A/N: Trigger warning! Non-graphic mentions and implications of past sexual assault.
Sound: the grunt of a man whose body had just taken a bullet
Sight: blood, all around him, everywhere
Smell: rain, usually a smell that he loved, but not that night
Taste: everything he had eaten that day
Touch: hands, all over his body, hands he wanted to push away but couldn't
Nightwing stumbled through the streets of Bludhaven, the memories leaving his mind reeling and his body in shock. She had killed – no, he had allowed her to kill – the man. He had walked away, tired of everything the villain had been doing and knowing it would never stop. And then she hadn't stopped, no matter how many times a variation of the word 'no' had weakly floated out of his mouth.
She was his responsibility, so her actions were also his responsibility. He should have stopped her, should have reminded her of their number one rule. He had broken that rule, the one he had promised Batman would never be broken. Batman had been able to obey that rule his entire crime-fighting life, but Nightwing…hadn't.
He had just let everything happen.
Three months later:
Nightwing had to atone for what he had done. He had purposely allowed her to murder the villain. It was his job to save, not to kill. If this was how he was going to have to try to redeem himself, then so be it.
It was the first time he had gone on patrol since Blockbuster's death. Nightwing almost immediately discovered that it had been a bad idea. He had been so unobservant that not one, but two henchmen had been able to attack him from behind. The young hero had lost before the fight had begun, but he deserved it. Didn't he?
Nightwing had to atone for what he had done. So he took the hits, half-heartedly retaliating once in a while. How long, he wondered, would it take for him to redeem himself? One beating, three, twelve, one hundred? How many times would he have to be beaten unconscious in order for the world to right itself?
Nightwing had to atone for what he had done. But could a murderer ever be redeemed?
Alfred was gone on a week-long trip to England to visit some relatives. So, when there was a quiet knock on the front door – a soft noise that only the sensitive Bat-camera was able to detect – it was Bruce Wayne who was going to have to open it. He was suspicious, because who would come to the door at three in the morning?
Batman, who had arrived in the Batcave only fifteen minutes ago, shifted his attention from the Batcomputer to the black-and-white screen of the Bat-camera viewing machine. A man was leaning on the front door, hunched over and supporting himself with only his right hand. The hero couldn't tell who it was, because it was raining hard and the man's soaking-wet hair was obscuring his face.
The man had a lithe body but there was muscle definition everywhere. Batman could tell because the visitor was wearing something completely skin-tight. Leaning closer to the small screen, the Caped Crusader saw some sort of weapon in the man's left hand. It was hanging limply, and Batman concluded that the weapon was not going to be used against Bruce Wayne when he opened the door. The man was in no condition to use it; it was obvious that he could barely hang onto it.
Turning away from the machine, Batman quickly changed then strode up the stairs and out of the Batcave. He double-checked the secret entrance, then walked to the front door. Grabbing the handle, he counted to three then flung it open, intending to startle the man and give him no time to react. Because, again, who would come to the door at three in the morning?
Nightwing mumbled to himself as he staggered up the sidewalk that led to the front door of Wayne Manor. He shouldn't be here, this was the last place he should be. Batman, and therefore Bruce, was going to be so disappointed in him. He knew he should just turn around, but for some reason he kept going forward.
The doorbell was right in front of him, but Nightwing chose to knock. Maybe everyone was asleep and wouldn't hear the quiet sound. He could tell himself that he had tried, but that probably wouldn't help. Nightwing needed…someone. But nobody came.
Dropping his head, the young hero put his right hand on the door and leaned against it. He wasn't trying to push it open. His body was in danger of dropping to the ground, and now the only thing holding it up was his trembling hand.
He counted one minute, then two and three, and finally decided that nobody was going to come. He should just leave. They were asleep, as they should be, or maybe Batman was on patrol. It didn't matter, Nightwing didn't deserve to see them anyway. He was…stained.
Suddenly, the door was flung open. His source of support suddenly gone, Nightwing fell forward and prepared himself to hit the cold marble of the familiar floor. Instead, two strong arms wrapped themselves around his torso and practically dragged him inside. The young hero kept his head down and forced away the tears that had been streaming down his face since the Manor had come into view.
He shouldn't have come, he realized again as he recognized the arms to be those of Bruce Wayne. The man was going to be so disappointed.
The unknown man fell forward, and Bruce threw his arms out. He wasn't going to let whomever it was crack his head open on the floor. His visitor didn't even try to move, so Bruce dragged him inside and used his left leg to push the door closed.
Bruce's eyes widened in shock when he realized that the man was Nightwing. The black-and-blue suit was torn in several places, dark bruises were blooming through the holes, there was dried blood everywhere on his body, and the young hero was completely limp in his arms. The weapon Bruce had noticed was one of Nightwing's escrima sticks, and it was now rolling away from the boy's slackened hand.
He's not a boy anymore.
That thought, like so many others before it, was chiding him. He pushed it away for now, knowing he probably wouldn't come back to it. Just like he didn't every time.
"Nightwing, what happened?!" Bruce exclaimed.
They weren't exactly on the best of terms, but Dick was still his son. He dropped to the floor and laid the young man down so he could search for the cause of all the injuries.
Removing the domino mask, Bruce was surprised to see the light-blue eyes full of shame. There were tear tracks on his young face, and the older man could see more threatening to slide down his bruised cheeks.
"Dick," he whispered, "what's going on? What happened?"
Turning his head away, Dick ignored the questions. His breathing hitched as he tried to hold back the tears. He knew Bruce had heard it, but hoped the man wouldn't comment on it. Dick should have known better.
"You're injured," the older man stated. "What hurts?"
Everything.
Dick kept the thought to himself as he forced his body to sit up.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come," he said quietly. "I'll go…"
"You're not leaving in this condition," Bruce immediately interrupted. "I know you can take care of yourself, but you're already here so just let me help."
You won't want to once you figure it out.
That thought made him feel guilty, so Dick decided to tell Bruce one thing. Then the man would kick him out and Dick would go home, where he should have gone in the first place.
"I broke it," the younger man whispered.
Bruce was lost.
"A bone?" he questioned. "Which one, we need to get it set."
Dick shook his head and opened his mouth. But then he shut it, because a sound escaped his throat, betraying him.
It was almost like a sob, Bruce decided. The boy must really be hurt if he was close to sobbing. Maybe it was more than one bone that was broken.
"Which one, Dick? Let me help you."
Shaking his head again, Dick mumbled, "Not a bone. I broke it, I let her break it."
Let who break what?
Bruce was confused, and his expression showed it. Dick was suddenly on his hands and knees, heaving as if his stomach was going to travel through his throat and then onto the floor.
"Dick!" Bruce exclaimed as his son's body began shaking.
It was over as quickly as it had begun, and Dick's arms gave out. He collapsed, but was aware enough to make sure his head didn't hit the floor. Bruce grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up to a sitting position.
"Tell me what happened," he commanded, although there was no anger in his voice.
"Not good enough, I broke it, I can't go back, it's over, I'm not good enough."
The rambling sentence was nearly inaudible, and Bruce heard despair in his son's voice. Despair surrounded by defeat. Dick was tactile, Bruce was not, but he made an exception. He pulled Dick into his chest, just like he had when the boy was a traumatized nine-year-old.
To his surprise, Dick shoved him away and scrambled backwards.
"Don't touch me!" he almost shouted.
Bruce raised his hands in surrender and said, "Okay, it's okay, calm down."
Dick's entire body was trembling, and his eyes were squeezed shut. His breathing was erratic, and Bruce knew that his son was either going to have a panic attack or hyperventilate.
"Dick, I need you to breathe, okay?" the man said softly. "Listen to me and try to match my breathing."
The words obviously hadn't penetrated his son's brain, so Bruce tried a different approach.
"Okay, Dick, what do you hear? Tell me something you hear."
Sound: the grunt of a man whose body had just taken a bullet
Dick mumbled in response, which Bruce decided meant 'move on'.
"Okay," the older man sighed. "Open your eyes and tell me something you see."
Sight: blood, all around him, everywhere
Keeping his eyes closed, Dick murmured, "Blood. Everywhere, it's everywhere."
Bruce quickly scanned the younger man's body, searching for the source of the blood. There were too many possible places of origin for the older man to figure it out himself. Dick was going to have to give him a status report. But all of the streaks of blood that he could see were dry, so Bruce decided to move on. His son wasn't bleeding out, and the millionaire needed the boy to be able to breathe again.
"Dick, I need you to relax. How about smell, tell me something you smell."
Smell: rain, usually a smell that he loved, but not that night
"Rain."
That was the only response, but at least Bruce knew the boy wasn't completely out of it. Deciding to skip taste, since they weren't even close to anything edible, the man tried again.
"Open your eyes, Dick."
He paused, waiting for his son to obey. Slowly, the light-blue circles appeared, but Dick dropped his head before Bruce could see whatever emotions were filling his eyes.
"Touch something, kiddo."
Bruce didn't know why the nickname had slipped out, but he also didn't want to waste time trying to figure it out.
Touch: hands, all over his body, hands he wanted to push away but couldn't
Dick slowly raised his head, connected his eyes with those of Bruce for exactly five seconds, and whispered, "Hands."
Bruce saw defeat, fear, doubt, and sorrow all emanating from those expressive eyes in the short time he had been able to see them. The ball of concern that had lodged itself in his chest grew; something bad had happened. Something bad enough that Dick had allowed himself to feel vulnerable enough to need to return to Wayne Manor.
Nodding, and not knowing that he was completely misunderstanding, the millionaire said, "That's right, touch something with your hands."
Dick, who had dropped his eyes to the ground, snapped his head up and growled, "No."
Bruce was taken aback by both the tone and the disappointment that had joined the other emotions in Dick's eyes.
"I'm just trying to help, Dick, there's no…"
The man paused when he noticed the liquid gathering in the boy's eyes.
"I…said no," Dick stated, his voice shaking.
"I heard you," Bruce responded, almost rolling his eyes. "I'm not deaf, you know."
"Bruce, I…you don't understand."
"Then help me understand, Dick!" the man exclaimed, frustration outlining the words. "Tell me what happened!"
"I…let her do it. I should have stopped her, I shouldn't have walked away, I…I failed you. I failed Batman."
"Dick, can you start from the beginning? I'm somewhat lost. Who did what and why?"
Bruce ignored the last sentence, deciding he could come back to it after hearing the story that, hopefully, Dick was about to tell him.
"Blockbuster is…dead."
That short sentence brought so many thoughts into Bruce's head. The main one that shoved all of the other ones away: Nightwing had killed Blockbuster. But that couldn't be true, because that was THE rule. The one that could never be broken. Batman had never broken it, and Nightwing was simply a more positive version of Batman. Therefore, Nightwing could not have killed the villain, because he would not have broken that rule.
I broke it, I let her break it.
Dick's confession sprinted through Bruce's mind. A lightbulb popped on, and the older man shook his head. Someone else had broken the rule, and Nightwing was blaming himself. Because Nightwing blamed himself for almost everything bad that had ever happened to anyone. But, Bruce had to know for sure.
"Dick, did you kill Blockbuster?"
Bruce tried to keep his voice calm and even, but he could hear the harshness of his tone. That was certainly not going to help.
"I…yes."
Bruce raised his eyebrows in surprise. Disbelief filled his dark-blue circles, and he shook his head again.
"No, I don't think you did."
"I let her, and she is my responsibility. I didn't stop her. So, yes, I did."
"Did you give her the weapon?"
Dick shook his head.
"Was your hand on the weapon when it delivered the killing blow?"
"It was a gun, and no. But…"
Bruce hated guns with all the passion he had in his body. But knowing that Dick hadn't touched it allowed him to control the fury.
"If you didn't give it to whomever it was, and you didn't pull the trigger, then you didn't kill him."
"I…walked away. I let her do it, I should have stayed where I was."
"So, let me get this straight. You were standing by Blockbuster, and whomever killed him had a gun pointing at the two of you."
Nodding, Dick repeated, "I walked away."
"You decided to save your life…"
"No," the younger man snapped. "She wasn't going to kill me. I should have stayed and talked her out of it. I could have done it, I should have stopped her!"
A sudden flash of knowledge danced into Bruce's brain. Dick's apartment building had been blown up, Haly's circus had been burned, Dick had been fired, so many things had gone wrong all at once. Had all of that been courtesy of Blockbuster?!
"He wasn't going to stop," Dick whispered miserably, correctly assuming that Bruce had figured some things out. "If I shook someone's hand, I was marking them for death. It was going to go on forever, he was never going to stop."
"So she stopped it for you," Bruce commented. "And you got yourself out of the way."
"I just let it happen," Dick confirmed quietly.
"You could have saved him."
Bruce's calm observations belied the anger boiling in his veins.
"I'm…sorry, I shouldn't have come here, I'm going, you don't need this."
"Shut up, Dick. You're staying, at least for the rest of tonight."
The command startled him, and the younger hero flinched.
"She shot him, not you."
Bruce paused, so Dick nodded.
"You walked away, allowing it to happen."
"My responsibility, my fault."
"Not your fault, but you did make a mistake."
"I'm done, Bruce, Nightwing's done. I'm not good enough, I can't come back from this, I broke the rule. I…I lost myself."
"Dick, I will not allow you to lose yourself. We will work through this together, and Nightwing will come back from this."
"I took a life, Bruce, I broke the rule!" Dick yelled.
Knowing that shouting wouldn't help, Bruce took a deep breath before responding.
"You did not take a life, she – whomever she is – did. You are not the one who pulled the trigger, you are not the one at fault."
Bruce understood. If Batman had walked away when he could have saved someone, he would be reacting the same way. He wouldn't be showing as much emotion as Nightwing, but it would be tearing him apart inside.
"When did this happen?" Bruce asked.
"Three months ago," Dick muttered, wrapping his arms around his trembling torso.
Three months. His former partner, his son, had been carrying this guilty burden for three months. By himself, probably, because who would he ask for help? Nobody, Bruce decided, because Nightwing hated disappointing people.
That, however, didn't explain the current condition of Dick's body. The evidence of a beating like the one Nightwing had obviously taken would have already disappeared if it was three months old.
Bruce suddenly realized that in addition to being bruised and bloody, Dick was soaking wet and shivering. The cold marble of the entryway floor was not the place to be having this conversation.
"I left, Bruce. After it…after she…I left."
"You went home?" Bruce asked.
Dick shook his head, and the older man needed clarification. Especially since he now realized that he hadn't heard anything about Nightwing recently.
"Where have you been for the last three months?"
"Around," Dick answered vaguely.
"Around," Bruce repeated dubiously. "What have you been doing? Has Nightwing gone on patrol anytime in the last three months? And why do you look like you just allowed Joker to play a violent game with you?"
Dick looked away, and Bruce sighed. Suddenly, Dick was on his feet and holding the handle of the door. Bruce immediately stood up and put his hand on the door itself.
"It's pouring, Dick. I've already told you several times that you're not going out there. Let's go downstairs and you can change. Alfred's not here, but I do have some experience in patching people up."
Bruce made the mistake of putting his hand on Dick's shoulder and turning him around. The younger man yelped in what Bruce could only describe as fear and ducked away from his grasp. Dick's breathing became erratic again, and the older man could only think of one reason for that behavior.
"Dick…"
He couldn't ask, he didn't want to know. But he did want to know, so he could go take care of her – again, whomever she was – for causing his tactile son to not want to be touched.
"Dick," he started again. "Did something else…what happened after Blockbuster died?"
"I'm fine," Dick muttered, heading toward the old grandfather clock.
"That's not what I asked, chum."
Again with a nickname, and again Bruce wasn't going to waste time trying to figure out why he had said it. Besides, Dick was already out of sight and probably halfway down to the Batcave by now.
When Bruce entered the Batcave, he was surprised to see Dick sitting on a chair instead of changing. Wondering why his son wanted to stay in a wet uniform, Bruce sat down on the chair by the Batcomputer. Dick wasn't dying, and none of the injuries needed immediate attention. So, he folded his arms across his chest and waited.
The silence filling the Batcave was awkward, but Bruce was determined to let Dick take the lead. Five minutes grew into ten, and then fifteen. Dick was picking at the edges of one of the holes in his uniform, and Bruce was struggling to stay silent. He had so many questions.
"We left," Dick finally said quietly.
"And?" Bruce asked when another round of silence began.
"We found a place to, um, clean up."
"You skipped something," Bruce stated, not knowing if he was correct.
His guess was confirmed when Dick glanced at him in surprise before dropping his eyes to the ground.
"Blockbuster died, then something happened that you're not telling me, then you left."
Dick's body tensed, and Bruce watched his hands clench into fists. The younger man propped his elbows on his knees then rested his forehead on his fists. Bruce decided to move on, for now.
"Who is 'she', Dick?"
"Tarantula," he responded quietly. "She was kind of my protégé, I guess. Maybe. I don't know. I just…" he paused and shook his head. "She was my responsibility."
"People are responsible for themselves, Dick."
"You were responsible for me when I was Robin!" the younger man declared loudly, raising his head.
"Is this Tarantula person a young kid or teenager?"
Dick shook his head and Bruce stated, "Then you aren't responsible for her or her actions. Not everything is your fault."
"I was helping her, though, she was…I walked away, Bruce!"
"Everything that has recently happened to you was because of him, wasn't it? Your apartment building, your job, the circus, and whatever else that I don't know about."
Dick nodded and ran a hand through his still-wet hair, sending droplets of water into the air.
"Dick, you made a mistake. You lost sight of the value of a villain's life, which is somewhat…understandable after everything that happened. However, she is the one who killed him, that part is not your fault."
"I'm done, Bruce, I can't come back from this," Dick repeated his earlier words.
"What do you want from me, Dick? Why did you come here?"
The questions surprised him, and Dick sat up.
"Do you want me to tell you what to do with her, or how you should react to this?"
"I…no, I don't know. I shouldn't have come, sorry."
Dick stood up to leave again and, again, Bruce quickly joined him.
"That is not what I meant," he almost growled. "Like I said before, you are not leaving right now. I guess my question should have been, what do you need from me."
"Um…nothing, I guess. I just…I'm lost, I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I knew you would be disappointed, but I told you anyway. I just…I don't know."
Dick ran a hand down his weary face and sat down again. Bruce returned to his chair, sat down, and began to think. What had possessed Dick to come to Bruce, of all people? Especially since he felt like he had broken THE rule and would be disappointing Batman.
"I…should have stayed. I could have stepped in front of the bullet. Maybe that would have been better."
"Don't be an idiot," Bruce snapped. "Your death wouldn't have solved anything."
"He would have been forced to stop killing innocent people, because there would be no point to it," Dick retorted.
It was a very accurate observation, but Bruce chose to ignore it.
"Losing sight of the value of a villain's life does not mean you can lose sight of the value of your life. Bludhaven needs you. I…need you."
The last sentence was so quiet that Dick almost missed it. Almost.
"You don't," the younger man countered. "You haven't for a long time."
"Dick, we've had some arguments…"
"Some?!" Dick exclaimed.
Ignoring the outburst, Bruce continued, "…and I've said a lot of things that I regret. I won't be surprised if you never forgive me for some of them. However, you are still my son."
I can't trust you anymore; maybe you don't deserve to be Robin; I never should have brought you into this life; get out of the Batcave.
The words Bruce had thrown out over a year ago flashed through the minds of both men, followed by the memory of Dick's retorts.
You won't even try my ideas; you're not my dad; I'm not going to stop being a hero; we're done.
Neither man was ready to apologize, and the Batcave was silent except for the hum of the many machines. It was Bruce who decided to break the suffocating stillness.
"What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing, I'm fine."
"You're not. Something else happened. I have an idea, but I think you need to get it off your chest. So, what aren't you telling me?"
Dick dropped his head, suddenly very interested in the jagged edges of one of the holes in his uniform.
"Dick."
It was his warning voice, the one Batman used when he needed to know something that somebody was keeping from him. The tone that usually brought compliance, especially from Robin. But Dick was no longer Robin.
Silence again. Dick wasn't about to tell Bruce that he had been too weak to stop a girl, to keep her hands away from him and her body off him.
"Nightwing."
It was the same tone, and this time Dick flinched. But his mouth stayed shut.
Bruce sighed, he really didn't want to do this.
"Tell me when I say something wrong. Blockbuster died. You were in shock, you couldn't think straight, you panicked. This girl, Tarantula, decided to take advantage of your weakened state. You…"
"Stop," Dick commanded softly. "Just let it go, Bruce."
"Dick, I cannot let something like this go!" Bruce yelled.
"It's over, it doesn't matter."
"It matters to me! In fact, it matters a heck of a lot more than the fact that a villain is dead!"
"A villain that I helped kill!" Dick shouted, glaring into the older man's eyes.
Guilt, surrounded by shame. Those two emotions were easily evident in his son's eyes. Bruce hated seeing those, he had seen them so many times throughout the years. He would never understand why Dick tended to blame himself for almost everything.
"You did not help kill him; you made a mistake. If you're here seeking forgiveness, then I forgive you. But that won't matter until you forgive yourself. This is going to haunt you until you realize that you are not to blame."
"I'm stained, Bruce," Dick admitted, "in more ways than one. There's blood on my hands. Blood that I swore I would never have, because I swore I would never break the first rule. The most important rule. I'm worse than some of the villains in Arkham. I killed someone, and I can't come back from that."
"Yes, you can," Bruce countered, "because you didn't kill him. And what happened after that is…"
"Over and doesn't matter," Dick immediately interrupted.
With a frustrated sigh, Bruce stood up and strode to the Batcomputer. He input the name 'Tarantula' and impatiently waited for the results. The familiar 'ding' accompanied the sight of a small card exiting the machine. Bruce reached for it, but Dick suddenly appeared beside him and snatched it away.
"Dick, so help me if you do not give me either that card or the information you know I'm looking for…"
"You'll what, fire me?" Dick interrupted sharply as he ripped the card into tiny pieces. "I gave you all you need to know. Blockbuster is dead, I allowed it to happen, nothing else matters."
"The fact that this Tarantula person assaulted you doesn't matter?!" Bruce roared.
Dick looked at him like a deer caught in the bright headlights of an oncoming car. He had tried to keep that part out of it, but Bruce was intelligent enough to figure it out. Dick had known that, but he had still let the man put forth a scenario. And he hadn't stopped it in time. Just like he hadn't stopped her.
"I'm…"
"If you tell me that you're fine one more time…"
Bruce left the threat hanging in the air as he strode to the Bat-changing area. Batman came out less than five minutes later and was surprised to see Nightwing standing by the Batmobile.
"You're not going to find her, she's very good at going underground."
"Does she know you were coming here?"
Nightwing glanced away before returning his gaze to Batman and shaking his head.
"She knows – everyone knows – about what happened between you and I. There is no reason for anyone to think I would come here. I don't even know why I'm here!"
"Then she has no reason to go underground, because she doesn't know I'm looking for her."
"She…knows where I live. Who I am. Blockbuster figured it out and she knows."
"That's a good place to start, then," Batman snarled.
"Batman, I'll take care of it."
"Nightwing, she has done too much for me to allow you to take care of it."
"Allow me?!" Nightwing exclaimed. "I don't answer to you anymore. You have no right to tell me what I can and can't do!"
"Nightwing, look at yourself! You're a walking, bloody bruise! You've nearly had three panic attacks in the last half hour, you're emotionally exhausted, and you look like you haven't slept in at least two days."
Glancing at his watch, Nightwing quietly admitted, "It's been fifty-seven hours, six minutes, and thirty-two seconds."
Fifty-seven…dang it, Dick, how are you still on your feet?!
"Like I said," Batman growled, shoving the thought away for now, "she has done too much. You tell me her name, or where she lives, or some kind of useful information and I will take care of her. Now, Nightwing!" he demanded when the younger hero stayed silent.
"Catalina Flores," Nightwing whispered, his voice shaking slightly.
Nodding his head sharply, Batman climbed into the Batmobile. Nightwing was instantly beside him in the passenger seat.
"I'm going," he said simply.
With another nod, and another frustrated sigh, Batman started the Batmobile and they roared out of the Batcave.
Thirty minutes later:
"They did a horrible job of fixing the place up," Batman growled as they landed on the rooftop of Dick's apartment building.
"It's only been three months," Nightwing muttered defensively. "It's livable."
"Barely," Batman retorted quietly.
They rappelled down the side of the building, landing on the fire escape just outside of Dick's bedroom window. There was a light coming from a different room, and Nightwing couldn't remember if he had left it on. The bedroom was empty, so he silently slid the window up and both heroes quietly entered the room.
Batman pointed to himself, then the front room. Nightwing nodded and pointed to the bathroom. They separated, and Nightwing found that he had chosen the wrong way when he flipped on the light in the bathroom.
"Hello, mi amor," Catalina said smoothly from behind him.
Her arms encircled his waist, and Nightwing froze.
"You shouldn't have left," she stated, her voice slightly reprimanding. "I was lonely."
"Back off," Nightwing growled, although his voice was shaking.
"You don't mean that," she scolded, running her hands up his chest and back down to his waist. "You missed me. We had such a good time together."
Nightwing suddenly couldn't breathe.
Touch: hands, all over his body, hands he wanted to push away but couldn't
"Tarantula, I presume."
Batman's authoritative voice caused Catalina to flinch, but she tightened her grasp around Nightwing's waist. She turned them around so that Nightwing stood between her and the intimidating form of the Caped Crusader.
"Nice to meet you, finally," the woman said casually.
"Then the pleasure is all yours," Batman snapped. "Get away from Nightwing."
"No, he wants to stay, look at him. He's practically clinging to me," she replied with a quiet giggle. "We're together now, didn't he tell you that?"
"Get. Away. From. My. Son!"
She didn't move, so Batman took the initiative.
"Nightwing, down," he commanded.
Batman was hoping that the younger hero would remember how they had done things when he was Robin. The older man wasn't sure, because Nightwing looked like he was in shock.
The command penetrated through the shock, and Nightwing slid his body down through the circle of Catalina's arms. She wasn't prepared, and he was now out of her grasp.
"Mi amor," she crooned, intending to drop to the floor and gather him into her arms.
But that didn't happen, because Batman suddenly flew over Nightwing's head and tackled the woman. Her head bounced off the floor and she went limp.
Batman stood up and turned to Nightwing, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. His eyes were closed and he was trembling slightly. But his breathing was steady, so Batman stayed quiet.
"I said no," Nightwing finally said softly.
"I know," Batman responded.
"It didn't work."
"I know."
"I don't want your pity."
"You don't have it."
"I don't deserve your forgiveness."
"That you do have. Except…"
Nightwing's shoulders slumped, but the movement was so slight that only Batman would have seen it.
"Except," the older hero continued, "for the complete lack of self-preservation that you have shown your entire life."
"It comes with the job," Nightwing stated.
"Sometimes," Batman agreed. "But it happens with you more."
"I work in Bludhaven."
"That's no excuse. You worked in Gotham, with me, but even then you had no sense of self-preservation."
Nightwing had no response to that. He knew it was true; he tended to jump in without thinking of himself. But wasn't that what a hero was supposed to do?
Batman knew that expression, and he knew Nightwing knew it was a fact. But Nightwing had always taken himself for granted, as if his life didn't even matter.
"No."
Nightwing opened his eyes in surprise.
"Um, no what?" he asked, slightly confused.
"No, a hero is not supposed to just throw himself into the line of fire without thinking about every option. The first solution – or even the second – is not always the best one."
Again the younger hero didn't respond. He knew he could be impulsive, and sometimes that trait led him into dangerous situations. But it was better for him to be in danger than for an innocent citizen who needed help.
"You matter, Nightwing."
Batman had folded his arms across his chest and was almost glaring down at his former partner. His gaze softened slightly when he saw the raw emotions etched on Nightwing's face. Shame – there was always shame and Batman detested that – and doubt.
"I know I haven't said this very often, and it's a mistake on my part, but I am proud of you, Nightwing. I am proud of who you have become, as both a civilian and a hero, and I am proud to call you my son."
Nightwing's eyes widened, disbelief flashing through them. Batman was never proud of him, Batman was always disappointed in him! The younger hero doubted that Batman was telling the truth, especially since Nightwing had just sacrificed a villain's life.
"You shouldn't be," he mumbled.
Batman wasn't sure how to answer that, so he turned his attention back to the woman lying motionless on the ground. Pulling out his Bat-cuffs, he pulled her arms behind her back and slapped the black steel around her wrists.
"I need to call this in, are you coming back with me?"
"Back?"
"To the Batcave," Batman said impatiently.
"Oh, um, I…"
"So that's a yes, then. Let's go."
The command was firm but not harsh, and Nightwing felt like he was Robin again. The kid who had tried to obey every command, the teenager who had pushed back until he was 'fired', the young adult who had fled the Batcave to find himself.
"I'll stay," Nightwing stated softly.
Batman stared at his son for a moment, then shook his head.
"If that's what you want."
That's not what I want, I want to come back, I want to make things right with you. But you don't need me, and I've complained enough.
"These feelings of guilt and doubt will never go away until you forgive yourself, Nightwing," Batman commented, interrupting Nightwing's thoughts. "You made a mistake, but you are not responsible for her actions. What happened after you stepped away, everything that happened, is not your fault."
"A mistake," Nightwing responded incredulously. "You call it a mistake, I call it murder."
"Yes, Blockbuster was murdered," Batman agreed, "but not by you. I'm not going to stand here and try to convince you, because it's obviously not working. This is, apparently, something you're going to have to work out on your own. I don't know how else to help you. I'm not going to force you to come back, but you obviously took a good beating recently and those injuries need to be taken care of."
"How many times will it take for me to redeem myself?" Nightwing almost-inaudibly wondered aloud.
It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Batman wasn't about to let that idiotic idea go unanswered.
"You can't be redeemed by allowing yourself to take beatings," Batman snapped. "And you don't need to be 'redeemed' anyway. How many times have you purposely lost a fight recently?"
Batman's fury was now directed at his son. Nightwing was either not fighting back or was not fully engaging. Apparently, the younger hero thought that being beaten to a pulp was what he deserved.
"Last night was the first time I went on patrol in three months. It…didn't work out so well," he admitted quietly.
"Can you honestly tell me that you were fully intent on taking the criminals down? Because if you were not engaging to the best of your ability, or not engaging at all, then you were not 'on patrol'."
Nightwing dropped his head and stayed silent. Batman knew exactly what that silence meant.
"Again, I'm not going to force you…"
Although I really want to.
"…but I suggest that you return to the Batcave to at least get some supplies."
Batman's voice was full of both anger and frustration. His entire body was tense, as if he were ready to leap into a fight. He was expecting the boy to push back, so Nightwing's answer surprised him.
"Okay," the younger man agreed softly. "Just to get some supplies."
Five nights and three long, difficult conversations later, Dick left Wayne Manor with a much smaller ball of guilt rolling around in his chest. He wasn't ready to forgive himself for his mistake, but it helped that Bruce already had.
Bruce watched Dick climb into the limo – Alfred had insisted on driving the young man home – with a slightly smaller ball of worry in his chest. It was going to take a long time for Dick to move past this, but Bruce had already decided that he would move silently behind the boy, ready to catch him if he ever fell again.
Because that, Bruce realized, is what a father is supposed to do. And Dick Grayson was Bruce Wayne's son.
THE END