Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

"The Living Years" Copyright 1990 by Mike and the Mechanics. From The Living Years CD, released by Atlantic. I've been told it's better to ask forgiveness than seek permission, so forgive me for not asking first.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: Dick confronted Bruce after Jason Todd's death in New Teen Titans #55.

Chapter 10

All Together Now

Friday, 8:32 a.m.

(Tabitha)

I've been dozing when my cell goes off. "Y'hello?" I mumble. There's a gasp on the other end. I see Dick glance in my direction before turning back to the road.

"I don't believe it. You've finally turned this back on? Where are you?" Natalie. She doesn't sound angry with me. On the other hand, she usually keeps herself on a pretty tight rein emotionally. I guess, given what can happen when she loses control, that's understandable.

"About an hour ago," I say. We're... just past the Brown Bridge, turning north on Englehart..." I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. "Not the expressway?" I ask.

Dick doesn't take his eyes off the asphalt. "Aparo's backed up due to construction. At this time of the morning, it's faster to go through the city. Is that one of your teammates?"

I nod, and go back to my sister. "How is everyone?"

She lowers her voice. "That's what we have to talk about. I'll fill you in. I'll be at your TRAFICK office. How many more of you are there?"

"One," I say shortly.

There's a grunt on the other end. "The one Alfred assumes you went to find?"

Cloak and dagger gets annoying, but cell phones aren't exactly the smartest way to relay sensitive information. That's why Natalie wants to meet me in Park Row. At least there, we can talk plainly. My eyes dart over to Dick's direction. He seems to be handling things calmly. As long as I don't take into consideration that his knuckles are white around the steering wheel, anyway.

"Mmmhmm," I reply.

"I have to bring him up to date, too." Suddenly, I'm talking to Kensai. "Before he arrives in Bristol." So, that means Dick can't drop me off and keep going. Figures. I disconnect before I can ask her to break the good news to Dick herself. She isn't going to tell him anything she wouldn't tell me on an unsecured line.

"Don't hate me," I say. "We've got to make a stop."

"You can't be serious."

"Kensai is," I say. "She'll rendezvous with us at 1438 Park."

"No way," he shoots back. "I'll pass by there, and you can phase out if you want to. I'm going on."

Now, how did I know he was going to say that? I sigh. If Bronwen were here, she'd know exactly how to make him listen. If Natalie could teleport, she'd be in the back seat, explaining as we drive. If this car had wings it would be an airplane, but my sisters aren't here, the car remains a car, and I have to come up with something. Problem is, if I were in his place, I'd be reacting the same way, only a lot less calmly. Being obnoxious isn't going to work, this time. But I don't know what I can tell him that might change his mind. Maybe I know someone who does. "Call Barbara."

"What?"

"Use my cell if you want to. Ask her what she thinks about this, if you don't want to listen to me. Here's what I can tell you, right now though. One, Natalie didn't sound any more agitated than usual. Odds are the worst hasn't happened. Two, if everything were great, she'd have said. Even if she did it by calling me collect and asking for 'Alice Fein'."

He looks blank. I say it again slowly. "All-is Fine? Get it?" He doesn't answer. "If you want me to guess, I'd say it's not good, but it could be worse." I think I've found my analogy. "Look, when you're preparing for a mission, you do as much research as you can ahead of time, right? I mean, when you do your information gathering, check your files to see if you recognize the M.O., review strengths and weaknesses, determine whether it's smarter to go in by motorcycle or hang-glider, you're going to deal with all that before you even leave your base of operations, aren't you?" Please say yes.

He doesn't say anything. Oh, no, he's nothing like Batman. Yeah, right. Well, at least he's not denying my assumption. I wonder why he's not calling Green. No point my asking—he'd probably say—rightly, that he doesn't want to talk on a cell or commlink while he's driving. Besides, that really isn't my business.

"If things were really so bad they couldn't wait," I say after about a minute, "Natalie would be standing at the manor gate controls ready to buzz you in. Heck, she'd probably be telling me to file our 'flight plan' with Oracle in order to make sure we have green lights all the way through the city, like in that Italian Job movie. Since she isn't, doesn't it make sense to at least hear my sister out?"

"What if I'd come to tell you Natalie had been the one thrown off a building five days ago, and Bruce called to tell you to wait until he met up with you?"

Darn! He knows how to fight me. "I try not to argue with six-foot bats." True, but he's right. I wouldn't like sitting tight, any more than he does. "But in that case," honesty compels me to add, "you're right. I would. Look, Natalie's on her way there, now. Tell you what: we get there before she does, we wait ten minutes, and then we're gone."

He thinks about it. "Five minutes. Not a nanosecond more."

"Deal."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

8:47 a.m.

Natalie is sitting on the steps in front of the door when we get there. She's holding a knapsack on her lap, and I can see a baguette poking out of it. The sign over the door reads: Theatrical Repertory Association For Inner-City Kids—TRAFICK by any other name. I started this up informally about six years ago. It got a little more formal when I turned eighteen and registered the association as a not-for-profit. Sophie cosigned—anyway, it's a long story, tell you later, maybe. Short version, we stage four musicals a year—two per season. One has to be suitable viewing for kids under ten, one doesn't. Right now, we're unleashing Into the Woods and The Secret Garden at the end of August.

The reasons Natalie wants to meet us here are because I own this real estate, and I've got an office on the top floor (with a bedroom, kitchen, bath and shower in the back) complete with security devices that probably rival those of a certain cave in Bristol.

My sister looks tired. It's morning. Duh. "Park on the side, where it says 'reserved for owner'" I say to Dick.

"Want to get me towed?"

"I am the owner." I grin at his double take. Natalie meets us as we're getting out of the car.

"I was afraid you'd keep driving if I wasn't in plain view," she says, setting one foot firmly on one of the metal strips anchoring the drainage pipe to the brick wall. "Race you to the skylight."

No way am I even going to touch that one. As soon challenge the Flash to a footrace, or Aquaman to an underwater breathing competition. Natalie scaled El Capitan when she was fifteen—in eighteen hours, forty-one minutes. That's not a world record for speed or age, mind you. The youngest climber to make it up that rock-face is some eleven-year-old boy who speed-climbed it in fourteen. I wouldn't race him either. Point is, the climb usually takes three to four days. Natalie does this kind of thing for fun.

I phase back into the car to get my mask. You see, starting up a youth club in one of the worst parts of town, at the tender age of thirteen, is not a bright move. Not when you're there late afternoons and evenings after dark. But, if you wear a costume, well, let's just say the tougher elements think harder before they mess with you. Still, I'm more casual about things here. I always wear the mask, but mostly I'll wear civvies instead of Kevlar. I keep a spare costume here, just in case.

I explain this to Dick, after emerging from the car.

He sighs. "I suppose you want me to put a mask on, too."

"Not really. I've brought people up to my office before who have nothing to do with my... other extra-curricular activities. There's no reason for anybody to assume anything different about y—"He's already got the mask on. Where in the heck do you find lenses that make the eyes look totally opaque? It's creepy. Which, of course is, a) the general idea, and b) the reason I'd like a pair of my own. "Fine, whatever. I'm taking the front door. You can follow one of us."

He heads for the drainpipe. Figures. I've got a good head for heights. You have to, in this business, in this city. But I don't feel the need to scale a building every chance I get. Then again, unlike Dick, I didn't spend my childhood on a trapeze, and, unlike Natalie, I'm not five-feet-and-one-half-inch. She used to be a lot more sensitive about her (lack of) height, around the time that she started taking her climbing seriously. There's got to be a connection.

I pull open the inner door. "Tyrone, I'll be upstairs if you need me," I call to the high school junior on receptionist duty. Actually, as of September, he'll be a senior. Tyrone may be built like a nightclub bouncer, but he's one of the most easy-going people I know—unless he sees a person beating up on someone smaller. He's also got a great baritone—he's singing the parts of Cinderella's Prince and the Wolf in Into the Woods.

"Left some messages for you in your cubby," he calls. I wave, and grab them. I'll look them over later.

I'm about to phase in when I see my office door open a crack. I open it wider. Natalie grins at me. "I didn't even have to tell him." I smile back, and turn on my security display. The fire exit can't be opened from outside, and cameras will tell me who's heading down the hall, or up the wall. And the stairs can best be described as extra creaky. They're structurally solid, but noisy. So, we'll know if anyone's coming.

I see she's put the baguette on the table by the door. She hasn't put any other groceries down. That means it's a prop. Natalie tends to use them for emphasis. Words sometimes fail her when she's nervous. Funny thing is, she doesn't look nervous. She actually seems a lot more at ease than usual outside the family. Something happened while I was away. I'll have to ask her about it later.

Dick clears his throat. "Fill me in," he says. "Fast."

Natalie stands at attention. She's not being cute or anything; she just has two speeds—business and everything else. Right now, she is definitely in business mode. She looks at me. "You were off to New York before he hit the pavement?"

I nod. Close enough.

She takes a deep breath. "Just so you know..." she looks at Dick. Yeah, it's confusing. Callie's rule about codenames in costume is all well and good until you're talking to someone wearing jeans, a T-shirt—and a domino mask.

"Nightwing," he supplies. Fair enough. The acoustics in the hallway are intentionally terrible, but why risk?

She nods. "And I'm Kensai. As I was saying, he's told Callie it was okay to pass this on to you, otherwise medical ethics would kick in and—"

"I understand," he says quickly. He looks at me, then back to Kensai. "Your sister told me about what's happened up until five days ago. The sooner you bring me up to date, the sooner we go."

She nods and starts rattling off a laundry list of injuries. Crud. Bane didn't just drop Batman off the museum rooftop; he practically beat him to a pulp, beforehand. But my mind keeps coming back to the first item on Kensai's damage inventory. See, I remember helping Callie review different types of fractures when she was in premed. A lot of times, the terminology is surprisingly straightforward. Not in every case, of course. When Bron got pinned under that ceiling support, she suffered a Brown-Sequard spinal injury. Or, to rephrase, she's paralyzed below the point of injury, but only on one side. Many times, though, a fracture looks the way it sounds like it should. You know, a spiral fracture is something resembling a spiral. Like if someone's arm gets twisted. So when Natalie mentions a 'fulcrum' stress fracture, I get this very sick sinking feeling, like I'm plummeting through the floorboards. (Yes, that's actually happened to me. And no, it isn't fun.) Because, even though I don't remember immediately what the probable circumstances are that would cause that type of injury, I do know what a fulcrum is. And, as that image sinks in, it becomes horrifyingly obvious to me why Kensai brought that baguette.

I keep one eye on the security display, the other on Nightwing. He looks like he did on the roof in Manhattan, last night, when I told him why I was there—like someone just sucker-punched him in the gut. His voice is rock-steady, but it sends a chill through me. He sounds like he did in the car when he found out I was AWOL, only more so. "Let's just pretend for a moment that I don't have any imagination," he says evenly. "Give me the most likely scenario where Batman could have... received... that sort of spinal injury."

Natalie doesn't say anything right away. She crosses in front of Nightwing, and stands in front of the door. Smart planning. I've got tables along each wall, and a desk under the skylight, where up-stage center would be if this were a theatre set. She picked the one closest to the door to put her prop down on. "My best guess?" She shakes her head sadly, and reaches for the baguette. She holds it out horizontally in both hands, about waist high, then in one fluid motion, she brings the bread down and her knee up—hard. And there she is, holding one piece of baguette in each hand. I swallow. Some days, a person just doesn't want to be right.

Nightwing's jaw drops. He sounds like he's choking. It hits me suddenly just how much he's been holding back until he had the facts. Now that he's got them, it's anyone's guess whether he's going to explode... or implode. When he finds his voice again, it sounds like he's wearing the bat-suit. All he says are three monosyllables: "Bane... is... MEAT!"

He lunges forward for the door, but Natalie's in position to block. She thrusts her palm—firmly—against his chest. I think it's the shock that he's encountering resistance that stops him. Natalie knows how to fight—after fourteen years in a costume, one would hope she knows how, but she's not physically strong. If he wanted to, he could probably swat her away like a mosquito. "There's already a lineup for that," my sister says. "Wait your turn." She sounds dead serious.

The first time she met Batman, she said he had a voice that cuts like a scythe. I'm not disputing that. But if his is a scythe, hers is a scalpel—sharp, smooth, and you don't even realize she's connected until you see the effect. It stops Nightwing. Temporarily. "Talk fast," he grits. "Or get out of my way."

"Where were you planning to go?" She asks, reasonably. "It's daylight. He could be anywhere. Besides, there's at least one person ahead of you who's got a prior claim."

She's good. One little sentence and she throws us both for a loop. "You don't mean—"I start to interrupt as he replies:

"You're not saying—"

Kensai smiles. It's almost a smirk. "That depends partly on you, Sis. I'll—"

At that moment, a loud creak and a soft chime bring my attention to the secu-cams. "Company," I say. I look at Nightwing. "Some of the kids I work with, here. You want to change to full-dress uniform in the back, or just keep the mask?"

"I don't have ti—"

There's a knock on the door. "Excuse me," I brush past him as Natalie edges in front of the table and hoists herself onto it. I pull the door open wider. As I do so, Nightwing moves out of the line of sight of whoever's in the hallway. 'Whoever' turns out to be Tyrone, flanked by Jeff, the thirteen-year-old playing Jack in Into the Woods, and Nisha, the eight-year-old playing Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden. Tyrone is holding a bulging manila envelope.

"What's up?" I ask, trying not to sound impatient.

Tyrone pushes the envelope at me. "For Batman," he says. "We used some of the art stuff. Hope that's okay."

I glance over my shoulder to Natalie. Slight headshake. Good call. Anyone starts thinking we know a way to contact Batman, and the next thing you know, people are going to start tailing us to try to find him. I feign exasperation. "Why does everyone think that just because I wear a mask, Batman and I are best buddies?" I moan theatrically. "I mean, I'm lucky if I see him once in six months." I try to push the envelope back to Tyrone, but he's having none of that.

"Odds are," he says, "you'll see him before we will. When you do, give these to him." Just goes to show. It doesn't matter if you can pick locks, and phase through solid objects. Sooner or later, you are going to be trapped. I don't see any way out of this one besides taking the envelope, so I do. Then I see Nisha's hand disappear into the pocket of her baggy slacks. She pulls something out, wrapped in a clear ziplock, presses it into my hand, and whispers "This, too." I look at the object in my hand, and then I just have to hug the kid.

"If I see him," I hedge. She nods and they troop off.

After they're gone, Nightwing looks at me. "What did they give you?"

I pass him the envelope. Original art, get-well-soon cards, probably a poem or two. I'd actually be touched. Batman, I don't know about. I show him the other thing. Nisha loves to sculpt with plasticene. You know, that colored reusable clay? What she's done is mold some of it into a (somewhat-lopsided) gray teddy bear, and stick a blue cape with a very familiar, pointy-eared cowl on it. Add a black bat in a (slightly-smudged) yellow circle on the chest, and it's obvious what she was trying for. Natalie gets a look on her face that can best be described as 'awww, it's sooo cu-u-ute!' At least she spares me having to hear her say it. Nightwing turns away.

"What else do you have to tell me?" He asks roughly.

"Quite a bit," she says as she puts the baguette back in the long paper sleeve it came in, "but we can talk in the car."

"Couldn't we have done that in the first place?" he asks.

Natalie deliberately looks at the floor. "Truth?"

He spreads his hands apart in a 'hit me' gesture.

"I didn't know how you'd react, and I try not to startle people while they're driving." She looks at the roof. "Skylight okay for an exit?"

I shrug. It's faster. "Go. I'll lock up," I say. As soon as Nightwing clears the skylight, I push the door shut. I make a mental note to replace the grappling line I use to get roofward.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Poor Callie!" I exclaim, trying not to laugh (and almost succeeding). Natalie's just finished relating how Jaime figured out just who it was that Callie was taking care of.

"Poor Callie?" Dick echoes, also grinning. "Poor Bruce! First Robin figures it out, now some seven-year-old—"

"Well, he won't be seven until September," I correct automatically.

"That's even worse!"

"Let's just remember," Natalie says, "his mother wears a costume. His uncle wears a costume. Four of his mother's five sisters and his uncle's wife currently wear costumes, and the fifth sister used to. Add in the detective techniques you," she kicks the back of my seat pointedly (or should it be 'pointily'? That hurt!) "have been teaching him, Nancy Drew, and couple that with the fact that he reads Donald J. Sobol, Franklin W. Dixon, and whoever it was wrote those Three Investigators books, and all I can say is, 'it was elementary, my dear Watson'."

I slide my hand behind me, glad the seatbelt allows that much give, and rub the small of my back where she kicked me. Pointy shoes ought to be registered as deadly weapons. Then again, that would probably be another law we'd choose to ignore in our line of work.

"So," Dick says, "he's out of danger, now."

Natalie's voice turns serious. "Physically, yes."

"But?"

Natalie sighs. "Will you accept that I'm not trying to lay blame on anyone or anything except the venom-hopped bully who put Batman in ICU?"

Oh. She's using the "B" word. You know, if I wasn't standing in that line she was mentioning earlier, I could almost feel sorry for Bane. Nah, not really. I see Dick nod. I guess Natalie saw it from the back seat, too, because she continues. "You're not in Gotham so much these days, so maybe you don't know this, but he's been under a lot of stress even before Bane showed up, here. Arkham was just the cherry on the trouble sundae. When I say that he's not okay emotionally, I don't want you to think for one second that he's hysterical, or suicidal, or anything like that. But, even if Callie's theory about how we can treat his spinal injury bears out..." She thinks. "Ever mistime a jump several stories up? Or lose your grip on your jump-line?"

Dick thinks. "I must have been about five," he says, nodding slowly. "I was practicing, rehearsing for that night's performance with my parents. It was going to be my first time in front of the audience, and I was psyched. I was so excited I forgot to chalk my hands before climbing up the ladder."

I draw in my breath sharply. Big top lights are hot. Hot hands sweat. And sweaty hands slip.

He glances at me. "Yeah. Lucky for me the net was there."

"Did you get back on that ladder right away?" Natalie asks.

Dick laughs. Actually, it sounds more like a sniff than a laugh. "Yeah. My dad made me. He said if I didn't get back on, immediately, it was going to be harder the longer I put it off. You're saying..."

"I'm saying," Natalie agrees, "Bane shook him up. Badly. And in his case he hasn't had the option to get back up on that ladder. And, even assuming what Callie has in mind works, it's still going to take a while. And it's going to be frustrating."

I'll buy that. My first semester at GSU, I signed up for introductory Italian. I figured I know French, I know Spanish, so how hard can another Romance language be? Well, let's just say that the same fine points of grammar that tripped me up in French and Spanish proved problematic again. But the worst of it was having the mind of a university frosh stuck with the reading and spelling vocabulary of a kindergartener. Or having the memories of being an Olympic caliber athlete and being stuck at the performance level of a raw novice. I get it. And from the expression on Dick's face and the way he's nodding, so does he.

"So," Dick asks, "what are you suggesting?"

Natalie sighs. "I don't know what to tell you. Callie and Jaime have been there the most. Bran and Jill show up at the manor to sleep—"

"What?"

I'll field this one. "Callie's a single woman. She can't sleep under the same roof with a single man to whom she is not related, unless a married couple is also there. Bran and Jill fit that bill nicely."

Dick shakes his head. "Don't you find it hard to deal with all of these rules?"

"Sometimes," I admit. "I also find it hard to charge in against five-on-one odds, shift from ninjitsu to capoeira, and land solidly after doing a triple somersault from a fifth story window."

"Point taken."

"Dick?" I ask. He doesn't answer, but his posture tells me he heard me. "How are you holding up?"

"Me?" He asks lightly. "I'm fine."

And he almost sounds it, too. "Really?" I ask. Yeah, I'm needling. Sand-in-the-oyster Aaronson—that's me, remember?

He lets out a long breath. "No. I'm worried."

"About him." And duh, again.

"Things have been... tense... between us for a long time. We do okay as Batman and Nightwing."

I can infer the rest, but something (the wannabe social-worker in me, maybe?) makes me want to probe. "And Bruce and Dick?"

"Not so okay."

I don't think he wants to talk about it any further, and it's really none of my business, so I don't push. He surprises me.

"A couple of years ago we had a falling out. I... left before we had a chance to see if we could patch it up. That only made it worse." We're stopped at a traffic light as he turns to look directly at me. "And... I don't know whether my coming back now is going to help or hurt."

What the heck do you say to something like that? Of course he wants to see you. You're his partner for crying out loud! But how do I know? How well do I know these people anyway? At least I have some idea, now, why for all his insistence on rushing back post haste, he waited for me to catch up, when I phased out of the car. He stopped at TRAFICK. Sure, I had to twist his arm for that, but if he was really gung-ho to get to the manor, there's no way I could have stopped him from barreling down to Bristol.

"That's rough," I say.

He goes on as if he hasn't heard me. "What do I say to him? If I acknowledge what happened, he'll say he doesn't want my pity. If I pretend nothing's happened, he'll—"

Natalie clears her throat. I crane my head to look at her. "Would you like a suggestion?" she asks diffidently.

He waves a hand in her direction. "Please."

Natalie's voice is about as soft as you can get it without it being a whisper. She knows how to project, though. "Tell him what you were wishing you'd had a chance to say to him, when you thought it might be too late."

Until STAR labs starts releasing stun-ray guns to the general public, we've always got Natalie.

When Dick doesn't say anything, she adds "you have a chance, now."

"You make it sound so easy."

Natalie sighs. "No, it's not easy. It's simple. There's a difference." The dashboard clock reads 9:57. Has it really been only a little over an hour? "Could you put the radio on, please? I'd like to hear the news."

Dick punches a button. Static. I guess whatever station he listens to in New York doesn't transmit this far. He starts adjusting the tuning knob. As music comes over the speaker, his hand freezes and he gets this incredulous look on his face.

...Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got

You say you just don't see it
He says it's perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defence

Whoa! Now that is scary.

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye

So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It's the bitterness that lasts...

You know, some people think that believing in a Supreme Being means you spend all your time praying, in whatever position your faith requires. Personally, I've outrun too many thunderstorms and blizzards not to know that Someone up there is watching out for me. And, considering what we were just talking about, what are the odds that WGEZ would be playing that song, at this time?

Dick turns the dial abruptly, and almost misses the exit for the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge. I tune out the news. I realize that I'm less than twenty minutes away from facing Callie. I think I'd rather face Bruce. Scratch that. I know I'd rather face Bruce. He might chew me out, but with him it would be more professional than personal, know what I mean?

Dick turns off on a dirt side road instead of continuing straight to the house. I blink as the car heads behind a billboard, then descends down a gentle rocky incline. And then, we're underground, in a dimly lit tunnel, which leads to an only slightly less dimly lit cave. I'll have to ask the others if they came in this way, the last time. Back then, Natalie and I waltzed in the front gate.

He parks. We get out. We pick our way around the obstacle course of test-tube shards, splintered beams, eviscerated audiocassettes, and scattered disks and papers. The place looks like Maybelle's bedroom, the time she was wondering what would happen if she created a cyclone indoors—just a teeny-tiny one; those were her exact words. None of us comment.

Natalie senses someone else's presence a split-second before we do. Telepaths are notoriously hard to surprise. It's Dick, however, who calls out "Alfred?"

The lights come on, giving us more details of what transpired down here. Alfred stands halfway down the stairs, holding a wooden baseball bat. I calmly raise my hands. If he doesn't remember me, I'd rather not be the cause of any problems.

"Master Dick?" he asks, moving quickly down the rest of the stairs. "It is so good to see you again!"

I edge my way up the stairs. It's better to get this over with. As I open the door to the den, I hear my brother's voice.

"...As if nothing happened."

"We need her," Callie is saying.

"We needed her five nights ago! Maybelle was right, you know. Natalie dislocated her shoulder saving an artifact that Tabitha would have phased—"

What's this? Natalie didn't say anything about that.

"You knocked her down to benchwarmer status until Ali confirmed she was cleared for active duty. Fine. Maybelle gets a little over-enthusiastic and nearly kills someone. Your threaten to suspend her. Great call as always. But Tabitha... Tabitha doesn't even bother showing up to lend a hand, no word, no phone call. Finally, around three a.m., today, she leaves a message on Bronwen's cell, and you want to just pretend she was acting on your instructions—"

I'm moving slowly down the hallway, following the voices, as my heart starts pounding.

"Whether I gave the order or not, she's my responsibility."

"Bruce's saying so doesn't make it so."

Bruce blamed her for my road trip? Oh boy. Can you be put up for adoption when you're over eighteen?

The voices are coming from the room on the far left. I quietly turn the knob, and push the door open. Callie's facing me. We make eye contact almost immediately. Bran's back is to me. He continues to rant. "Look, Callie, I hate to do this to you, but right now, if I can't depend on a person, I'm not so sure I want to work alongside of her. In fact, I'm not sure that I can work alongside of her."

Callie gives no indication that she's seen me. "Brandon," she says, "are you asking me to choose between you and her?"

Brandon hesitates before saying, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am. And Cal? Look, before you divvy us up into teams, you might want to make sure whoever you stick her with is alright with that."

"I see."

She looks over Bran's shoulder at me. I wish I had a mirror so I'd know what I look like, about now. No. I don't. I guess Bran notices her looking past him, because he turns around and sees me standing there. He glances back over to Callie, and says "Later." Then, he walks past me as if I wasn't there.

Somehow my legs carry me over to the kitchen table, and I grope blindly for a chair. I rest my elbow on the table and sit there, my thumb and index finger at the outer corners of my eyebrows. "How badly did I mess up?" I ask rhetorically.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

(Dick)

"Tell him what you were wishing you'd had a chance to say to him, when you thought it might be too late." Kensai's words echo in my thoughts as I mount the staircase to the second floor. Sure, Kensai. Anytime. Maybe that works for you and Silver Dragon, but I kind of have my doubts. Or maybe I'm just scared. I can't help thinking about last year.

I got back from halfway across the universe to discover that while I was gone, Jason Todd died. It hit me hard. Not that I was especially close with the kid, but that's just it. He was a kid. He wore the Robin suit—and he died. He wasn't more than fourteen, if that. All of a sudden, I had a new appreciation for why Bruce went ballistic when the Joker shot me, months before that. And I knew that if Jason's death was a shock for me, it had to be tearing him apart. So, never mind that I still had a cast on my foot and was hobbling around with a cane. I made the drive up to Gotham and waited for Bruce in the cave. What was I thinking? Did I expect him to start crying on my shoulder? Bruce? Grayson, get real. He was on the defensive from square one—started by telling me that it was luck, not skill, that had kept me alive as his partner, and ended by slugging me--hard enough to bruise my cheekbone and split my lip in a single punch--telling me that he was never going to have another partner again, andordering me to give my key to Alfred on my way out. As if I didn't have a duplicate. As if he hadn't taught me how to pick locks and bypass any security system on the planet, and a couple on Watchtower.

Anyway, apart from being afraid of what I might see, I'm not looking forward to any kind of replay of that scene. So, turn around, Grayson. Go back to New York and wait until he calls you. Who do I think I'm kidding? Yeah, I'm going up there. I'd be slightly more eager if I knew for a fact that Two-Face, Joker, and Brother Blood were waiting in the room instead of Bruce (if you think I'm kidding, you obviously haven't met him), but I'm going up there.

I push open the door to the master bedroom without knocking first. I don't want to wake him, if he's asleep. He isn't. He's sitting at his writing desk, his back to me. Eating. In a wheelchair. Did I think Kensai was lying to me? Or was it just that if I didn't see it for myself, I wouldn't have to believe it? Whatever. Now I've seen. Now, I'm convinced.

Bruce finishes what's in his mouth, before rolling away from the table to face me. He looks at me. World's greatest poker face. "I didn't expect to see you again," he rasps. Where have I heard those words... that tone... before?

Suddenly, I realize that just because he's still using the same script doesn't mean I have to. "Liar." The word somehow manages to bypass all of the normal safeguards I have against engaging my mouth before putting my brain into gear, and it seems to echo in this strangely quiet space. Okayyy. I am now officially toast. I brace for the explosion.

"I... beg your pardon?" Kids, if you've ever wondered what the term 'dangerously calm' means, wonder no further. Just play back Exhibit A.

"You knew Kensai was going to fill me in on what happened," I say teasingly. "She said she wouldn't have been able to tell me how badly you were hurt unless you'd given her permission. Ergo," I smile, "you knew I was coming. Ergo," I feel the smile growing wider "you were expecting to see me. Ergo," I say triumphantly, "you are a liar." If he's going to slug me this time, I'm going to bloody well deserve it.

He looks up at me. That's a switch. I've grown some since he took me in at age eight, but he's still got four inches on me, or would have if he were standing up. He rolls over to me, stopping about a foot away. "Leave," he says.

Here's the problem. He's using a voice that can chill your blood faster than one of Victor Fries' cold guns. Bat-classic. His eyes back up the voice. But... his body language... is... conflicted. So. What do I believe? My gut tells me he doesn't want me to go. My cheekbone, on the other hand, is pointing out that the other two gauges would seem to indicate that a strategic retreat is called for. Two against one. Majority rules. Then again, who ever heard of a 'cheekbone instinct'?

I bend down to his eye level. "No." No explanation. No tears. No attempt to pull him into a hug. Just that one little syllable.

And it gets him. "What. Did. You. Say?"

"No," I repeat.

Ooh. I think I know what Kensai meant about Bruce not being okay emotionally. I mean, I sort of knew my saying that was going to get him angry, but I wasn't expecting his face to get that shade of red.

"How... dare... you!" Now he swings. You know, I don't think I actually logically planned this out beforehand. I mean on some level, I must have believed he might have needed some kind of catharsis, or some outlet for all of that free-floating frustration, and I thought I could handle that. So I don't know which of us is more surprised when my left hand lunges forward and immobilizes his right wrist before he can connect: me—because I was sure that I was going to heroically take that punch, or him—because he didn't think I'd be able to block it. I shouldn't have been able to block it.

He snarls and tries to connect with his other arm. Instinctively, I catch that wrist, too. He strains to break loose, but I've got the leverage. He taught me that.

Uh-oh. Now, I'm stuck. He's got one more move he can make: butt his head into my face. If I dodge it, he'll be off-balance and, if he didn't set the brake on the chair, he'll probably propel himself out of it and land on top of me. Not good. Kensai said he had internal injuries on top of everything else. I'm not sure whether his struggling to get off of me and my struggling to get him off of me could reopen something. And the only other way out of his range is to release his wrists. Again, some instinct makes me decide against it. Which leaves me with one other move. I close my eyes, so I won't see it coming, brace for pain, and I wait for it.

And I wait for it. And I wait for it. And I wait for it.

Okay, now I've heard—actually, I know from personal experience, that when you're waiting for something bad to happen, time seems to slow to a crawl. This seems more like a snail's pace. And then, I feel it. He lunges forward...

...And his forehead slumps against the juncture between my neck and shoulder. He stops struggling against my grip, too. Hesitantly, I open my eyes. Slowly, I release his wrists. As he lowers his hands, I place mine gently on his arms, and lean my chin against his temple.

I don't know how long we sit like that. He doesn't cry. I don't tell him everything's okay. Because we both know it isn't. And we both know it is. And so, we don't have to say anything about it at all.