come visit! They'll have their kids, and their families, and their lives. And no matter what, you'll always get to be a part of it. Best of all? You'll never have to worry about falling into that abyss—there won't be any reason to! I can make you forget, Barbara! Every bad thing that ever happened! Every reason you have to hate the world! All of it!"

Barbara listened tearfully, jaw clenched so tight she could hear it pop. "And, what? All I have to do is give up?"

Not-Barbara knelt, going down to her level, meeting her eyes forcefully. One hand darted out, snatching up Barbara's wrist. "Yes. Just let go. There's a little part of you—just a little smidge—that's still holding on. One last shred of…us…I haven't been able to get to. Let me have it. Let me drive."

"I—tell me about my brother, first."

"Excuse me?"

Barbara grit her teeth. "There are only four people who I've ever considered brothers, and none of them ever played 'sick little games'. So who did you mean? What 'brother'?"

A sudden storm of anger swirled inside her duplicate's eyes, and Barbara could practically see the lightning flash. "I'll tell you," she growled. "when you've earned it."

Something shifted. Before Barbara had the chance to press the issue further, before her double had the chance to shut her up again. They both felt it, and whirled towards the sudden sound.

One of the gray walls of the mental room blurred, shimmering like rippling water. Barbara felt the other woman's grip on her slacken. And as the gray dissolved, a window looking out on their holding cell appeared.

They watched the door slide open together. Barbara expected to see Calvin or one of the other Talons step through, maybe even Slade bringing her breakfast. But it wasn't one, but three people who came in.

Leading the way was the Grandmaster himself.

He was flanked by two lackeys, a man in a crisp suit and one of the Court's signature masks, and a Talon. Could have been Carver or Reslin, but Barbara wasn't exactly sure. The three men looked down at Barbara's body, chained to the wall and slumped against the floor, with calm interest.

"Hn." Not-Barbara's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "That would be my cue. A moment? We'll talk later."

Her form shivered, then disappeared, like a blown dandelion. Which left Barbara alone, with nothing to do but watch.

"They told me she's ready," Vanaver mused. "I confess, I've been anticipating this moment for quite a while, now."

The man in the mask on his right turned his head to the side. Looking away. A spark of guilt—the only emotion betrayed by that blank slate of an individual.

Barbara frowned, studying the masked man closer. She noted the pull of his shoulders, the width and shape. His height, the way he held himself. All of it was so…familiar to her in a way she couldn't name. It was almost like having a word on the tip of your tongue, but not knowing how to say it.

Then Vanaver continued. This time, addressing her.

"Miss Kean," he said, hands clasped behind his back. His vulture's eyes glittered behind the holes of his gold and ivory owl's mask. "You've learned much under our careful tutelage. You came to us as a rebellious little shrew…and now, you have been tamed. It is the Court's will to perfect you, shape you into a magnificent creature more powerful than you could have ever dreamed. Is this your will, as well?"

For a moment, there was a heavy silence in the room. Trapped inside her own head, Barbara pulled her knees to her chest, watching the external scene carefully, eyes wide, breath stuttered.

But Not-Barbara was right there to answer Vanaver's query.

She pulled their body upright, sitting propped against the wall. Every placement of an arm or leg or hand was deliberate, meant to convey helplessness. Her chin dipped respectfully; head bowed toward the ground. This show of submission was all an act, but it was an act that Vanaver lapped up with wicked glee.

He gave a pleased hum. "You have my permission. Speak, child."

Their voice was cracked from lack of use, but Not-Barbara managed to say,

"I have no will, Grandmaster. My will is the Court's... I am no one, I am everyone."

No words could have satisfied Abraham Vanaver more than those. Barbara watched his entire countenance lift, buoyed up by this victory over his broken captive. With a wave of his hand, he gave one more declaration. One more demand.

"Then kneel before your Grandmaster, child. Show me where your loyalty lies."

Barbara bit down on her tongue, helplessly looking on as her own body lifted, hands bracing against the floor, her knees sliding up beneath her. She tasted blood as she watched her palms slide against the floor towards the Grandmaster's feet. And her view was enveloped in shadow as her forehead pressed against the ground.

That son of a &!^$#.

And Vanaver was speaking again. His voice was laced through with cruel gratification. He seemed to preen at this triumph.

"Didn't I tell you once, my dear, that we'd soon get you down on your knees for me, willingly?" With a hum, he added, "And what do you think, now, Mr. March? Is she sufficiently tamed?"'

Barbara couldn't see anything. She wished she could observe the man's response. Did his shoulders stiffen again, weighed down by guilt? Did he flinch? Did he even react at all?

All she could do was listen. For the first time, she heard the man's voice. A low timbre, smooth, but with a rougher undertone. He said,

"I think your men have done their jobs well, Grandmaster. But are you sure we can trust this? Trust her? At the end of the day, if we don't have that, we don't have anything."

And Barbara's head snapped up.

That voice. That voice—

She saw the Courtier through wide eyes. Felt her heart accelerate and crash against her ribs, thrashing like a startled bird in a cage. Her whole body sang with adrenaline. She felt as though she was falling through the floor into an endless abyss.

And the Courtier noticed her gaze. His eyes lighted on her through his mask. Wide and blue, and as familiar as her own.

That was when she knew.

"Dad," Barbara breathed, voice cracking on the word.

And the word was hers, not her other self's. She moved her fingers, and felt her body respond. Stumbled to her feet, and rejoiced as control slipped back into her nerves and muscles and bones. Not-Barbara shrieked, outraged, in the back of her mind, but Barbara pushed her voice aside and gasped,

"Dad, is that really you…?"

She lurched forward, but stopped when she reached the end of her chains too soon.

His voice. Barbara knew his voice. It had taken those visions—those memories—to remind her of the sound, though a part of her had never really forgotten.

"Lincoln, what the #$%% is she talking about?

She'd missed him. Oh, &*#, she'd missed him.

Lincoln March, or at least the man using his name, shook his head. "Sir, believe me, I don't know what—"

Barbara stretched, straining. And her fingers snagged the cuff of his jacket. "Please," she begged. "Please, you have to get me out of here. I have to warn them, I have to—"

The Talon responded like a lightning strike, and Barbara was on the ground with a boot on her throat. She gargled beneath the weight of the warrior's foot. Her fingers clawed at the unforgiving leather.

"Hhkgk…please. Don't…hhn…don't leave me here…Daddy, please!"

All of the pain, all of the absolute misery she'd endured these past weeks... She'd held on for so long, tried so hard to be strong—no giving way, no giving ground. Her only option had been to grit her teeth and outlast the agony. Claw and fight for any chance at escape, hope and pray for relief and rescue when all those attempts failed.

And, now? Now, there was someone who was right here. Someone who could save her. Barbara reached out, fingers grasping desperately at thin air as she reached for his unoffered hand.

"Don't leave me."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. But March only looked down in disinterest.

"I suppose she has me confused with someone else," he said.

And perhaps she did. Perhaps she was wrong...

Vanaver hummed, his vulture gaze narrowing.

"You promised!" Barbara screamed.

And for a moment, Lincoln's eyes flew wide.

But then darkness crept at the edges of Barbara's vision. She felt her muscles lock up. Paralyzing fear swept through her entire body as an emotion she couldn't identify drenched her senses. Her eyes rolled up into her head as she heard Not-Barbara's triumphant laugh in her mind.

That's it!

Oh &*#, finally!

That's the last piece of the puzzle, baby! And now?

Now you're all MINE!

Barbara could feel herself slip. She was once again back in the gray, featureless room, feeling that she'd ever left it in the first place.

And then, her feet began to sink through the floor.

Her eyes flung themselves around the space as she looked for some kind of escape. A handhold. Something. They settled back on the window from before, zeroing in on Lincoln March, who was hovering above her warily.

"Is she going into shock?"

Barbara started to sink deeper. The floor was cold and compressing as it enveloped her legs all the way up past the knee.

She was wrong, it wasn't him. It wasn't him, she was wrong…

Vanaver shook his head. Took a step forward.

Barbara was up to her waist, now. Hands beating in vain against the floor, she screamed into her own mind, listening to her other half cackle in the background.

Wrong…wrong…wrong…

The Grandmaster leaned down, his gilded mask glinting as he came closer. Barbara saw his eyes twitch over her face, inspecting its sudden blankness. He had to have been wondering why she'd stopped screaming. Stopped fighting. Stopped…everything.

But with a curt nod, he said, "Kuttler told me this might happen again. The glitch I mentioned earlier."

The 'glitch'. When Barbara had seized back control for only a moment, in a weak, pathetic, failed attempt to save Christina's life.

"But whatever it was, it's gone, now. The system took care of it."

It was a 'control' that she would not have again.

Barbara's shoulder blades slipped below the surface. Fingernails scrabbled against the smooth floor, and she could feel herself sliding.

I did take care of it, Barbara.

Whatever that was, that you made us feel—I took care of it.

And now, I'll take care of you.

Behave for me, and maybe you'll even come to like it.

Barbara let out a desperate scream as her head began to sink. Grayness was all she could see, as the floor closed over her lips, her nose, her eyes. Barbara strained her arm, fingers grasping and clawing at the empty air, before they, too, were pulled beneath.

Yet, still, inexplicably, she could hear Vanaver's voice say, "Now, she is finally ours."

And with one last shattered sob into the abyss—

—Barbara Delphi broke.

#######

#######

At first, Steph eyed the room through slitted eyes.

Her gaze flitted between each of them slowly, as if she were wondering why they were all crowded around so close. She traced the ceiling, the walls. Her eyes landed on the monitors, the blankets, and finally the drip in her arm—

—then they flew open wide.

"Nhheh!" she wheezed. A hand clapped over her throat as a wince of unspeakable pain twisted her features. When her fingers found the tube in her mouth, she let out a guttural scream.

Dick reached out for her hand. "Hey, sis. Don't speak. Just—"

Stephanie's eyes flicked open again, and this time, they were frenzy-filled and bulging. With a savage swipe of her wrist, she batted Dick's hand away. Reached down. Her fingers clawed desperately at the tape holding in the IV.

"Wait!" Dick gasped.

Tim rushed forward, going for Steph's other arm. Damian lunged for her shoulder. The Birds made to move, but before anyone had the chance, M'gann slammed her hands together, irises gleaming green.

The psychic link crashed into everyone's minds like a blow to the face, and it left them all reeling. Yet, that in and of itself was nothing compared to the sound of Steph screaming in their heads.

{"NO! NonononoNO! I'm alive! I swear I'm alive! Get Leslie! I'm alive! Don't—don't—I'm not dead—please don't—!}

{"Steph!"} Tim planted both hands on her shoulders, and shook her once.

Stephanie froze, jolted out of her frenzied mental tirade. With wide eyes, she looked up at Tim.

{"Tim,"} her voice was shaky and uncertain over the psychic connection.

{"Hey, there,"} Tim replied. His grip on her shoulders loosened, but his hands never moved.

{"Where am I?"}

{"Breathe, first. Can you do that?"}

The intubation machine thrummed as Stephanie took measured, wheezy breaths.

Tim's thumbs massaged into Stephanie's tight muscles, and they all watched her relax slightly. Dick frowned a little as he watched his brother's face. The concern there was real. So was the desperation. If he didn't know better—if he hadn't known their history (had a front-row seat to watch it all play out, even)—he might've thought…

The booming sound of shouts down the hall made them all glance up at the door. Hurried footsteps, the shrieks of outraged nurses. Something clattered. More screams. Dick felt his heartrate spike, and he slid into a ready position, fists raised. From the corner of his eye, it wasn't hard to see everyone else in the room mirror his movements.

"Sir—sir! Get back here!"

"Where the #$%% do you think you're—?"

"Jennings! Call securi—aaghh!"

There was another loud thump, this one right outside the door, and every hero tensed.

And for an agonizing few seconds, silence buzzed in the air. Suspense hung over the room's occupants like a shroud; who were they up against? A Talon coming to finish the job? An assassin with more poison?

Then a boot kicked the door open. It swung open with a bang, and everyone jumped. But the two people who strode through the door were very much not Talons—

—though it did look like they had 'Talon' splattered all over them.

Jason's chest heaved, eyes narrowed and searching. He was drenched head to toe in black, like someone had dumped a bucket of printer ink over his head. His tux was ripped and shredded in places, his tie was pulled loose, and one of his shoes was missing. And his date (Katherine Kane, though she was barely recognizable underneath the gore) was in a very similar state.

Only difference was, her eyes were gleaming with a vivid kind of exhilaration.

Jason's eyes landed on Steph, and he rushed forward. "I came as soon as I got your call, Tim," he breathed in a rush. "What the #$%% happened? Who did this to her? Who the &*$% did this to her?"

And for the first time in years—years—Dick saw Jason's eyes glow.

Tim clearly saw it too, because for a few stretching moments, all he could do was gape. Jason didn't seem to mind, just pulled Steph closer and buried his face into her hair. "I'm so sorry," he muttered, over and over.

Slowly, everyone's eyes slid to Dina. She was huddled in the corner of the room, watching the patient in the bed with a wide, wary gaze. There was a haunted pull to her expression, and Dick's heart lurched with a sympathetic pang. He knew what it was like to hurt someone you cared about. He knew what it was like to lose control of yourself.

It wasn't the sort of feeling he'd wish on anyone.

"Who?" Jason growled into Steph's neck. "Who did this?"

Dina's eyes twitched just a little wider.

And Tim, who wasn't about to watch Black Canary get her wings ripped off, said, "The Court."

Which wasn't a lie—in fact, it was all the answer Jason needed. His nostrils flared as his eyes filled with Greek Fire. He looked downright demonic as he snarled, "Then the next Talon I see, I swear to &*# I'll tear their &*#% tongue out and make them choke on the blood!"

Steph shivered, but Jason held her closer.

"They'll know how it feels," he muttered darkly as he cradled her head. Pressed a light kiss to her hairline. "I'll make them hurt ten times this, Blondie. Promise."

"Jason," Kate said, as she eyed the others warily.

"Jason—?" Tim gaped. "Waita sec, she knows?"

Damian dropped the hospital gift bag with an outraged huff. "You told her?"

"Everybody chill the #*%^ out." Jason's tone was somehow even deadlier than his expression. "She figured us all out in five seconds flat. Made Timbo over there look like a nine-year-old with a conspiracy blog."

Tim's face flushed. "Now hold on just a—"

Dick opened his mouth to say…anything. Talk his brothers down from their murderous ledges, demand to know how Kate figured out 'the Secret' so fast. Tell Steph to calm down (if the sound of her respirator was any indication, she was beginning to hyperventilate). Ask Helena to put down the knife—nobody's compromised, Kate's a friend. But before the words fell off his tongue, his eyes caught a flash of something in the window.

It was the barest glimpse. Just the flicker of a person passing by.

But Dick glanced the edge of a white ponytail tied back with a leather cord, and that was enough to set his heart beating at a jackhammer's pace. All of a sudden, the noise in the room melted into a dull ring. The chattering of Tim trying to convince Jason that he'd figured out Batman's identity the fastest, and Damian demanding to know who Kate was and why she was listening to this conversation at all, and Dawn, Zatanna and M'gann all trying to add their two cents…all faded out.

He took a step toward the door.

Stopped.

It couldn't be him…right? Dick had been up for forty-eight hours straight, and with everything that had happened in that time frame, he wasn't exactly clear-headed. 'Hallucinating arch-nemeses' was definitely an entrée on the table of distinct possibilities. But, still, what if…?

It wasn't until he felt Artemis's hand on his shoulder that he jolted out of his own head.

"Hey," she whispered, her low tone flying beneath the noise of everyone's arguing shouts. "You look like you just saw Alfred naked. What's got you spooked?"

"No, nothing, I—&*#, no." Dick's whole body shuddered at that mental image. "Just…never say something like that again."

"Hm." Her lips twitched into a half-smile, but the rest of her face remained unconvinced. With a quick glance following his line of sight, she lowered her voice even further. "So what did you see?"

Right. There was no bull$#!^ting the Tigress. He dropped the act and his tone as he nodded toward the door. "Potential hostile made a pass by the room."

She went from serious to dead serious. "Say no more."

Striding confidently towards the other end of the room, Artemis raised her voice to float above everyone else's. "Dick and I are going to go grab something from the vending machines! If you want anything, speak now or forever hold your peace."

"You're leaving now?" Jason demanded, shooting Dick a fiery scowl.

Dick only raised an eyebrow. He and his little brother knew each other well enough, that the nonverbal cues reached Jason loud and clear. The Red Hood stiffened, and threw a hostile glance towards the exit. "Sweet. Need any help?"

Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder as he passed, following Artemis. "Nah. Stay here and hold down the fort. We'll be back in a sec."

"Well, in that case," Damian said, tipping up his chin. "I will have a candy bar. M&Ms would be my preference, but I will also tolerate Skittles."

"Skittles," Tim gasped, affronted. "Don't count as a candy bar."

"They do, so."

"They do not!"

Dick and Artemis left as the conversation devolved into a bitter battle of candy bar logistics. As the door clicked shut behind them, the switch from 'Dick and Artemis' to 'Batman and Tigress' was almost instantaneous. They may not have been wearing their uniforms, but the stealth with which they made their way down the hall rendered disguise completely unnecessary.

Nurses didn't seem to notice as they traced the stranger's path. Artemis soundlessly side-stepped a passing gurney, and fell into line right behind Dick, whispering,

"Was it Slade?"

His muscles shivered in response to the name. "How'd you guess?"

"The look on your face." Artemis's whisper brushed the back of his neck. "It takes a lot to shake you that hard."

Dick said nothing to that, but he didn't need to. Falling back into their old rhythm was comforting, in a way. Artemis had always been better on stealth missions than the others. Purely because, like the Bats, she had no powers to fall back on. And when you were a non-meta creeping around a villain's base, you were quiet because you had no other choice. She crept behind Dick as fluidly as a cat—

—and when they spotted the flash of a white ponytail turning a corner, she sprinted after their target with the speed and ferocity of her namesake.

Dick struggled to keep up, weaving between personnel and equipment. Artemis rounded and turned into the next hall and leapt.

But at the last second, the man sidestepped. In his place was an open hospital room, and Artemis stumbled inside.

Slade—and it was him—grasped the doorknob and slammed the door shut on Artemis's snarling face. Her hands beat against the wire-mesh window furiously. Dick raced forward, plan of attack still buffering in his head. But Deathstroke's hand shot out at the last second. He gripped Dick's wrist and spun, slamming him bodily against the door. His face was pressed to the glass, and when he opened his eyes, he could see a very bleary Tigress glaring out at him.

"Slade!" Her voice was muffled through the window.

The mercenary wrenched Dick's arm back, pressing his hand into the small of his back. Dick let out a huff of a whimper at the painful twinge in his shoulder as he was hauled back from the door.

Artemis reared up, ready to kick the glass in.

But the object jabbed into Dick's side made them both stop short.

He breathed carefully, feeling the pressure of the Glock against the bottom of his ribcage with every inhale. Deathstroke's breath huffed against Dick's ear as he spoke to them both, his voice low and taunting.

"I guess it goes without saying that if you make another move, I'll make sure this Grayson never flies again."

A bluff. If Slade really was working for the Court, then he'd make sure Dick left this hospital wholly intact. From what John had said, Vanaver wanted him alive. It was poor form to disappoint an employer by killing his prize.

Even so…Babs had been wanted alive. And Slade had shot her in the head.

Artemis bared her teeth. Her eyes flashed with murderous intent, but her hands slowly slid off the glass.

"Fine," she growled.

Slade chuckled, and Dick felt the low rumble of it in his bones. "Good kitty. By the way, your old man sends his regards."

"You tell my dad he can go fu—"

"Shh-sh-sh." The Glock's barrel burrowed deeper into Dick's side, making him wince. "Let's skip the small talk and go straight to business, alright? I'm on a bit of a tight schedule, so I'd prefer to be in and out. We'll start with a question."

"Shoot," Dick huffed. Then bit his tongue at the poor choice of words.

Slade's smile only widened at that, but he didn't miss a beat. "Tell me, Artemis. How long do you think it would take you to leave that room, go get the cavalry, and come back to save your bff?"

Tigress clenched her jaw.

"Stumped? Here's a hint—less time than it would take me to load him in a truck and haul him off to my employers. With the spare time, I'd double back and pay dear little Batgirl a visit with my friend here." His finger tapped against the side of his gun, and Artemis's eyes widened.

"But," Slade continued lazily, taking a step back. Dick was dragged along with him, and clenched his jaw. "If you play along, sit yourself down and flip through the tv channels they've got in there, and pretend this is all just a minor setback… Well. Not only will I promise not to shoot the Bat, here, but I'll even guarantee his safe return."

Tigress's face was a mask of suspicion. She dragged her fingernails down the glass as she snarled, "Then why go to all the trouble, Slade? What do you want?"

"Ten minutes," Deathstroke said. His finger toyed lazily with the trigger, and Dick felt his muscles tense up instinctively.

"Ten minutes?" he demanded.

"Yes." Slade's breath puffed against his ear, causing a shiver to race up Dick's spine. "You've been granted the rare privilege of a video-call, Grayson…and it's rude to keep a lady waiting."

He let the words hang in the air for a few silent moments. And slowly, they sank in. Dick could feel them settle over his nerves, stirring them up into a prickling frenzy. His heart buzzed.

"'Mis," he said, and Artemis's eyes flicked to his.

"You can't be serious," she groaned, balling a fist against the window. "Dick, don't—"

"Stay there, okay?" Dick offered up a wan smile as Slade started to drag him backwards. "Be right back?"

"&*#% it!" she roared, spinning to stalk away from the door.

Deathstroke spun him again, this time so that his arms hung normally at his sides. He shoved the Glock into Dick's lower back, sticking close to mask the weapon from onlookers as he marched them both through the hallways.

"Smart choice, Grayson," Deathstroke whispered in his ear. "Better hope the tiger decides to stay in her cage. Otherwise a sore throat'll be the least of Stephanie's problems."

Dick stayed silent, his eyes pointed straight ahead.

When they finally reached the designated room, Slade reached out and opened the door, flicked on the lights, and shoved Dick inside. He stumbled, but caught himself on the footrail of an empty hospital bed.

"And now, we wait."

Dick struck like a cobra. He whirled, landing a hook to the mercenary's jaw. Slade grunted and staggered. With frightening speed, Dick's hand darted out and grasped a handful of the man's shirt. He slammed him back into the wall below the room's mounted television.

"You have no idea," Dick snarled, "how long I have waited to get my hands on you."

A small trickle of blood trailed from the corner of Slade's lips as he smirked. "Oh, stop it, you."

Dick shoved him again, baring his teeth at the mercenary's pained wheeze. His fingers curled into the fabric until he could feel the bite of his own fingernails against his palms. "You shot her!" he roared.

Slade rolled his eyes. "She was a pain in the *$$."

"You killed her!"

"Oh, kiddo," Slade said. He lifted his hands, grasping Dick's wrists in a death grip. "I killed her so many times. Tell me, do you know how precious—how intimate—it is to hold someone in your arms and watch their lights go out? Because I do."

Dick snarled, his fists shaking.

"I got to hold your girl, Grayson. Wipe her tears and hold her bleeding, shaking body. And the things she said? Right before the end? Her sweet little whimpers as her body finally gave in? Only I know. That's a side of her I'd bet you've never seen. I guess you could say…I know her better than you ever did."

His eyes stung. His teeth were clenched so tightly that he feared they'd snap out of his skull. Dick didn't want to hear the next words Deathstroke hissed at him, but they were inescapable. There was nowhere to run from them, nowhere to hide.

"Because you weren't there, were you?"

Dick flung the mercenary aside with a savage yell. Slade crashed into a chair and sprawled out on the floor. He made to get up, just as Dick made ready for another attack.

And just as Dick was about to land a kick to the man's side, the tv screen lit up.

"Hello, Gray Son."

Vanaver's voice locked his body down like a switch had been flipped. Dick looked up, his jaw as slack as the rest of him, and he saw the Grandmaster of the Court of Owls staring down at him. The ivory mask he wore glittered, and his eyes gleamed beneath its pallor.

Dick was not prepared for the jolt that hit him like a bolt of lightning. The image that mask brought back to his mind—because he'd seen that mask. Years ago. Years, and years, and years ago.

"It's you," Dick breathed, feeling dread wash over him.

Vanaver dipped his chin. Under the mask, he almost seemed to smile. "Indeed. At long last, dear boy, we are nearly reunited."

At his feet, Slade hummed a soft groan and sat up. Dick felt his muscles twitch instinctively, but when no attack was made, he let himself relax by a fraction. It was difficult to tell which of the two men before him was the bigger threat. Deathstroke may have been in the room with him, but Vanaver's voice held a sway over Dick that he couldn't begin to explain. He felt it oozing through his veins, scrubbing at his nerves, and numbing him down like a shot of Novocain.

"The Court has waited decades," the man said, with a voice that buzzed low with dignified calm and smooth assurance, "for a Gray Son to bear the mantle of Talon, and lead its soldiers to glory. And you, Richard John Grayson, are the one we have been waiting for."

Dick opened his mouth, grasping for a curt comeback. A biting quip. Anything. But his tongue was dry as sand, and his throat felt too tight to speak.

Years ago. The night of the Flying Graysons' last performance…

"I'm sure you've suspected, all your life," Vanaver continued slowly, "That you were special. Important. I've asked my associate Mr. Wilson to bring you here today to tell you that you were correct. Because you, my dear boy, are positively vital to the lifeblood of this city."

In the crowd. Dick had seen that mask in the crowd. Up near the back, where the tent's lighting was dimmest, where shadow hid the spectators in near-total darkness. He'd grasped Magda's hands as she swung them both up, and at first he'd been looking at her. Bright eyes, beaming grin, and the trace of a silent laugh on her face as she performed.

Magda had always loved performing more than life itself.

His eyes had caught the glint of golden glitter in her hair, gleaming in the spotlights. And once they'd finished their flight, once their feet had touched down on the platform, and once they'd thrown their arms into the air to salute the roaring crowd—

—Dick's eyes had snagged on a golden glimmer just like the stars in Magda's hair. Just a hint of a flash, as the spectator leaned forward, and the spotlight caught the edge of his gilded mask. Dick could still remember watching that pale moon of a face stare back at him in the darkness.

He'd stared, and stared, and stared. Until he'd heard the snap of a trapeze wire.

"I know what you must be thinking." Vanaver's dry voice snapped him back out of his horrified reminiscing. "An awful lot of trouble, only to tell you that you're special, mm? Indeed. This is much more than a complimentary call, Gray Son. I'm here to ask something of you."

Slade rose, climbing to his feet as though pained. Dick hoped briefly that he'd left a few bruises on the old man. It would be the least he deserved.

Then Dick swallowed. Wet his lips and did his best to keep his tone level as he rasped, slowly, gratingly, "What the #$%% do you want from me?"

Through the holes in the mask, Dick could see Vanaver blink slowly. Reptile-like. And when he replied, his voice was tinged with supreme satisfaction.

"Very good. Proactivity is a trait we admire, in our circle. And the answer is simple, my boy. We only want you."

Dick's eyes narrowed to slits.

"You don't believe me," Vanaver inferred, before Dick could even get the words out. The older man almost sounded impressed, before he let out a heavy sigh. "I suppose I can't blame you. We've taken so much, haven't we? Your peace of mind, your little sister—how is Batgirl faring, by the way? My agents have yet to brief me on her condition."

Dick snarled.

"There's also the matter of your…how do you say it in your native tongue? Your familie?" His pronunciation was butchered and derogatory, but he pressed on. "It was unfortunate, the way they ended. It all could have been avoided."

"What?" Dick's heart seized. He gaped up at the screen with wide eyes, taking a shaky step forward. "What are you—?"

"The Flying Graysons were brutally murdered by the low-tier mob boss, Tony Zucco. All because Jack Haly refused to pay him 'protection money'. A cut-and-dry case, easily solved, neatly wrapped up on the front page of the morning paper. But, do admit, a part of you always wondered at the pieces that didn't fit. Parts of the greater picture that never quite lined up." Vanaver leaned forward, his masked face taking up most of the frame. The effect was intimidating. It sent a chill racing down Dick's spine. "The Batman told you that the man who killed your entire family was safe behind bars, never to emerge into the world to hurt anyone else. He set you on the path of justice—" The word sounded vulgar in his mouth. "—and in doing so denied you the answers you've always secretly craved."

Dick frowned. Bruce hadn't kept anything from him; they'd bagged Zucco together when Dick was nine. A year and a half after the murders. It had been his first case working with the Dark Knight, and he could still remember Bruce's patient coaching. His firm reassurances that they would find the man responsible, and bring his family the justice they deserved.

And they had.

But looking back now… Maybe because Vanaver's words tainted and stained the memories shuffling through Dick's head, forcing him to look at each of them through a pair of severely cracked rose-colored glasses…

"What are you saying?" he demanded.

Vanaver was more than happy to answer. "You were chosen to lead the Talons, and consequently Gotham, to a new Golden Age. But your parents rejected your destiny, and thought they could simply pack up and run away. But there is no hiding from the Court of Owls."

Dick's jaw clenched down tight.

"One of our senior Courtiers did his best to help them see the futility—the stupidity—of their plan, but to no avail."

Dick's knees wobbled.

"And on the night of their final performance, Jack Haly paid Tony Zucco to sabotage the wires your family would be using to perform their paltry tricks."

Dick hit the floor, back sliding against the foot of the hospital bed as he sank to the tile. The breath left his lungs completely as he felt the weight of those words sink deep in his mind.

Jack…

Jack was one of them.

Jack had killed his family…

"You know the rest, I'm sure," Vanaver said, "So I don't see any need in rehashing the past."

But the past was all Dick could think about.

"You're lying," was all he could choke out.

"My deepest apologies. I do not tell you this to pain you, Gray Son, only to…enlighten you. To place us both on better footing. I recognize it must be nearly impossible to place your trust in the Court, but the words I speak are true. We only want you."

Dick's hand cradled his head, eyes staring off into nothing.

"Ahh. I see. How can you believe that, when you think there's something else? Something we're holding back? Perhaps even…something else we've taken?"

The flash of the screen drew Dick's eyes back up.

No longer was Vanaver's face in the middle of the frame. The screen had shifted, now showing a bleak concrete room, with a metal grate inlaid in the floor. A standard, nondescript interrogation room. Impossible to identify, because it looked like every other room of its kind that Dick had ever seen. It was a deliberate detail, and it would have made his blood boil, if he hadn't been busy trying to swallow his own dread.

Because he knew exactly what this was. A message. A promise. This was the part when Vanaver brought out the person who meant more to Dick than anyone else in the world, and paraded her in front of the camera like a sick taunt. Made him take a good long look at what they'd done to her.

This was the part where they hoped to break him.

But for a few moments, nothing happened. Dick and Slade both waited, the former hardly daring to breathe as the seconds dragged longer and longer.

Then it happened. The sound of a moan was deafening compared to the silence. It hit Dick's ears like a sledgehammer, and set his heart beating three times as fast.

And he tore his gaze from the screen. He didn't want to see it. He wouldn't be able to take it…

At least until she cried out again, and Dick found he couldn't bear to look away.

A woman was thrown into the room. Her feet skidded on the smooth floor, and she stumbled, just barely managing to catch herself against the wall with pale, blood-smeared hands before she slid to the ground. Another moan leaked past her lips.

Dick took another step forward.

His gasp was choked and painful, cutting his throat like shards of glass.

And he choked on one word: "Babs."

Barbara looked up, but not at him. She gave no sign that she'd heard, only shot a weak glance at something behind the camera. Her shoulders shuddered with a staggered breath.

"I'm afraid this isn't a live recording, my boy," Vanaver's sympathetic voice crooned in the background of the video. "For security reasons. You understand."

Dick said nothing in return. He couldn't tear his gaze away.

She was gaunt—her cheeks were sunken, and he could see the ridges of her ribs poking out beneath the skin, which was speckled with bruises in every color of the rainbow. So she wasn't eating…and she wasn't being left alone…

Dick stepped forward, fingers reaching up to brush the screen, right where it displayed Barbara's thin face. Her hair had lost its brightness, likely from lack of exposure to the sun, but that wasn't what caught his eye.

He couldn't stop staring at the streak of white in her hair, pale against the faded red.

"Miss Kean," a voice said, unfamiliar and cold against Dick's ears. "We're filming a message for the Gray Son. Is there anything you would like to say?"

Barbara looked down at her hands. Ligature marks circled her wrists like brands, and her fingers were covered in an inky black substance that Dick recognized as Talon blood. He'd seen his fair share at the circus the other night, but it seemed out of place on Barbara. Too dark against her translucent skin.

"I…" Her voice was cracked, and rougher than a sheet of sandpaper. She seemed shell-shocked, eyes hollow and not quite lucid. "I don't…"

"You do want him to come, don't you? You want him to come rescue you?"

The voice seemed to jab at her, and Barbara flinched. Dick did the same, feeling something like a stab to the chest.

"Anything? Now is your only chance to get a message to him, Miss Kean. Just like your little stunt with the texting, mm?"

Dick's eyes narrowed. So they'd figured out the code. And, for whatever reason, still sent the incorrect response. There was no way the Court would let Barbara communicate anything to him that might compromise their plans. Dick could see her panic in the way her jaw clenched, the tendons in her throat pulling tight.

This was all going according to their plans. And she knew it.

"Aw, relax! Have a nice chat. Don't waste it."

The last part was added in a sing-song whisper that set Dick's teeth on edge.

Barbara's hand reached out, sliding against the wall as she tried to steady herself. Her fingers left a shadowy smear in their wake. Scarlet and black against the white. Then, slowly, he saw resolve harden in her expression. Stiffen in her shoulders and back.

There was his Barbara. The fighter. Even in the face of everything, she held herself up and refused to show these cowards any weakness. Dick felt another jab to the chest—this time pride. The pad of his finger brushed against the screen, over her cheek.

She turned her face to the camera, and her eyes blazed.

"Dick," she said.

And hearing that, hearing the sound of his name in her voice after so long without it, was nearly enough to send Dick into a tailspin. His hand slid down, fingers resting claw-like against the edge of the screen.

But Barbara was just getting started.

"I don't care what they tell you. What they—" She choked a little, eyes roving to the floor briefly before she seemed to steel herself. "What they show you. None of it matters. Okay? None of it."

Of course, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, right at this moment, except seeing her—alive, and still fighting—and hearing her voice. Dick felt himself relax at the sound of it. If he dared close his eyes, he could almost imagine that she was right here beside him. In his arms. Safe…

But his eyes stayed wide open, gazing into hers.

"And the truth is…we…don't matter."

Those words broke Dick out of his reverie.

"What we had? That's…that's over." Babs let out a heavy, pained breath, dragging herself up the wall with a huff. Her fingers pressed against her side, where there were long, seeping scratch marks dripping beads of red down her waist. She glared into the camera, and the fury on her face seemed real. It sent shockwaves through his entire frame. "It was over the second you let that Raya woman touch you."

It felt like his heart was being squeezed in a vise, and Dick let out a sharp breath.

"They told me…what she did to you. What really happened," she said, after a brief moment of hesitation. A small crack. One that Dick might have missed on anyone else. But she covered it quickly with a cruel, ironic twist to her lips and a derisive chuckle. "But honestly? I don't give a &*#%. You should've known better, Dick. Shouldn't have been so stupid, so %^&#*%& easy!"

There. Again, just the slightest slip in her expression. A tic, easily missed, if you hadn't spent your entire life looking at that face. If you didn't know Barbara inside and out, and probably better than even she knew herself.

And what that tiny shard of emotion betrayed was nothing short of pure agony.

Even without her body language, Dick would have known exactly what it was she was doing. They'd each had their fair share of kidnappings over the years. Had pictures and videos sent to Bruce as warnings to play nice before things got ugly. This? Definitely not Dick or Barbara's first rodeo.

It was a trap. It was so clearly a trap, that he already knew exactly what it was Vanaver was about to offer him: 'give yourself up, and we'll let her go'. Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme. And it was a tune that Dick was quickly getting sick of.

Evidently, they both were.

"So if you think I ever want to see you again," she said, chuffing as a wound in her side seeped blood through the cracks of her fingers, "Then you're moronic. Vanaver tried using you to break me, Boy Wonder…but it didn't work. Because whatever I felt for you before is in the past. I moved on." She bared her teeth and tipped her chin down, squinting painfully against the wounds on her body or the words in her mouth.

Her hesitation stretched on for a few more seconds, before her eyes slipped back open, and she dragged her gaze back up to the camera. This time, there was something different in them. Something like surrender.

"It's time you did the same," she breathed. "I am a lost cause, Dick Grayson, and this time, there's no saving me."

Dick's teeth ground together as he shook his head.

"All of this is my fault." Barbara wet her lips and swallowed before she said, "Because I didn't trust you. Didn't let you in, let you help, or let you…be you." Her mouth quirked up slightly, before falling into a deep, pained grimace. "The truth is, I planned this. Planned on giving myself up to the Owls in order to gain the intel we needed to take them down. It was supposed to be a three-day op, worst case…I guess you can see how that turned out."

He could admit, that stung. An operation that dangerous…how could she keep that from him? But before the implications—the full weight—of Barbara's confession had time to sink in fully, her voice swept him up again.

Calmly, gently even, she soothed him with her words. "I've made my bed. I'm already lying in it. My only hope is that I don't drag you all down with me, Dick, so if you know what's good for you…always and forever…"

Her lips pursed into a pained smile, and he could see her eyes brimming, at least before his own vision bleared over.

"Forget you ever met me, and live."

Dick blinked hard. The twin tears that streaked down his cheeks went ignored as the words rang in his ears.

"And take care of our kids, okay?" Her smile dipped, and she looked away. Unable to face the camera any longer. "Tell them I'm sorry. Tell them…just tell them."

He couldn't help the sound that left his mouth as the screen went black.

Dick's knees wobbled as Vanaver's face reappeared in Barbara's place, but by some miracle, he remained upright. It was all he could do to square his jaw and his shoulders, and manage a halfway decent scowl. His heart hammered against his ribs. His blood roared in his ears. But Dick would be &*#%^& if he let the Owl-man see any sign of it.

"Consider this a show of trust," Vanaver said. "The footage is one hundred percent authentic, and has not been edited in any way. I'm sure you noticed this?"

He had. There would have been small anomalies in the recording, even if they only lasted a few milliseconds. Which meant that Barbara's words had been real—even if they hadn't necessarily been genuine.

Dick nodded once, and Vanaver copied the motion.

"Good. I hope that you found some form of enjoyment in seeing your lover's face—"

"Enjoyment?" Dick snarled.

"—because after today, you will never see it again. These last four weeks have been spent exacting the most cruel and vicious forms of torture known to the Court on your partner, Gray Son. We have killed her before—taken great pleasure from it, even—and we will not hesitate to make her departure from this Earth far more permanent, unless, of course, you are willing to give us your own show of good faith."

And there it was. Dick's teeth ground together as he glared up at the man in the Owl mask. "Me for her," he growled.

"Indeed."

"But you won't kill her." Dick's fingers curled around the railing on the bed behind him, and he strengthened his tone. "Like you said, you've spent weeks hurting her. You said you murdered her and brought her back again? Why? All just to kill her the second I give you a 'no'?"

Vanaver's eyes were slits. "I can assure you, Gray Son. We—"

"Give me a little more credit than that, old man," he snarled. "You won't kill her. But there's no chance in #$%% you're letting her go, either."

"That is not—"

"This is just a grab for the both of us."

"Enough, Gray Son, it isn't—"

"I see right through this game, Abraham! I give myself up, and I get nothing. Barbara and I both wind up dead." Dick shook his head, deflating. "Do you really think you can show me her face and get me so desperate that I'll throw every shred of rationality I've got left out the window? Do you actually believe I could trust you? Try again."

For a moment, none of them said anything. Dick could see Slade out the corner of his eye, rubbing his chin and nodding slowly. In contrast, the man on the screen didn't move a single muscle. He was so still, that his entire body seemed to shake with rage. Dick was sure he was fuming under that owl's mask, and when he finally did speak, the words were laced with heat. With carefully, barely, bridled anger.

"And what would prevent me from ordering Mr. Wilson here to take you right now? Send a squadron of Talons to slaughter every innocent man, woman, and child in that building…and then all of your pet metahumans?"

"Common sense," Dick shot back. He straightened, marching towards the screen so that Vanaver could look him right in the eye. "You want a show of good faith? How about the fact that I've been connected to a Martian psychic link this entire time?"

Vanaver's eyes flew wide.

"You—" he breathed.

"That's right. Now, out of courtesy, I've kept myself on 'silent' for the sake of our conversation," Dick continued. "But with a thought, I could have my whole team here in the time it'd take Slade to even blink."

Deathstroke muttered a choice string of words under his breath, but Dick wasn't done.

"As for the Talons?" Dick scoffed. "You've got to be joking. You'd never risk such a high-profile attack! Every news station in the country would be on the story like flies on $#!^. The only reason the Court of Owls has stayed in the shadows this long is because you've stayed in those shadows. For centuries. Maybe getting your 'Gray Son' is worth blowing your cover…but I'm willing to bet it isn't."

"Oh, my dear, dear boy." Vanaver spoke slowly, taking his time with each word. "You truly have no idea."

Dick's eyes narrowed. Deathstroke stiffened.

But the Grandmaster only sighed. "Very well. I am willing to negotiate."

That in and of itself was a small miracle. Getting men like Abraham Vanaver to concede anything could be like pulling teeth. Dick had seen more than his fair share of megalomaniacs over the years, and so he knew to tread carefully. The fact that he'd been able to push the man even this far was dumb luck.

"You're not letting Barbara go," Dick said, softer this time.

"As you said, we would prefer to keep the Court's cover intact. The girl has simply seen too much."

The gears in his mind were starting to creak a little. "Has she tried to escape?"

The mask moved in such a way that Dick suspected Vanaver's mouth was twisted into a sneer. "On multiple occasions."

And she'd failed every time. Which meant there was no chance of her getting out on her own. His gears whirred, and he shifted his gaze to the door.

"One more question," Dick said. "You know me. You know Barbara. Do you know who the others are underneath the masks?"

For the first time since Dick had turned the tables, Vanaver lit up. And when he spoke, his voice dripped with satisfaction. "Delirium does wonders when it comes to loosening the tongue. Whether she meant to or not, your partner let several names slip."

Dick winced. He could already imagine Barbara strapped to a table, drugged out and crying for her siblings, for Alfred, for Bruce…for him…

"Okay." He swallowed hard, feeling his throat bob painfully. And he said, "Then I'm all yours."

Vanaver and Slade both spluttered. The mercenary almost dropped his gun, and the Grandmaster's eyes gleamed with suspicion.

"I'm sorry?" Vanaver growled. "One moment you're threatening me, and now you're simply willing to roll over? I assure you, Gray Son, if you are attempting to—"

Dick threw up a hand. "No tricks. But I'm not rolling over."

"And how is that?"

"Because I have terms." Dick crossed both arms over his chest, and pulled in a shaky breath. Then exhaled, steeling himself. "And I'm ready to make a deal."

#######

#######

Artemis jumped when the knob turned and the door swung open.

"Dick," she gasped. In a flash, she hopped up from her perch on the hospital bed and wrapped her arms around him in a fierce embrace. "That was not ten minutes! What happened in there?"

She pulled back a little when she felt him stiffen. Looked up into his face.

Dick could see her wide eyes twitching carefully over his features. Searching for an answer he didn't even know how to give her. To say that he was at a loss for words was an understatement, and he could feel his mouth going dry at the thought of saying a single one.

Instead, his mouth only slipped open and shut. Again and again, as he gasped softly for air.

"Dick you're scaring me," Artemis whispered, eyes wide. "I need to hear you say it. Are you okay?"

He swallowed hard. Shrugged.

&*#% it, he had to say something.

And he was grateful that Artemis gave him the time. Waited patiently, watching silently, attentively, as Dick slid his tongue back and forth against the roof of his mouth, trying to find some moisture. Tried to clear his throat, get his voice to work again.

Because honestly, Dick's head was still spinning with Vanaver's words…and his own.

Finally, when his sandpaper tongue decided to cooperate, Dick managed to scratchily vocalize. "'M fine, 'Mis. They just wanted to talk."

"They just wanted…?" She wagged her head, squinting a little. "No, they didn't. You look like you're about to lose it, Grayson. Talks don't do that, unless they're really bad."

She paused for a second, taking in the way that his face pinched a little at her words.

"Okay," she tried again. "Then they made you do something. What was it?"

And Dick turned on his heel, and walked out the door. He ignored Artemis's stunned exclamation, and the hospital staff's scathing glances as he stalked down the hall back towards Steph's room. It didn't take too long for his friend to follow, though. Within seconds, Dick could feel her hand on his arm.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine," she breathed, shooting daggers at a scowling nurse. "But don't you dare think you have to keep it to yourself."

They stopped in front of room 420, and Dick paused. His hand clutched at the steel handle, and he swallowed again, this time as he tipped his head up to the ceiling.

"Hey." Artemis laid a hand on his shoulder. Just a small touch, nothing too demanding. Dick appreciated that. "I know from very personal experience just what those %*&#^%$ on the other side are capable of. They can mess with your head. Twist you up inside, and get you doubting yourself. But Dick—" She nodded at the door. "This is not a 'solo' kind of deal. You have a family in there who's ready to help with whatever it is. And not just your Gotham family."

Dick let his eyes fall closed.

How many times had secrets torn the people around him apart? It'd gotten them hurt. Killed. In Barbara's case, her secrets had taken her down completely. And now the Court w holding her over his head, just out of reach.

They wouldn't be in this mess right now, if they'd both been more open with each other. If they'd only—

A sigh slipped past his lips. The time for speculation, for 'what if's and 'if only's was long past. Now, all there was left to do was act.

And Dick had just made a bed of his own. And—as Barbara had said—it was time to lie in it.

"Thank you," he said softly. "But right now, we need to focus on getting everyone out of the building."

"Out of…" Artemis's eyes twitched wider. "What?"

Dick thumbed the handle anxiously. "I don't have time to give you the lowdown, I just need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"'Mis," he said, turning to look her in the eye. Stare her down. He waited until the guarded frown on her face slipped, and her shoulders sagged.

"Fine. Yes. I trust you," she growled, looking none too happy about it.

"Good. Go down the hall and pull the fire alarm."

"Dick!"

The look she gave him was searing. He didn't budge. Just sighed, and glared at the tiles below his feet. "Fine. All I can say is that we need Steph out of here, now. There's no time to deal with all the exit paperwork and medical red tape."

Artemis threw her arms out to the sides. "So we're going to evacuate the &*#%^%& building and steal her?"

"Glad we're on the same page." Dick pointed down the hall. "Admit it, you've always wanted to pull one of those things."

"I have! And that isn't—!"

"You have exactly two seconds before I call and get Wally to do it."

"Ugh!" Artemis cried. But she stomped her way down the hall, clearing a path in the sea of medical personnel.

Satisfied (or at least as satisfied as he'd ever be), Dick turned the handle and stepped into the room. All eyes snapped on him.

There were more people in the room, this time. All of the Birds who'd accompanied Steph to the hospital in the first place, and the rest of the Team. Even Conner and Wally had shown up.

But Dick only had eyes for the people crowded in a protective ring around the bed, hands clasping Steph's and staring at him with one part relief, and two parts confusion. Tim raised an eyebrow at the look on his face. Jason didn't even turn in his direction, still focused on stroking Steph's hair and whispering reassurances into her ear. Damian was watching him carefully, while Alfred just smiled tiredly.

"Ah, Master Dick," he said, moving to stand. "Where has Tigress gotten to?"

"And where's the candy?" Tim asked.

An ear-splitting alarm ripped through the room, and Dick shot his friends and family a weary smile.

"You know," he told them, "I think I'll explain in the car."

#######

#######

Richard did not explain in the car, actually.

He didn't even explain when the caravan of cars and flying superheroes pulled up to Wayne Manor like some grim funeral procession. He didn't explain when they unloaded Brown and carried her inside. Didn't offer up any sort of hint when the Birds of Prey, the Team and the rest of the Family settled into their places in the library, silent and waiting. (All except for his Aunt Katherine, who had returned home to check in on her girlfriend.)

Everyone else was silent, but the unspoken question rang in the air like cicadas on a summer evening. Humming just below the surface, swimming between shifting eyes and bodies.

Drake had disappeared, either upset at seeing Brown's physical state, or off to work on some other project. Likely, it was both. Damian had heard him muttering something about 'enough being enough' and 'Babs's laptop'. Not to mention the pale, sickly look he got on his face every time he heard Stephanie wheeze when she breathed.

Damian sat perched on the arm of a couch, waiting patiently.

He waited patiently when one of the Birds—Helena Bertinelli, of course—spoke up and demanded an explanation. He waited patiently while Richard crossed his arms and dodged the pointed questions and accusations like he was dodging bullets. Brown chimed in occasionally over the psychic link, doing her best to fill everyone in on her condition, and the circumstances surrounding her assault.

She emphasized that it was not Dina Lance's fault, that the other woman had been robbed of her faculties and control over her own body. Damian shuddered at the thought—that one could lose oneself so totally.

That one could be used like a stringed marionette to harm a loved one.

He watched the rest of the others' back-and-forth's carefully, eyes shifting every now and then to the window. There was an unnerving sensation prickling up the back of his neck, and Damian doubted that Todd's latest angry promises to eviscerate the nearest Talon had much to do with it. Jason slammed a fist into a bookshelf and swore, but it did nothing to pull Damian's gaze away from the glowing panes of glass.

They were illuminated by a stunning sunset. Gold and orange and red lit up the sky like torch-fire. He could see that glow ignite the leaves and branches of the trees outside. The overall effect was calming.

But not calming enough to miss the shadow along the back wall. A spot of darkness that didn't belong amidst the light.

Damian stiffened. Rose to his feet and padded over to the window.

The shadow stopped, turned, and stared. Right into his eyes, even with all that distance between them.

And Damian recognized the shadow—read his build, height, and demeanor like a cheap paperback.

"Excuse me," Damian said to the room, turning his body slightly, though he never tore his gaze away from the frozen figure in the dark.

No one gave so much as a blink in his general direction. Damian couldn't say that he was surprised.

"Shut up already!" A Bird of Prey snarled.

Dick threw up his hands. "No, guys, listen, you need to understa—"

"I don't care what you think, Dick! Moving Steph was a bad idea—just look at her!"

{"Excuse you? Not everybody's had the time to spend a few minutes in front of a mirror! I happen to think I look drop-dead gorgeous, as always, even if the emphasis is on that 'drop-dead' bit. Now if you'll all stop babying me and focus on what's really important—"}

The shadow was beginning to scale the back wall. Clearly, Damian was going nowhere fast.

{"EVERYONE."} he shouted into the Psychic link. All around the room, heroes visibly tensed and flinched, before their eyes swung to him. Either squinted and narrowed in irritation, or wide with confusion.

So Damian shed a little light on the situation. He jabbed one finger towards the window, and said aloud, in his most exasperated tone,

"The Talon is getting away."

#######

#######

Hacking into Barbara's systems had been a longshot at best.

Tim knew that. Trying to break into anything Oracle had programmed was like trying to saw a steel beam in half with a plastic spoon. For instance, the Batcave's systems were secured by layers and layers of firewalls and subroutines designed to keep the world's best hackers out if they didn't have the keys to the backdoor. (Though, they'd seen how well those worked…) And, as another fine example, the Watchtower systems that Babs had spent weeks perfecting were on par with the Pentagon's.

Barbara's own network, though, was an entirely different beast.

But desperate times called for desperate gambles. Steph was the last straw, and Tim knew that if they didn't do something drastic, they might never figure out how to stop the Court before they lost anyone else.

And there were few things more drastic than hacking Oracle's personal laptop—which might as well have had 'DO NOT TOUCH' stickers plastered all over it, for all the grief Babs gave anyone who so much as looked at the thing.

When Tim flipped the laptop open, he'd expected blowback. Impenetrable defenses. Booby traps, even. Maybe the keyboard was set to explode at the slightest touch?

But he got none of that. What he found instead was a blank screen.

"No," he muttered, tapping the power button a few times for good measure. "No, no, no, come on…"

He scrubbed his fingertip over the touchpad.

And almost jumped out of his own skin when it lit up green beneath the digit, a bar of light gliding and scanning.

Slowly, the image of Tim's fingerprint assembled itself on the screen, like sand being poured onto a dark surface. His eyes twitched over it, awed, until the graphic solidified into a concrete match.

CONFIRMED: TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE

A.K.A.: RED ROBIN, ROBIN, LITTLE BRO, TIMMY

CLEARANCE: UNAUTHORIZED_

The screen fitzed out for just a second, and the last word was replaced with a bold GUEST ACCESS AUTHORIZED. And for a moment, Tim could only stare in shock as the text disappeared, and was replaced with more words scrolling down, down, down…

TIMMY, the only reason you'd be reading this is if I've been compromised.

There isn't much time. I've managed to break into the Court's database, and currently, I'm uploading every file I've been able to pull onto a drive from my old Batgirl suit. On it, you'll find access to the Owl's personnel files, Talon records which detail their physiology and weaknesses, and several of the Court's active operations, including one they're calling 'Operation Red Queen'. In addition, the location of where I'm being held is also on this drive.

Tim's eyes widened.

The Talon's are closing in. I don't have much time. In the event of my recapture, I've slipped a microchip into the drive's connector. This will automatically upload everything from the drive directly to my laptop, but there's no telling how much information will get through before both are destroyed.

I've given you temporary access to my system, in case I can't be there to sift through these files myself. Please note that this access is LIMITED and TEMPORARY. Everything here will help take down the Court.

They're here. Please hurry.

Babs_

By the time he finished reading, Tim was vibrating. He waited for the message to clear, revealing Barbara's desktop. The background was a sleek marbled gray, interrupted only by the shimmering green outline of the Oracle symbol. Dotted across the surface were what must've been dozens of folders. Closer inspection yielded hundreds of files within those folders, and it had Tim shaking his head.

There was no way to go through all of this. It'd take weeks—minimum—to even scratch the surface.

But his eyes snagged on one folder, just near the top righthand corner.

Case File_Joker

The words shot into his brain; the ones he'd read on that strange note he'd found beneath the Batcomputer's desk. You're right about the Joker—every last detail…

Tim slammed his finger against the touchpad, and watched the loading bar shimmer. When the folder finally buffered, Tim was greeted with a thousand more file names—

First Reported Sightings, Known Associates, Harley Quinn, Summer 2006, Methodology, Arkham Asylum Files, Manor Lib. Sec. Footage—

That last one almost made him close out of the folder completely. He shouldn't be digging into this. These files, this data—it was like looking into something intimately private. This data was Barbara's…trauma. Her obsessive collection of anything and everything she could get on the monster who'd ruined her life. Any further in, and Tim was sure he'd start seeing more signs of mania. After all, when it came to the Clown Prince of Crime, at least where Barbara was concerned…

Never mind that. The only thing that kept him from switching over to another file was one last label near the bottom of the folder—the most recent.

Verified Identity Pre-Mutation

"What the #$%%?" Tim muttered.

And so he clicked on it. He read through, eyes twitching over the words as he scrolled through. His usual reading speed was roughly 500 words per minute, but this file had him backtracking and rereading until he could feel his retinas burn. A cold feeling sank its claws deep in his chest.

And when he'd finished that, he sat back in his desk chair, and looked up at the wall in his room. Tim let his eyes rove over the framed pictures and taped up notes that covered the blue-painted surface. Their familiar placement was comforting. Grounding was good, reminding himself that he was in his own room—safe—where that deranged psychopath couldn't reach him. Where the words on the screen only echoed in his head if he let his mind wander beyond the safe confines of the battered desk, piles of dirty laundry, empty espresso cups and fast food wrappers, and messy bedsheets that surrounded him.

"$#!^," he said eloquently, and immediately closed out of the Joker files.

He spun in his chair and stared at his bed. "$#!^."

Looked up at the ceiling fan that was in desperate need of dusting. "$#!^."

Got up and stalked over to the window, hands clawing into his hair. Looked out at the setting sun and the golden rays of light. "$#!^."

Turned and stumbled back to the laptop, fingers flapping desperately against the keys. The files Barbara's note had mentioned—the ones from the Court's database—flooded the screen.

Tim took it all in. Everything—but only at a glance.

And when he saw their plans all laid out in neat, tiny text before him, when it was all there in black and white…

Tim's hands dragged over his face. His heart stammered and stuttered.

And he whispered, with feeling, "Holy $#!^."

#######

#######

"Guys!" Tim stumbled into the library, doing his best not to let Barbara's priceless computer spill out of his hands. "Guys you need to see—"

He paused. Let his eyes rove over the empty room. The lights had been left on, glowing softly and outlining the books and furniture with a gentle sheen. The fireplace was even still crackling and giving off flames. But there was no sign of any Bats or metas left in the room. Barely a sign that they'd been there at all.

So wherever the others had run off to, they must have left in a hurry.

Movement caught his glance over by the sofa. It was Alfred, sitting calmly, with Stephanie's head in his lap. The old man gazed into the fire as his fingers carefully, lovingly, stroked over her hair. Steph herself was fast asleep, soft wheezing snores buzzing in the air every time she inhaled. The portable intubator Zatanna had summoned puffed and rattled mechanically on the cushion beside her.

"Master Timothy," Alfred said pleasantly, keeping his voice down. "Why don't you come and have a seat?"

Tim wandered over towards the adjacent armchair. "Where'd everybody go?"

The old butler hummed in reply, taking a hesitant moment to answer.

"Well, it would appear that the Talon in the basement has slipped away. Made quite the mess of the Cave, too. The others decided to chase after him."

Tim sat gingerly on the edge of the cushion. With a soft click, he shut the laptop, and raised on eyebrow skeptically. "The 'others'…?"

"Well, your brothers have all elected to stay behind. Master Dick insisted." Alfred's face looked gray around the edges, and sagged a little as he sighed. There was something very knowing about the pull to the man's frown. "Your Teammates and the Birds of Prey seem to believe that if they follow that foul creature, he will lead them back to wherever they're keeping Miss Barbara. But, for whatever reason, Master Dick does not agree."

Tears brimmed in the old man's eyes.

Tim bit his lip. "Oh, Alf…"

"I realize," Alfred said, "That the odds of finding Miss Barbara alive at this juncture are slim, to say the least. But I did not expect Master Dick, of all people, to be the first to lose hope. I…" His voice cracked painfully. His fingers stilled on top of Steph's head. "I am afraid of what lies ahead, Master Timothy. I fear for them both."

"Hey, they'll be okay." Tim's voice cracked with uncertainty, but he did his best to stay calm. Even though the sight of Alfred losing hold of his emotions was enough to send any batkid into an anxious tailspin. Even though Tim was already halfway there. "They've had worse, and come out just fine, right? We don't need to worry."

Alfred cradled Stephanie protectively, and resumed his gentle strokes against her hair. "Perhaps, my boy, but I have known Master Dick and Miss Barbara for many years, ever since they were both very young. One might say that I know the two of them better than they even know themselves. And Master Dick is not acting like himself. Neither of them have, come to think of it, for a long while."

Tim stayed silent, listening carefully. He couldn't pretend he hadn't noticed the same thing—Dick's coldness, and Barbara's aggression. The fighting, the secrets, the lies…

Then again, Tim had a few secrets of his own.

"Alfred," he said softly. When the old butler looked up, Tim ducked his head and brought a hand up to his neck, massaging the tightness there beneath his knuckles. "Do you think…could any of us ever…um…" He cleared his throat. "Do you think any of us are capable of hurting the family?"

The butler blinked rapidly. Then frowned. "Master Timothy, I'm not sure I understand the question. Are you suggesting that Master Dick has ill intentions…?"

"No!" Tim started, shaking his head frantically. "Never. Not at all. Just…"

Alfred considered him carefully, eyes narrowed. Then, something seemed to occur to him—maybe it was something he saw on Tim's face, or in the way his whole body seemed to shake—and he softened instantly.

He said, "You're not talking about either of them."

Tim swallowed hard. "No."

His mind went to dark places. Back to the note he'd found under the desk, detailing his crimes against the Gotham City of the future. Against the Family of the future. How he would 'make it his mission to wipe every member off the face of the planet'. How he'd beat his own child to death, kill thousands…

Tim hadn't realized he was crying until Alfred beckoned him over. He peeled himself away from the armchair and stumbled over to the sofa, letting himself collapse into the cushion at the butler's side. The comforting weight of the older man's arm settled over his shoulders. Tim buried his face into Alfred's chest.

"Oh, my dear boy," Alfred hummed, letting his other hand stroke up and down Tim's back. "I can't imagine what sorts of things must be going on inside of you. What you may be feeling right now."

Tim's breathing hitched into staggered gasps. But the physical contact was a comfort, at least.

"But I can assure you. I have known you for quite a while, as well, you know." Up, and down, up, and down. "And never, Master Timothy—never—have I seen any indication that you would turn on any member of this family. I dare say you would sooner die than allow them to come to any harm."

Hot tears trailed down his cheeks as Tim kept trying to steady his breaths.

"You have the soul of a hero, my boy. Nothing—no tragedy, no trauma, no man, woman, or monster—can ever take that away." Alfred's hand stilled for just a moment. "And no loss can ever conquer that soul."

Tim looked up at the old man. Stephanie continued to snore quietly on Alfred's lap, but besides that, and the soft crackling of the logs in the fireplace, there was no other sound in the room. Tim was pretty sure that even his heart had stopped beating.

"I…" he whispered.

But he stopped when he saw that Alfred's gaze was directed elsewhere. Tim followed it, turning his head slowly, and found himself staring straight at Dick, who hovered in the doorway. His body was just a shadowy silhouette against the lights out in the hall. Still, though, Tim could see the look in his eyes.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting," he said, his voice thin and fragile as glass.

"Never," Alfred said. He lifted the hand from Steph's head, and motioned for Dick to come join them.

And slowly, carefully, quietly, Dick moved over to sit in the other armchair, where Tim had just been sitting. He let out a soft breath as he settled into place. From there, he just stared at the three of them. There was an indecipherable pull to his frown.

Alfred smiled warmly, "You have impeccable timing, dear boy. Master Timothy and I were just discussing his moral fortitude."

"Says I have 'the soul of a hero'," Tim said, with a self-derisive chuckle. Alfred's hand paused again, the thumb rubbing insistently into his shoulder blade. A silent chastisement, and a firm reassurance.

But the smile slipped off Tim's face when he saw Dick's.

Because he'd never seen a sadder smile in his life.

"He does, doesn't he?" His brother muttered fondly. Dick leaned forward, and let his forearms rest against his knees. The posture was overly-casual. Pretending at nonchalance.

Once glance at Alfred revealed a similar façade. "In many respects, I would say that he takes after the first Robin."

The corner of Dick's lips quirked upward. But his eyes didn't match; there was something heavy hanging inside of them. "Is that right?"

"Indeed. Both of you would, as I told him just moments ago, sooner die than allow any harm to come to this family." Alfred's hand dropped away from Tim's back completely, and the loss of contact made him shiver a little as the man continued, "A quality that can be both a virtue, and a flaw."

Dick's smile turned to stone. "Alf—"

"But now is not the time nor the place for such grim discussions." Alfred cast his eyes around the room, and his tone dipped into something somber. "&*# knows this room has seen enough of the macabre."

That forced all three of them into silence. Steph, however, kept right on snoring, and it drew Dick's eye. After a few quiet minutes, he asked, "How long has she been sleeping?"

"Not long," Alfred replied with a sigh. "I suppose all of the excitement finally took its toll."

Tim frowned down at her. "Alf," he said slowly. "Do you think she'll ever be able to talk again?"

"She will."

Dick's answer came before Alfred even had the chance to open his mouth. He leaned forward just a little more, resting his full weight on his elbows as he continued. "She will. But that's not gonna happen without rest, and that goes for all of us. I actually came in to say goodnight."

"Headed off to bed so soon?" Alfred said drily.

Dick's throat bobbed.

"I wanted to say," he whispered, eyes mournfully staring at Tim, and then Alfred, and then Stephanie in turn, "That I'm so proud of all of you. The way you've all held up these past few weeks with everything going on. Losing Bruce wasn't easy, but you've been so strong. Losing Babs…"

Tim's brow furrowed. "We haven't lost Babs."

"Right," Dick said softly, letting his chin fall.

"'Right'?" Tim demanded. He pulled himself upright, letting Alfred's arm slip off his shoulders. "You talk like she's already gone. Dick? What's this really about?"

Dick's head hung low, but he lifted it slightly to send a soft, pained smile Tim's way. "Nothing, Timmy. Just tired. And…maybe a little sentimental at the moment, but there are worse things, right?"

"Right," Tim repeated slowly, since there definitely were.

"I just…life is short. Guess we never really know how short until something makes us look at things in a whole new way." Dick nodded towards Steph's sleeping form. He picked absently at his fingernails as he watched her breathe in labored breaths. "So, I just thought I'd take this time to tell you both that…I love you."

Tim hadn't expected that. His eyes widened, and he felt Alfred stiffen at his side.

"I do," Dick said softly. There was something very vulnerable in his voice, now, and it sent a shiver trailing up the back of Tim's neck. "I love you all so much. Can't believe I got so lucky, having a family like you."

Something cold prickled at Tim's nerves, now. Spreading through his veins like liquid nitrogen, leaving frost and ice in its wake. "You're scaring me."

"Yeah," Dick whispered. "Yeah, I realize how that sounds. But it's all going to be okay, now. Let's just—"

Stephanie stirred, and it drew the others' attention away from Dick's shaking hands and mournful stare. Her eyes fluttered, then cracked open slowly. The whites around her blue pupils were horribly bloodshot, and Tim felt his own throb in sympathy.

Her lips fell open around the tube in her mouth. A pained wheeze huffed out of her.

"Don't try and speak," Tim told her, reaching out to lay his fingers in her hair. "Welcome back, Batgirl."

Dick smiled down at her, eyes soft. They seemed to shine in the firelight. "Hey there, sis. How're you feeling?"

Steph may not have been able to speak, but the look on her face was clearly of the 'feeling like $#!^' kind. Another rattling breath wheezed out of her.

Their brother's smile slipped into a frown, and he reached out. Ran a finger gently down Steph's cheek. "Yeah, I know. Gonna get the &*$^*%#s that did this to you, though, if it's the last thing I do. Promise."

Tim shot another glance Dick's way, but didn't press the issue. There was something decidedly unsettling about the phrase 'the last thing I do'.

"Well, anyway, I'm going to call it a night." Dick stood, then, and stepped over. With both arms outstretched, he tentatively asked. "Bedtime hugs, anyone?"

'Bedtime hugs' were not uncommon, not to mention 'regular' hugs. Dick usually found any and every excuse to wrap his siblings in a loving stranglehold. Sometimes even in the middle of a stakeout or freefall. As the most 'touchy-feely' member of the family, Dick was also the only one who could get away with this. Anybody else who tried to hug Damian—as an example—in the middle of a mission would discover a whole new kind of discomfort. (Jason still had scars from the time he'd snuck up on the kid from behind.)

But even if Dick's ask wasn't a surprise, it still set Tim on edge.

He watched Alfred stand, and embrace his brother firmly. The hug lingered, and lingered, until Steph cleared her throat, wincing violently and immediately. She reached up with both hands, fingers clasping and unclasping in a greedy invitation.

Dick got the message, and leaned down with a smile to give her a gentle hug.

And when it was Tim's turn, both of them stood, faced each other in silence for a few moments, and studied the other.

Dick's expression was carefully schooled into something unreadable. Tim did his best to do the same.

And so he wasn't sure who moved first, but both brothers collided, arms wrapping around each other, tight as a vise. Tim buried his face in Dick's chest. Dick laid his cheek on the crown of Tim's head. All that Tim could hear now was the shaky breaths coming out of Dick's throat, and the frantic buzz of his heartbeat against Tim's cheek.

"Ah, Timmy." Dick grasped at him harder, holding him in a bear hug that was fiercer than any Tim had ever before experienced. It made him feel safe and protected—if a little crushed—and Tim felt something stinging his eyes. "You figure out a way to get us all out of this, okay? You always do."

"Dick?" Tim whispered into his brother's shirt.

"I love you, little brother," Dick breathed, holding him close. "I love you."

#######

#######

Thinking about what came next was impossible.

A cold, bottomless pit had opened up inside of Dick, and it swallowed every ounce of fear and anxiety that had jangled and tangled at his nerves. It was a relief, in a twisted sort of sense. Now, at least, he didn't have to worry about silly things like 'second thoughts'.

He wondered, or at least a part of him did, if Barbara was feeling this emptiness as well. If all of her pain had finally slipped away.

But that thought needled at him. Did it mean he was too late?

Was she already gone?

No. No, thinking made it worse. He just had to stop thinking.

Slipping out of the manor was easy—how many times had he and Babs snuck out over the years? So many early morning runs to the gas station to buy forbidden junk food. They'd pick a skyscraper and climb to the top, laying out their contraband candy like a picnic. Then, they'd talk and laugh, and stuff their faces full of processed, chemical-laden snack foods until they made themselves sick. (And, of course, following with the 'rebellious teenagers' theme, they made out a good deal of the time, too.)

Practice made perfect, after all. Which was why Dick knew exactly how to get the window open without a sound, slip past the bolted screen (honestly, if Bruce had ever thought screwing the &*#% things in place was enough to stop any of them, he'd been kidding himself) and scale down the brick. Every handhold was memorized. Every movement pure muscle memory.

His feet hit the grass with a crackle. The night was cold, and the lawn beneath his shoes was brown and dying. Winter was on its way, and if the chill in the air, or the low-hanging storm clouds were any indication, snow would be coming that night.

On cue, Dick shivered, and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. Already tender from rubbing against the bricks, his fingers were beginning to chap.

All that was left to do now was make it to the perimeter wall—without being seen by any of the curious eyes behind the manor's windows.

No easy feat. Jason's words were still ringing in his ears—

"You've gotta think I'm stupid."

On his way out the window, Dick had turned around to see a gun pointed straight at his face.

"Put it down, Jay."

"No way in #$%%." Though his hand shook a little, Jason's eyes had blazed with barely-reigned-in rage. "First Babs, now you. Enough deals with the devil. Go back to bed or I put one in your leg."

"You're not gonna shoot me."

The gun had clicked as Jason's thumb pulled back the hammer. It was the only retort he gave, and it had sent goosebumps prickling up the back of Dick's neck. He could see everything Jason wanted to say in his eyes: 'don't go, don't do this, don't make me stop you'.

Dick had raised his hands. "Promise me you'll look out for them, Little Wing."

"Get your *$$ upstairs." Jason's voice shook. "I will not tell you again."

"Do it…please," Dick whispered, with a tone of finality that had shocked even him. "You're the oldest, now."

At that, Jason's eyes had flown wide. Just in time for Dick to lunge forward and snatch the barrel of the gun. With a twist, it was out of his brother's hand, tossed out of reach. Dick spun out of the way of Jason's fist. Twirled behind his back, looped an arm around his neck. With Jay in a chokehold, it had been a matter of moments before the bigger man tapped out, losing consciousness.

Dick had laid him out in the hallway, careful of his arms and legs. On his chest, he left a sleek black box. By the time Jason woke up, Dick would be long gone. He'd see the package, then. And when he opened it, there would be one less regret on Dick's conscience.

But there were still so many. Saying his goodbyes to the family had been painful. The confusion in Tim's eyes, Steph's tired, drugged-out obliviousness. The way Alfred had looked at him, and just…known.

And Damian…oh, Damian…

Don't think. Don't think, don't think…

Dick let the sound of his shoes on the grass distract him as he jogged away from the manor. He was way past worrying about the patter of his footsteps. With his family safely in bed, there was no one around who could stop him from doing what had to be done.

At least, that's what he thought—

—up until Wally West stepped out from behind a tree.

Hands stuffed in his pockets to stave off the chilly air, shoulders pulled to an intimidating square, and a cold, unyielding frown, Wally stood in his way, barring him from his destination. And it didn't seem like he was about to move an inch.

Dick's fingers curled into fists.

"Hey, KF," he said. His tone was measured, cautious. "Did you guys catch the Talon?"

His best friend only stared, eyes narrowing to slits.

Dick swallowed, hard. "Just thought I'd do a sweep of the grounds. Make sure he wasn't still hiding around."

"Sure you were, pal," Wally shot back quietly. "And I was just chilling back here in the bushes for $#!^s and giggles."

There was a beat. Then Dick let his feet slide apart, placing himself in a sturdier stance. He noticed Wally track his movements with a critical eye. And the speedster did not look perturbed.

"Hey, man," he said softly. "Artemis told me about your run-in with Slade. That he took you away to talk to somebody, and you came back all quiet. Now, I'm no Bat—" Wally's hand slipped out of his pocket, and he tapped his knuckles to the side of his skull. "—but I think my detective skills helped me put the pieces together."

"Wall—"

"So enough bull$#!^, okay? I know what you're doing, Dick."

Dick lifted his fists. Guarded his center. And he dropped the easy smile and false tone. "That right?"

And Wally sighed. His mouth dropped into a tired frown. "That's right," he repeated softly. "Look, man. I know how you feel about her. But Barbara wouldn't want you to throw your life away for—"

"Stop talking right now," Dick snarled.

His friend's eyes twitched a little wider at that. But he took a step forward, and kept going. "It's true, though. She'd tell you to find another way. Dick, there's gotta be another way."

Wally was just a few feet away now, hands raised in a calming, open gesture. The pleading look on his face was a stab to the heart, but Dick couldn't back down. Not now. Not after what he'd promised.

"Wally, step aside," Dick whispered, voice breaking. "Please. Don't make me fight you."

His best pal paused for just a second. Frowned. Then took another step, crunching a few fallen leaves beneath his boots. "You know," he said, "I don't want to fight you either, man. But what kind of friend would I be, if I let you do this?"

"Wally, please—"

But Wally's expression darkened. "Fine. Square up, then, buddy. 'Cause you're in for the fight of your li—"

He cut off into dead silence, eyes wide and staring straight ahead. As his mouth fell open, a choked whisper of a gasp leaked out of his throat. And just like that, his knees wobbled and gave out. Wally collapsed in a heap on the ground.

And in his place, where there'd only been shadow before, stood a hulking figure with a pair of gleaming amber-goggled eyes.

"Wally!" Dick crashed to his knees, hands flying up to his friend's throat. His fingers slid over skin, searching frantically for a pulse. They pressed and prodded, shaking too hard to find a definitive sign.

His head whipped up. "This violates the agreement!" he growled through bared teeth. "What the #$%% did you do!"

The Talon stared calmly back at him, stepping out of the shadows.

"He is still alive," the creature said, matter-of-factly. He raised a blade in one fist, and the tip was stained ever so slightly red. "A simple poison. The effects are temporary, but they will keep him sedated long enough for us to get away from this place."

"What the #$%%!" Dick repeated, raising his voice.

"Keep your voice down." The Talon reached down and grasped Dick by his arm. "And follow me."

Dick was yanked to his feet. He followed after the creature without another word. But he paused to look behind him, at Wally's slumped form laying in the curled brown leaves.

His eyes lifted to the manor, standing tall and dark on the hill. His home, his refuge. Dick wondered briefly if he'd ever see it again, before he figured he already knew the answer.

He offered up one last, silent goodbye.

Then he turned, and followed the Talon into the darkness.

#######

#######

They travelled through the city on foot, silently leaping across rooftops, scaling brick and limestone. And as they moved, Dick couldn't help but think back to another time. A simpler time. When he'd run through the night with a different partner at his side to keep him in check.

The thought was almost comforting enough to smooth his frayed nerves. But this Talon was not Bruce. And he wasn't there to have his back—he was there to keep Dick from doing anything 'stupid'.

Around the ten-mile mark, though, the creature evidently decided he'd had enough.

The last thing Dick remembered was a sharp blow to the back of the head. After that, in accordance with the old cliché, everything went dark.

#######

#######

His fingertips dug into the glass, searching for a hold even though there was none. The suction cups attached to his palms and feet did all the work, anyway, but it didn't stop Dick from trying to grab onto something solid. Something to hold onto as the brisk evening wind did its best to pluck him from the side of the building and send him hurtling down to the streets below.

At his left, his partner panted and huffed, doing her best to pick up the pace. To inch ahead of him, just enough to make it to the top first. The popping tempo of her suction cups was almost frantic.

A laugh bubbled out of Dick's throat as he caught sight of the finish line.

"Hangin' in there?" he shouted above the breeze.

Red hair whipped in the wind, and he heard an answering groan. A familiar voice brushed his ears like a sweet reminder. "Hey…hnng…Robin? Shut the &*#% up."

"Whatever you say—huh?"

Pushing off the glass, his partner's legs swung out and up, launching her skyward. The cups on her hands came unstuck with a startling thwopp. Dick gasped as she flew upwards. Cape flapping, arms outstretched, before her boots slammed down on the edge of the roof, and she rolled out of sight.

For a moment, he was left in stunned silence. Blood roared in his ears with almost as much ferocity as the wind. Sirens whined somewhere down below, punctuated by car horns and the usual banging sounds one associated with Gotham City.

Then her face appeared over the side, the ears on her cowl standing out in stark contrast to the gray smog that hung in the sky. Her smile was wide and triumphant. And though her eyes glimmered with the proud sheen of victory, there was something softer there, too.

Batgirl's gloved hand stretched down towards him.

"Need a lift, there, slowpoke?" she called down, smirking.

There was a time he would have sneered and smacked her hand away. He didn't need her help or her pity, after all. But Dick had come a long way—even just in the last few days.

So instead, he beamed, and gripped her offered hand tight.

Barbara pulled him up, grunting a little with the effort. But once Dick rolled over onto the roof, they both laid back, panting for air as they turned their faces to the sky.

There were no stars. No slivers of black or blue to be seen. Just the steady, constant ceiling of dark clouds to stretch from horizon to horizon. It was comforting, in its familiarity. They both watched it soundlessly for what seemed to be ages, chests rising and falling, muscles burning, lungs tight.

There was something comforting about laying there side by side, too.

Finally, it was Barbara who broke the silence.

"Good game," she breathed.

"Wait," Dick huffed, turning his face towards her, "Were we playing? Here I thought you just couldn't wait to get up here for some…" He waggled his eyebrows, but he doubted she could see it beneath the domino mask. "Dick time."

Her elbow jabbed into his ribs. "Ugh!"

Dick laughed around his gasp of pain.

"That was terrible. Even for you." Barbara groaned.

He rolled onto his side, reaching out to brush a stray lock out hair out of her face. Doing his best to ignore the way her lips twitched against a smile. "Really? So we went to all the trouble of ditching Bruce and sneaking off to the tallest, most private building in the city…just to have another pissing contest?"

"Would you rather I toss you off the roof?" Barbara asked sweetly.

"You wouldn't dare," he goaded.

Dick realized his mistake instantly, when that smirk twisted up Barbara's face, lighting her up with an evil sort of glow. Before he had the chance to react, her hands shot out to grasp his arms. She flipped herself up, slamming him down. Now, she was straddling him with both knees on either side of his ribcage. He was left with a spinning head and a dull pain in his shoulder blades as they dug into the rooftop.

Barbara's hair fell over both of them, until all he could see was her smug smile. "You were saying?"

Dick opened his mouth, but no sound would come out.

"Aw, look at that," Barbara whispered, in a voice that did things to him, "I've finally rendered the Boy Wonder speechless."

He had no idea what to say to that, either. So, because actions always spoke louder than words, he grasped both her wrists, and rolled hard. With a gasp, Barbara was upended. Dick took her place on top, and settled both palms on the roof, framing her face. A smirk eased over his lips.

"Pretty girls always take my breath away," he whispered, shooting her a cheesy wink.

And there, he totally had her. There was a dusting of pink on her cheeks underneath the edges of the cowl. He watched Barbara's throat bob as she swallowed, noted the way her eyes darted here and there (but anywhere besides his face).

Finally, she let out a snort.

"I think," she said, "You've been spending wayyy too much time around Wally."

"What, you don't like it when I call you pretty?" Dick leaned a little closer, his voice soft.

Pink turned into red, and Barbara closed her eyes. "Weren't we just talking about throwing you off the roof?"

He laughed. "Fine, fine. I'm done."

With a small grunt, he slid off her and settled himself against the building's crowning piece—the steel and copper dome. The structure broke most of the wind on the roof, and served as an excellent backrest. Dick laid his head against it, and smiled up at the sky as Barbara joined him.

With a sigh, she leaned back against the dome and landed a weak punch to his arm.

Dick rubbed the spot. "Too much?"

She huffed through a smile, and rolled her eyes up towards the clouds. "Hey, I'll never complain when a cute guy calls me pretty…"

He felt the zing of a blush warm up his own face.

"Just…not really used to it coming from you, you know?" Barbara shrugged one shoulder, and pulled her knees up to her chest. "I mean, no offense, Dick. But a week ago? You were calling me 'guttersnipe' and trying to convince Bruce to boot me out of the house. 'Scuse me if I'm a little…cautious."

Dick's smile suffered a painful death.

Words like 'sorry' and 'jealous' and 'denial' popped through his mind. Excuses trickled in right after that. But when Dick opened his mouth to give voice to those thoughts, all that would come out was a soft, "Oh."

For a few seconds, there was just quiet.

Then Barbara scoffed. "And also…'Dick time'? Pfft. Seriously?"

He heaved a mock gasp over the sound of her giggling, and clapped a hand to his chest. "You weren't impressed by my savvy romancing? Don't you have any idea how long it took me to come up with that line?"

"Oh, I'm sure!" Barbara cackled.

Dick watched her snort and laugh into her hand, a smile unconsciously winding its way up his face. The sound made a warm feeling bloom in his chest. Something he wasn't overly used to…but it definitely wasn't unwelcome.

"Yeah, kinda set myself up there," he muttered, picking away at a loose thread on his gloves. He twisted and pulled it, glancing out at the skyline. "Cut me some slack, okay? This whole 'boyfriend-girlfriend' thing's still pretty hard to believe."

"Oh, really?"

Barbara scooted closer, until their shoulders were pressed together. The sudden contact kicked Dick's heartrate up a couple dozen notches.

"Yeah." He chuckled. "Like you said. Last week, we were trying to kill each other. This week—"

"—you totally laid one on me in front of the whole Team," Barbara finished, smirking.

Dick felt his face go even warmer at the memory.

The party last night, at Mount Justice. What had started out as a casual get-together with pizza and board games between Team members had turned into an impromptu training exercise courtesy of the Justice League.

Every month or so, they surprised the Team with one of J'onn's specialty 'telepathic dreamworlds'. The famous doomed-to-fail exercises that were supposed to be 'super great for team-building and cohesion' (or so Black Canary told them during the subsequent therapy sessions).

After the first failed trial run, when M'gann had accidentally hijacked the entire scene, certain measures had been taken to ensure it'd never happen again. Little markers hidden in the faces of characters, or details in the background that would subconsciously alert Miss Martian that the scenario wasn't real, and there was no need to overreact. Meaning that the young heroes could now be trained without being traumatized.

Or, so the theory went.

This one had been especially rough. Not only because it was unexpected, but also because it was Barbara's first time. Bruce had only just let her join the Team, and prior to this exercise, she'd only been out on one mission with them. Dick still found himself wondering how deeply the exercise had affected her, especially considering how deeply it had affected him.

They'd all been on an alien warship. Been chased by a crazed alien giant who was making it his mission to find and kill each of them. One by one, their numbers dwindled. Kaldur had been the first to die. Then Zatanna. And on, and on, until only Artemis, Wally, and the Bats had been left standing.

The four of them had made it as far as the escape pods, before the giant found them.

And Barbara had given herself up to let the others escape.

Dick watched her die gruesomely.

Then, when he'd woken up on a cot next to his groaning friends, he'd searched the room. His eyes had landed squarely on his partner. He ignored the concern and questions from Wally and the others, and made it over to Barbara in a single stride.

Relief was a funny thing—it could make you throw all common sense out the window.

Dick had taken her face in both his hands, and kissed her right there, in front of everyone.

For the very first time.

"What can I say? I was glad you weren't dead," he said warmly, turning his face to look her in the eye. "So forgive me if I'm coming off a little too 'Wally'. Still trying to figure out how to talk to…uh…"

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Your girlfriend?"

He was full-on blushing now, no denying that. "Heh. Yeah, if that's what we're calling it, now—?"

There was something so soft in her eyes. In the lights of the city, they seemed to glow. Slowly, she reached up to the dial on the side of her cowl. With a few small clicks and a soft hiss, the helmet slid off into her palm, leaving her entire face on full display.

And in that moment, at least to Dick, she was the most beautiful thing in the world.

So he didn't say a word as she reached for his mask, next. A few shivers danced up the back of his neck at the touch of her fingers, the feel of his domino peeling off his skin.

With the mask in her palm, and the cowl laid off to the side, Barbara gazed into his eyes, unflinching. Dick gazed back, and it felt a little bit like falling as he stared into the blue depths. Falling in the best way.

"There you are," she whispered.

"Naturally," he breathed.

It was Dick's turn to reach. His palm slid against her cheek, thumb tracing the skin just below her eye, and she shut them both with a soft sigh.

Then her lips were on his, soft and inviting.

He'd kissed other girls, before. But before now, no other kiss had lit him up quite like this. Filled him with warmth until he felt he might burst with the glow of it, and for the first time Dick really got what people meant when they talked about fireworks.

And that was why he pulled away.

Barbara's eyes were still closed, but her brow wrinkled. "Dick?"

"Babs," he breathed, "I don't wanna mess this up,"

That got her eyes to fly wide open. For a moment, all she could do was stare, searching his face for the meaning behind his words. "You think us…" Her finger waved between her chest and his. "…together…will mess things up?"

"No! No, I'm all for…us." Dick's face was on fire, and an unconscious smile pulled at his lips before he smoothed it back down. "But, I just…"

Barbara waited for him, as he swallowed hard. Cleared his throat. Hesitated.

"I just saw you die," he whispered, once he'd finally beaten back the lump in his throat. In his lap, his hands clenched and unclenched. His nerves buzzed. "And…even if it wasn't real…I can't stop thinking about it. In a way, I got you killed, Babs—"

"Not true. I was shish-kabobbed by choice."

"—and I was powerless to—" Dick stopped short, then snorted. "Wow."

"Shish," Barbara repeated, tilting her head with a smug little smile. "Kabobbed."

"Are you mocking my trauma?"

Those wonderful lips pulled into a smirk. "Hey, I'm the one who died! I think I'm entitled to a little mockery—just a little."

"And I think I'm entitled to my dramatic speech!" Dick protested flatly.

"The one about how—" Barbara's voice dropped into a comically low imitation of his, "'I'm a big strong man who thinks he's responsible for the whole world, especially my girlfriend's safety, because if anything were to ever happen to her, it'd obviously be my fault for allowing myself to feel anything other than macho manliness, so the best thing I can do is to cut ties and live life as a sad, lonely loner with no real human connection'."

"Again, wow." Dick barked out a laugh as Barbara's hands came up to rest on either side of his face. The rough Kevlar of her gloves against his skin was just a little more than distracting, but he forced himself to focus as he reached for her wrists. "That's some pretty specific internal dialogue, don'tcha think?"

Barbara cocked her head, smirk returning. "Yeah, well, I've seen a lot of movies with strong male leads."

"Oof. Not sure whether to be offended…or if I should ask you to recommend the movie for our next date."

"The point is—!" Barbara barked out a laugh, smoothing her thumbs over his cheekbones. Her smile slowly dipped, brow furrowing, eyes filling up to the brim with a more somber sort of emotion. "That I know what this is really about."

Dick's entire body went rigid, and he whispered, "You do?"

He watched her bite the inside of her cheek, glancing down. "I do. Because, honestly…I've been thinking the same thing."

Dick met her eyes, then, and he knew. Snippets of past conversations came back to him, the ones whispered in the dark during stakeouts or after patrols (then later denied) about the unknowns that came with love. How neither of them really knew if they were capable of loving…and loving completely.

Because loving someone meant opening your heart as wide as it would go. Leaving yourself vulnerable, letting yourself trust. Wholly. Totally. Completely.

Both of them had loved like that, before. Dick, with his family, and, though he didn't know all the details about Barbara's past or her life pre-Batman, he could tell she'd had someone she loved. Someone she'd lost.

And that was the danger that both of them were shying away from.

Because what if they loved each other completely? What if they left themselves wide open, and let the other into their hearts with the intention of never letting go?

And what if disaster struck? What if one day, one night, some instance in the future, one of them took a hit? A shot to the head, a slip off a roof, disappearing without a trace?

Gotham City was a dangerous unknown, and the monsters who prowled her streets were just as unpredictable. Just as vicious.

Dick didn't want to love Barbara, because he knew he would break if she fell out of his life—Barbara didn't want to love Dick, because she knew she'd never recover if he left.

But, at least, they knew each other well enough by now that all of this could pass between them without so much as a sound. Understanding was written on both their faces as they sat there. Watching each other's eyes glow in the lights of the city, listening to the ambience of Gotham, and the sounds of each other's beating hearts.

It was Barbara, who finally broke the silence.

"But can I tell you a secret?" There was a cold determination in her eyes, and she leaned forward a little, until her face and Dick's were a mere two inches apart. "And this is really embarrassing, so don't you dare make fun of me, okay?"

"You have my word." Dick mimed zipping his lips, locking them shut, and flicking away the key. "No matter how humiliating, I'll take your confession to my grave."

"Dork," Barbara said softly with a smitten smile. But it slipped slightly as she swallowed, and spoke the words in a hushed whisper. "I…have been fighting off feelings for you since the day I met you—ever since you first told me my posture was $#!^. Do you remember that?"

"Heh, sorry about—"

"No, listen." Her grip on his face tightened. "I kept the fights going, and I kept goading you, and pushing your buttons. I did it because I thought you hated me. But also…I was afraid of what might happen. Because if…if I cared about you, then…" She choked a little, glancing away, adding in a whisper. "Then if you left, i-it would…"

There was something breakable about the way she sounded. Like a little glass figurine, right before it shattered. It made Dick want to wrap her up in his arms and pull her close. Never let her go.

So, he leaned in. Pressed his forehead to hers as they both let their eyes flutter shut.

"I lost my family when I was just a kid," he whispered, between them. "They were…they were my whole world. And losing them was the worst thing that I've ever had to feel. But it's been years, now. And I've gotten better. Life's gotten better."

"And the truth is," he continued, "I've had the biggest crush on you for years." They both chuckled, and he could hear the sob in hers as he kept going. "But I was embarrassed. I thought you hated me, too. And so I wanted to hate you back. Because if I did, then I wouldn't have to worry about ever feeling that way again—the way I felt when my family fell, and I couldn't save them. I didn't want to lose you, too."

"Then I guess we're both the stoic male leads of this low-budget B movie, huh?" she breathed, earning a laugh.

"That's right. Just two stoic male leads snuggling on a rooftop."

"Just two stoic male leads bein' dudes," Barbara muttered, snorting out a laugh. "Ugh, how did we get on this, again?"

Dick opened his eyes as he pulled away.

Barbara's eyes widened as he lowered her hands from his face, and settled them on his chest. He held them there, over his heart. "I know I can't exactly make promises like this. I don't know what the future holds, or what could happen when we leave this roof."

Her voice was tiny. "Dick?"

His fingers tightened around her wrists, pulling them into his chest until it hurt him. "But I can promise you that I'll never leave you. Not when it counts."

Dick watched her eyes begin to tear up. But Barbara hid it behind a tight smile and a shrug. "You can't promise me that."

"Why not?"

In a breath barely above a whisper, she said, "Because sooner or later, Dick…everyone leaves. They die, or they get tired, decide I'm not worth the trouble…" Barbara let out a shaky sigh, and the hands she rested on Dick's chest curled into fists. "Like you said. We don't know what the future holds."

"Maybe we don't." Dick's eyes twitched over hers, searching her face. His heart clenched at the tears welling up in her eyes. "But I can tell you right now that I'm never going to get tired of you. And, sure, you might be a massive pain in the #$$—"

Through her tears, Barbara breathed an indignant gasp.

"—but you know something? You're my pain in the #$$." He squeezed her hands in his, and raised her left fist to his mouth. Softly, he let his lips brush over the smooth material of her gloves. "And you'd better believe I'm never letting you go."

Biting her lip, she shook her head, eyes glistening.

Dick just smirked. "Now. Using my incredible deduction skills—which may or may not be better than yours, I remember that was up for debate—"

"Grayson—!"

"—I can tell you don't quite believe me. So, I'm going to make you a real promise…with a few conditions, of course."

Barbara swallowed back her tears. Her eyes rolled skyward. "Oh," she groaned, "Of course."

"First condition?" Dick ran his thumb softly over her knuckles. "No more pulling any of that self-sacrificing bull$#!^, okay? I…I can still see you dying. It wasn't real. I know that now. But…&*#...for a minute I thought it was, and it was the worst minute of my whole life. So that's my first condition, Babs. Please, please, don't throw yourself away like you don't mean anything."

The look on her face was pain-filled; he could see it written in every line on her face.

But she nodded. "Okay."

"Great," he said. "Second condition—don't ever go dark on me. Please. Don't pull away, act like you gotta keep everything inside. I see you, Babs. You're doing it right now."

"Am not."

"Are too," he scoffed. Dick pulled her body carefully to his, letting her rest her head on his chest. "Hey, you totally are. You bite the inside of your lip when you're holding something back. It's a total tell—surprised Bruce hasn't pointed it out, yet."

"I don't think Bruce spends that much time looking at my mouth," Barbara muttered, wrapping herself in Dick's arms. "Now you, on the other hand…"

"Ahp-bah-bah! Let's not change the subject!" He giggled into her hair, feeling her laugh along with him. At least before he sobered a little, holding her closer. Hugging her tight, almost worried that she'd slip out of his grasp and disappear. "Seriously, though, Babs. That's the other condition—please don't leave me, either."

"Never," she whispered to the Robin symbol above his heart.

"Then that leaves my promise, and it's this," he breathed. His tone carried weight, it filled the air, and made all the rest of the Gotham atmosphere fade to the background. "That no matter what happens—accident, injury, death—nothing will ever tear us apart. 'Cause even if we break up, even if we go our separate ways, even if you wake up one day and think 'what the #$%% am I doing with this loser?', I will still be there for you, Barbara. In any way you need. I won't ever leave you—'cause I am not going anywhere."

Dick felt the power of that promise ringing in his ears as soon as it left.

And Barbara whispered, "Neither am I."

He looked down at her face. Tears were brimming in her eyes, turning them impossibly blue.

"It's like the old man says—trust is a two-way street." A small smile slipped up her face. "And if we're going to be together, Dick, then this…relationship…has to go the same way."

His smile matched hers. "Exactly."

"So I need you to know that I won't let you fall, either," she said, pulling his arms a little tighter around her. "If you've got my back, then I've sure as #$%% got yours. Deal?"

"You know, Babs," he replied softly through a wide smile, "I think we've got a deal."

She turned herself around, sitting in his lap, her heart resting against his. Their armored chest plates scraped against each other as she leaned in close, and Barbara whispered, "Now that we've gotten all the negotiations out of the way…are you feeling better?"

Dick's eyes locked on hers, and he smiled dreamily up at her. "Uh-huh," he squeaked.

"Mmm. Good." She traced a single finger beneath his jaw, sliding it tantalizingly slow towards his chin. "'Cause I don't know if anybody's ever told you before, Dick Grayson, but you've got a really sexy set of lips on you, and I think it's high time I gave you a real kiss…"

"Sounds like someone's been spending way too much time around Artemis—whoa," Dick breathed, as Barbara leaned in. He could feel her breath puff against his mouth as she whispered,

"But don't worry. If you don't like it, you can always give it back…"

The steadily increasing rhythm of his heart tumbled to a sudden stop. All the air left his lungs. He stared into her eyes, and felt like he was drifting weightless through space. Completely at the mercy of whatever came next.

And he decided, right then and there—this was the girl of his dreams.

Dick's hands slid up to her waist as he pulled her even closer, until there was no space left between them. A wild grin slipped up his face. His heart began to beat again, a desperate, flighty tempo against his ribcage.

Dick sighed, "I lo—"

He was cut off by the press of her finger over his lips.

"Hey, shh. Not yet," Barbara whispered. But her smile was shy, and there was a hopeful gleam in her eyes. Something gentle and so, so full of feeling. She lifted her finger away, cupping his face in her hand. The touch was soft, and it filled Dick with a growing sense of warmth. "Let's save the 'L-word' for when we really, really mean it, okay? It's day one. Believe me, we've got time."

"Then what the #$%% are we waiting for?" he huffed—

—and pressed his lips over hers.

And wow. If he thought there'd been fireworks before…

#######

#######

"Hhhkk," he gasped, bolting upright. "Hh…h…heh..."

Dick's fingers groped around for some sort of anchor, anything he could grasp onto. But all he found was a sea of cold silk brushing against his skin. Slick and slippery. His head was spinning slow on his shoulders, sending his vision into a winding tilt.

It must've been some sort of flashback, because it definitely hadn't been a dream. Dreams always had elements of fiction—little bits and pieces to them that made you realize, once you'd woken up, that your mind had been playacting. Just pretending.

(They also sure as #$%% didn't leave you feeling like your head had been pressed over by a steamroller.)

But Dick knew it hadn't been a dream because all of that, with Barbara, and Robin and Batgirl and city lights and stolen kisses and secret promises—had actually happened.

Dick remembered.

He felt a chill on his bare skin and shivered, daring to surveil his surroundings.

Dick might've guessed 'boat' based on the way his insides were churning and sloshing around. But one quick glance toward the window shot that theory out of the air. Gray, cloudy sky, buildings peeping around the edges of the frame, streetlights glaring through the glass.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the nausea dripped away. Until all that was left were the pictures in his mind of red hair and glittering eyes. The memory of soft curves and softer lips, pressing over his own—

Dick's fingers rested on his bottom lip as he gazed around the room.

Time to focus—he was here for a reason.

The room Dick was in had a familiar feel to it, almost like something he might've seen back at Wayne Manor. Extravagant trappings, iron and wood décor, plush carpets and curtains and comforter. A beam of white moonlight from outside draped over his legs, and Dick peeled back the blanket covering his lower half.

Someone had taken his clothes, leaving him in a pair of black spandex boxers.

That couldn't be good…

Two dark shapes caught the corner of his eye, and Dick instinctively tensed. But when neither of them made a move, he paused. Squinted in the room's dim light and gave them both a once-over. His heartrate slowed, and Dick felt the smooth slide of the sheets as he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.

Padding quietly across the floor, he reached out, fingers meeting with smooth Kevlar.

Someone had set up two dummies—the kinds you saw in sewing shops—side by side, keeping watch over the room.

And they'd been dressed in the old Batgirl and Nightwing uniforms.

"Nice touch, don't you think?"

Dick whirled around, and his head spun out. He wobbled a little, groaning, but looked up.

Two more figures were standing guard in the doorway, even more dark and imposing than the mannequins that displayed the two batsuits like trophies. Both wore cowls that covered their faces, each with a set of piercing amber eyes and bronze decal. Neither of them moved at first. The two Talons only watched, with arms crossed tightly over their muscular chests.

Then the smaller of the pair spoke. "Now, I wanted to nab the Robin suit—can't tell you how much I hate that thing—but the higher ups figured 'Nightwing' was more…poetic."

Dick slid his feet apart and squared his shoulders. "And here's Johnny."

"Oh good, you recognize me." His cousin sounded smug, as he waved a clawed metal hand in the air over his mask. "Was it my dashing good looks?"

"Nah, you're just the shortest Talon I've seen."

John let out a low growl, and made to step forward. His partner's head spun towards him, though, and his cousin stopped cold. The two shared a silent, tension-filled glance for the space of a few seconds. Then, Johnny's shoulders drooped, and he leaned against the door frame.

"Whatever," he muttered. "Thanks, by the way, for cutting me loose."

Dick took a step back, mentally sizing up the larger Talon. "We had a deal, didn't we? So why the #$%% did you stick around?"

"Did you a favor, verişoară. How else were you gonna lose the super-friends?" Johnny's head cocked to the side. "Though I heard you didn't shake them all off, did you? Poor, poor Wally…"

Dick's jaw clenched.

"Enough," the other Talon rumbled. Dick vaguely recognized his voice, but struggled to place it. "We are wasting time. Gray Son, the rest of the Court awaits you, so I would suggest you get dressed and follow us."

"Get dressed…?"

The tall Talon nodded, and Dick followed his gaze to a small chest of drawers set against the wall behind him. On top was a neatly folded suit. Dick approached it tentatively, like he was sidling up to a rabid dog, and reached out. His fingers brushed the cold fabric.

The black shirt slid over his shoulders like water, cool silk sending shivers dancing up his spine. He buttoned it quickly, letting out a breath as he shivered. Pants were next, pressed and pristine enough to make a British butler proud.

Then the waistcoat, made of thick material in a burnished gold. Dick's fingers fumbled with the buttons, shaking against their will.

The jacket was next. Black as #$%%, with thin lines of gold threaded through, dancing in swirling patterns across the back and shoulders. At first glance, they were an interesting, if eccentric, decoration. But as Dick held it up to the moonlight that streamed through the window, he saw the embroidered outline of feathers take shape. Broad spiked wings rested over the equally broad shoulders, and Dick slid his arms into the sleeves with gritted teeth.

He expertly folded the gold tie into place. When he'd been younger, Bruce or Alfred had always helped him with the complicated knot, but years of experience with galas had proven to be a good teacher, as well. He snapped the gold cufflinks into place, shook out his sleeves, adjusted his lapels, and spun, facing the Talons with a showy wave of his hands.

"Ta-da," he growled through gritted teeth.

John clapped slowly, metal gauntlets clinking. "Well, well. He sure cleans up nicely, doesn't he?"

"One last piece." The other Talon nodded to the chest of drawers again.

Dick had seen the lapel pin, already. A part of him had been hoping they wouldn't notice, wouldn't press the issue. But he grit his teeth, reached out, and snagged the metal pin.

It was the same tarnished gold as the rest of the details on his suit, and shaped into the circular insignia of the Talons. Dick pinned it in place above his heart.

"He is ready." The taller creature nodded curtly, and turned on his heel. "You will follow us, now, Gray Son."

John's hand snagged Dick's wrist and tugged him forward. "No funny business, cous. Or else we'll have no choice but to do our little Barbie-doll harm. Wouldn't want that."

There was a shift in the other Talon. A tense pull to his shoulders. The slight movement underneath the cowl that probably signaled a clenched jaw. Dick's eyes narrowed as the connection finally clicked in his mind.

"You're Calvin Rose," he said coldly.

"Yes. Yes I am."

Another tug yanked him out the door, and the two monsters flanked him as they walked down a dark hallway. Dick's mind briefly drifted towards a few well-placed jabs with his elbows and knees, but he thought better of it. The enclosed space and lack of armor or weapons gave him a depressing disadvantage.

So he glared up at Rose, heat filling his belly. "Barbara trusted you."

"And that was her mistake."

The nonchalance of the answer, the lack of emotion or cadence behind it, threw Dick off balance. But he bit his tongue and scowled at the floor. His eyes danced over the pattern in the carpet, the edges of the stairs as he was led down. The corners of hallways as he was shepherded through a maze of wood and stone.

Harbor House.

&*#% it, it'd been Harbor House this whole time?

He and Babs had scoped the place out months ago for any sign of the Owls and found zilch. No trace of any cult or secret organization. Not so much as a loose feather.

He guessed the Court was better at hiding than they'd thought.

But that wasn't enough to ward off the shards of guilt stabbing into Dick as the Talons led him through another door. He'd been the one to rule out Harbor House. He'd passed it over during the search. And all the while, Barbara had been right here.

Rose reached out, opening one last door, and Dick flinched at the gust of cool air that slid over his face. Light and sound hit him next, and Dick's brow furrowed as John shoved him through into the night.

"You're letting me outside?" he muttered. "Why?"

His cousin's hand wrapped around his arm, and Dick let himself be tugged around the corner of the building.

The House's gardens came into full view—stretching lawns, manicured white rose bushes and green topiaries, bubbling stone fountains with floating candles bobbing in the water. All of it hedged in with thick bushes and a spiked iron fence.

Ornate tables with black and bronze cloths and dishes had been spread out over the grass, and people milled through them, chatting idly. All of them were equally well dressed. Pressed suits and ties, glimmering evening gowns in muted shades of color.

When Dick's feet tapped against the laid brick that seemed to serve as a dancefloor, every single one of them turned their heads simultaneously.

All chatter ceased. The musicians playing softly by the rose bushes froze, and their instruments quieted. Silence hung thickly over the crowd, and Dick bit back a violent shiver.

Because all of them—every single guest—wore a smooth white mask. With dark holes for eyes that seemed to stare into his soul.

Talon Rose stepped forward, and waved a clawed hand towards Dick.

"Illustrious members of the Court of Owls! We, who are no one, present to you our esteemed guest of honor."

John's hand dug into the space right between Dick's shoulder blades as he shoved him forward once again. Dick stumbled, but straightened quickly. He glanced around the crowd for a familiar face—or at least a familiar head of red hair behind a mask—but felt his heart clench when there was no sign of her.

"Richard John Grayson." Rose's voice boomed over the silence, and the sound sent goosebumps prickling up the back of Dick's neck. "Last of his line. The key to our victory. The final chance of redemption for his Talon brothers and sisters."

Dick's eyes snagged on several dark figures that lined the edges of the fence. Standing guard. Keeping silent watch through their amber lenses. Dozens of them, all zeroed in on him.

"Talons! Salute!" Rose barked.

There was bristling movement in the shadows as every gauntleted arm snapped up to attention. Fists clapped over hearts with thunderous pounding, and something inside Dick ached to do the same…

…What?

"Talons, hail our savior! Courtiers, accept this gift!" Rose roared.

A noise went up from the Talons. Low and steady, a vocal tempo that thundered in time with every third beat of Dick's buzzing heart.

A figure stepped forward out of the crowd. His dark cape brushed the grass and his boots clipped against the stones. With arms held behind his back, and a glittering Owl's mask gazing watchfully beneath a dignified hood, Dick recognized the man for who he was.

Abraham Vanaver.

Every Talon fell silent, and the absence of their voices cut through the air more sharply than a knife.

John and Calvin each fell to one knee. Shoulders strained. Heads bowed respectfully.

And the Grandmaster of the Court of Owls turned to the assembled members of his society with hands raised to his sides. A receiving gesture. Arms open to embrace them. And for several moments, the silence remained. Stretching. As every member of the Court waited with baited breath, hanging expectantly on the Grandmaster's fingertips.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was rich with triumph.

"My friends, our victory is assured, and at last, our time has come. We have won."

Joyful laughter and shouts bubbled up from the crowd as Courtiers raised their glasses, embraced, and celebrated. The sounds of their glee wrapped around Dick, squeezing him tighter, and he felt his throat close off completely as the Court's leader turned to face him.

"And for our Gray Son, I have only two words," he said, loud enough for them all to hear. Vanaver's eyes glittered through the slits in his mask, and Dick could imagine his cold, serpent-like smile underneath.

"Welcome home."