January 23rd

Cole was released from the hospital, though it was given to the hospital staff to understand that he had someone at home who would keep an eye on him. This was a straight up lie, and the cab Cole hailed that evening didn't take him home, but to the scene of the attack. In fairness to the cabbie, he knew nothing of who Cole was or even where he was going.

Cole paid the fair and got out, ignoring the cab as it sped away. The cabbie was no fool, and knew better than to hang around a neighborhood as violent as this one. He couldn't imagine what Cole planned to do there, nor did he want to know.

In truth, Cole wasn't sure what he was looking for. In part, he felt like going back to this place might make his memories that much clearer, that he might finally be satisfied by what his memory kept telling him or, and he hoped this fervently, it would clear and tell him the story the media had presented to him on television every day since he'd woken up.

But, of course, this didn't happen. Though he looked right and left, he got no conflicting images in his head. He tried desperately to play it in his head that Nightwing had been helping the gang, or that he had been the one in the truck which had rammed the police cruiser. More than anything, Cole wanted confirmation of that which he had so firmly held as true, had believed for years.

Vigilantes were a dangerous menace to society, just as inclined to attack the innocent as the guilty. But not only was Cole still very much alive, so too were all the members of the gang. Not only that, but they had been injured only minimally, which did include a few broken bones, yes, but nothing of the kind of damage Cole had been seeing Nightwing leave in his wake.

"Scares you, doesn't it?,"

Cole whirled to face the direction of the voice. Nightwing was there, leaning casually against the wall of a building, arms crossed in front of him. He continued speaking, his voice caught between serene and jeering.

"Realizing you're not the one with the power. That there are things beyond your control. Beyond your understanding,"

"What?. Like you?," Cole snapped "I'll get my hands on you soon enough,"

"No," Nightwing's voice sounded almost gentle, and he smiled in a way that seemed more kind than anything "you never will. But you don't want to anyway. Not anymore. Not now that you know the truth,"

"What truth might that be?,"

"You were wrong,"

"What happened here doesn't prove a thing," Cole said fiercely.

But Nightwing knew as well as Cole that no one defends their argument more ferociously than someone who is wrong and knows it, but is unwilling to admit, even to himself, that he is in error.

"It wasn't meant to," Nightwing replied neutrally "And, in all fairness, you weren't entirely wrong. I was out of control. People got hurt because I let my emotions get the better of me,"

"Oh but you're all better now?," Cole scoffed "look at you, wearing black pajamas made of Kevlar and a mask fit for Halloween,"

"Says the man with the head injury who decided to go to the place of his assault, knowing full well that the people who attacked him are still running loose," Nightwing returned evenly.

"What do you want?," Cole asked irritably "an apology?. A thank you?. Some fairytale ending to this exchange that would fit nicely on a greeting card?,"

"There are no fairytale endings," Nightwing told him "The world is a dark, violent, cruel place. A place where even the most trusted friends can turn on you at a moment's notice,"

"So what else is new?," Cole asked.

"I can't make the world a perfect place. I know that. There will always be more evil, more greed, more envy and murderous rage. In spite of what people will tell you, the world will always have its shadows, products of both light and dark. I am one such shadow, born in darkness but trying to make this place just a little bit less like the Hell I've come from,"

"Cute, did you practice that?,"

"Thought it up on the spot," Nightwing said coolly, smiling again.

"So why are you telling me all this?," Cole asked.

"It's what you came to hear, isn't it?. The truth?," Nightwing asked.

Cole refused to answer his question, instead asking another of his own.

"Why are you here at all?,"

"I came to speak with you," Nightwing answered cooperatively "because you were the only one who saw what I had become. The only person who didn't look through rose-colored glasses. Your judgment was sound, and you weren't afraid to say what you thought. You pursued me without orders, because you wanted to protect this city. You and I will be speaking again,"

At these words, Nightwing faded back into the shadows. Cole ran to where he had been, but there was no trace the vigilante had ever even been there, not even boot marks in the snow. Cole would later wonder if he'd hallucinated the whole conversation, but he had no doubt about its validity.

He and Nightwing were playing for the same team. And, like it or not, there was nothing Cole could do to get rid of the black bird. And so they might as well begin working together. Starting with Cole's telling the truth about what really happened on this street corner.

There was a gang of boys who needed to be arrested for assault on a police officer. And it was high time the police force stopped focusing on Nightwing and went back to hunting the true threats to Blüdhaven's security. Nightwing might not be any angel, but he was no demon either.

In that same night, Kid Flash began his own journey home. He didn't exchange words with Nightwing, but simply knew that his presence was no longer required. Nightwing had someone else who'd keep him in line now, someone who would overlook nothing. Where Kid Flash might choose to ignore a slip up on Nightwing's part because they were friends, Cole was sure to nail him to the wall.

And so Kid Flash returned home, and put away his mask. He thought for good. And he was glad to be rid of it at last. Gladder still to see that Nightwing no longer needed someone to lean on. He did not require anyone's sympathy or understanding anymore. He'd grown to be as strong as before. Or maybe, just maybe, even stronger.

Like his father, Nightwing owned the night once again.

At least in Blüdhaven.

January 24th

"In local news, police are still searching for the teens who attempted to murder two of Blüdhaven's own boys in blue last week. Both officers were badly wounded in the attack, but are said to be recovering nicely. One has been released from the hospital and had this to say about the attack: 'If not for Nightwing, we would both be dead. I owe him my life. Society may hate him, but I no longer can'. Does this mean police have called off the search for the vigilante known as Nightwing?. Not at all. But, though Nightwing has been very active of late, no one has managed to track him down,"

So said the news woman the next day.

It was something of a lie, but not hers. The lie belonged to the police commissioner, who had issued the statement that police were still out in force looking for Nightwing. Though officers had orders to bring the vigilante in if they found him, nobody had much interest in looking.

However, they looked for the cop killers with greatest zeal. And it wasn't long before they found them, courtesy of Nightwing, who had located the hideout and left the gang in a pile in the middle of their lair for the police to find.

All over Blüdhaven, stories of Nightwing came flooding in. With his name cleared, the stories had abruptly become almost wholly positive, though no less exaggerated than before. Many were still flat-out lies. Public opinion had a way of turning on a dime as people went with whatever trend happened to blow by. First love, then fear, then hate, then back to love again.

"The general public's got the brains of a gnat," Grant commented during the lunch break when the conversation inevitably turned towards the vigilante who was, at least, slightly more interesting than the weather or sports "and the loyalty of a coyote,"

"While we're on the subject of animals," Jack said "they've got the blind stubbornness of an ass,"

"I don't think that's an animal," Dennison objected.

"No, I mean a literal ass," Jack told him "you know, donkey?. Burro?,"

"You mean onager or kiang," Rick corrected him quietly "though I expect the word you were looking for was 'mule',"

"What are you?. Some sort of animal expert?,"

"No, I just figured you wanted to be accurate,"

"Whatever," Jack snorted "anyway, the general public's a wild ass, a stubborn nuisance that's too nosy for its own damn good. Ought to just leave things like Nightwing alone,"

"Why?," Dennison asked.

"Because vigilantes are like religion and politics. People feel strong enough about 'em one way or another to come to blows over it," Jack shrugged dismissively "besides, it's not like we could do anything about him, no matter how we feel. If the police can't catch him and the media can't even get a picture of him, what the hell does it matter if we think he's a rabbit or a velociraptor?,"

"Gossip makes the world go 'round," Rick said passively.

"I thought that was money," Dennison commented "it's certainly the only thing that gets me off my ass and puts me to work,"

"Well obviously not," Jack put in "after all, nobody's paying Nightwing. Are they?,"

"Why not?," Grant asked "what makes you think it's not a job like any other?. Maybe some nut in Florida is paying him to caper around up here, catching outlaws and making the news?,"

"Or maybe a film studio," Rick joked "I hear someone wants to make a movie about him,"

"Weirder things have happened," Grant said agreeably.

"Yeah, like some idiot going out risking life and limb without any thought for reward," Dennison laughed "ain't nobody that bored of life who hasn't already committed suicide,"

Rick seemed to find this enormously funny, though he covered his mouth and made a show of coughing. Everyone could see he found Dennison's comment hysterical for some reason or the other, though none of them came even close to guessing why.

That night, as he sat on the roof of what had become his home, Nightwing remembered the earlier conversation and couldn't help but laugh again.

Poor Dennison would probably never know the truth. That hundreds, if not thousands, of heroes lived on Earth, daily risking their lives in order to preserve the place they called home. No one would ever be able to explain to the man that these heroes acted under no illusions about making the world a perfect place. But what beauty there was they protected jealously.

For even the darkest of heroes knew and could see the good that was in the world, though some days it was harder to see than others. It was this which they fought for tooth and nail, giving their blood and even their lives in an endless struggle against the dark. It was only those who lost sight of the good who gave up and allowed themselves to die.

Each had his own reasons, his own story, his own hurts and anger, his own regrets and enemies. But all were driven by something that they loved, even if it had been a family which was now dead and buried, to do what they could to save whatever was still worth fighting for.

It was this which Nightwing had forgotten in the dark, and which he now at last remembered.

The reason why.

For this reason, and this reason alone, he calmly donned the mask and costume every night, why he fought with everything he had, and refused to cross the line into true evil, staying a mere shadow in the dark. It was for this reason that he meekly submitted himself to the torture of being alone even in a crowd, of building a wall between himself and the rest of the world, knowing full well the lonely and grief laden road which would be his on doing so, painfully aware of the rest of the world's sweetly oblivious state, yet unable to partake of that willful blindness which would give him peace.

Some days he believed in God. Other days he wasn't so sure. But he knew well that there was something beyond himself, which called him to be what he was, and which would never release him from his willing and humble servitude until death laid claim to his soul.

Having reawakened to this fact, Nightwing knew that it was time for him to return to Gotham, to face that which he most feared, trusting that everything would play out exactly as it was meant to, whether he liked to call it luck or fate or the hand of God, it didn't matter.

As he had told Cole, it was frightening to realized there were things in the world which lacked explanations, which could not be controlled. But, unlike most of the rest of the world, Nightwing had always been one to accept proof when he saw it, instead of claiming something could not exist or be that way merely because he lacked the information necessary to fully explain it.

He didn't know if he would be able to return to Blüdhaven. He hoped so, because it had become his home. But he did know that he must go to Gotham, and that now was the time.

January 25th

Nightwing returned to Gotham in much the same way he'd left, by train. But this time he was not acting on desperate instinct, nor were his movements dictated by crippling fear. It was with calm acceptance that he slipped onto the train at night, and quiet resignation that he departed when it arrived in Gotham.

He did not go to the batcave, for the sun had already gone down and he knew that he would not find Batman there. Aside from which, he didn't feel quite up to coming so close to the place which had come to be the subject of his darkest dreams.

On arriving, years of habit turned him towards the South. The patrol route was not fixed, but there was a certain pattern to it that Nightwing had learned by heart. Even if he had been gone for years, he could have predicted exactly where Batman would be, providing that there were no hang ups and that he was not specially occupied with a certain case. And, of course, assuming Gotham had not grown larger or developed new and different trouble spots.

Traveling this familiar route, visiting old haunts, brought forth a flood of memories which, somewhat surprisingly, were not altogether unpleasant. In spite of the relative darkness which was hung about his way of life like a shroud, Nightwing truly loved what he did. Perhaps in much the same way that a dog continues to love the master who cruelly beats him simply because his heart knows no other way to feel about said master.

Even given what had happened, Nightwing, dog-like, could not find it in himself to think of Batman with bitterness in the truest sense. Even in his moments of sheer terror and passionate loathing, there was still a part of him that continued to doggedly adore and respect his adoptive father.

And now his mind did what it often had in the past. It remembered the good, viewing the bad through a frosted window pane of indifference. It was how you had to survive. For Nightwing could not simply forget bad memories, they were as much a part of him as his very heart. But neither could he afford to dwell on those negative thoughts lest he lose his soul to them.

Years of memories could not be dashed to pieces by a bare few months of suffering, no matter what any psychiatrist will try to tell you about ruining the trust between two people. Trust which is so easily destroyed is not real trust at all. It is the surface trust that gets built up from scheduled trust falls and routine working together in a casual sort of way.

True trust is built in the heat of the moment, when one person steps to protect another, often at risk to themselves. Trust is built from one person offering wise counsel to the other, the snap of a wire sending one plunging to their death to be caught at the last second by the other. It is built from shared goals and a deep understanding of what makes each other tick. From one wanting to run and the other saying "Stand your ground". Of getting out of tight spot after tight spot, relying on one another for support. Taking a huge risk, secure in the knowledge that your partner will be there when you need them, if not always when you want them. When it comes down to the wire and the stakes are at their highest, it is those who remain which earn the title of "trusted friend".

Nightwing had thought that even that trust had been destroyed by what had happened. But standing on these old familiar rooftops, traveling these shadowy streets he knew as well as his own name told him otherwise. He'd expected to be dreading the moment where he finally stood face-to-face with Batman, had worried and fretted over whether his new-found confidence might fail him, that he might shatter to pieces and lose himself all over again. But such was not the case.

Eventually he found himself on the street where the MinaTech building had been. The building remained, but under a new title. Nightwing wondered if Batman had done away with MinaTech, or if perhaps they had been discovered by the authorities. Or perhaps they had merely leaped to a new location to continue whatever their foul experiments were.

It didn't greatly concern him. Perhaps it might have, had he known what the future would hold. But he had no premonitions about what would happen years from now, and so continued on his patrol, placidly confident in the knowledge that he would sooner or later catch up with his former mentor.

Nightwing finally located Batman crouching on a rooftop like a gargoyle. Batman gave Nightwing's arrival the barest of glances, then he resumed looking down on the city. Nightwing shifted into the well-worn position which he had grown accustomed to over the years.

When Batman moved on, so too did Nightwing, following in a casual sort of way. To revisit the dog metaphor yet again, he moved like a dog following his master without aide of leash or command, but instead simply because that is what he wishes to do.

The Bats had never been much for words, nor were they inclined to start speechifying now. There was still a tension between them, which shouldn't be there, but they weren't going to speak of it. Batman was not going to attempt to excuse his actions, nor was Nightwing inclined to demand an explanation.

In their quiet way, they began to work out where they stood with one another. Neither approached within fifteen feet of the other, as if on silent agreement that such proximity would be offensive in some bizarre way only the Bats could understand.

When they took down thugs, no words passed between them, nor did either try to give the other any sort of instruction or advice. Where formerly Batman might have told Nightwing which thug to go after, he did nothing of the kind now. Nightwing merely followed his lead, taking up whichever hoodlum was left to him.

At the end of the night, Batman turned towards Wayne Manor. Nightwing hung back, for the first time reluctant to follow the other's lead. Batman didn't say anything on the matter. But he did stop and look back a time or two, then finally decided Nightwing was simply not coming and went by himself.

Only when he was fully beyond sight did Nightwing deign to follow, albeit slowly. This was the part he dreaded most. Of all the places in the world, this was the one he did not want to go. But it was what he'd come to do, and so there he must go. It wasn't going to get any easier.

The closer he got, the slower he went. He kept stopping to look around, or wandering off course to investigate a noise or movement which was almost entirely made of his imagination. He ranged in a wide circle about the entrance to the batcave, making his way almost up to the gate at Wayne Manor before turning sharply back towards the batcave entrance, only to turn and wander up the street for awhile. He paced back and forth, getting closer each time, knowing that once he was inside there would be no turning back, yet knowing just the same that nothing inside would force him to stay.

That strange sixth sense of the superhero told him that Batman was no more a threat to him than any of his allies. Whatever had caused his behavior before, it was gone now. The danger had long since passed out of existence.

At last, Nightwing stood quietly at the entrance to the batcave, gazing impassively into its infinite darkness. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

Out the end of the long tunnel and into the heart of the cave itself, without hesitation or pause, until he came to stand near the computer Batman used. Batman was sitting in front of it as though he hadn't expected to be followed, but there was no surprise in his eyes when he looked up and acknowledged Nightwing's presence. He looked at his son, and then returned his gaze to the computer. But they both knew that each was focused entirely upon the other.

At length, it was Batman who spoke, though not of anything between them.

"In case you're wondering, MinaTech was under investigation when it sold all its research to a shell company and then folded. I haven't been able to find who they sold out to. But I'm sure they'll be back, in one form or another," Batman said.

"We'll be waiting for them," Nightwing replied evenly.

His choice of words held great significance. It was difficult to tell if Nightwing was speaking of his association with Batman or the Team when he said 'we', but it was a welcome sign to Batman that his one-time protege was returning to his former self, or as nearly so as was possible.

"Alfred's back," Batman ventured after another interminably long silence "I expect he would like to see you before you go back to Blüdhaven,"

"Who said I'm going back?," Nightwing asked, but there was no challenge in his tone.

"Aren't you?,"

"You gonna make me?,"

"No,"

They fell once again into a void in conversation. This time, it was Nightwing who broke the silence.

"Looks like you'll have a scar on your neck, at least for awhile," Nightwing commented.

It was as close to speaking of past events as either of them had come, and it took quite awhile for Batman to respond, perhaps because he wasn't quite sure how to go about it.

"Better than the alternative," he said finally.

Nightwing nodded, but said nothing to this.

"And even that would have been preferable to continuing on my set course," Batman continued.

He had to know that Nightwing was wholly unaware of the part the slug had played in their drama, yet he did not speak of it. He was unwilling to use the slug as an excuse, and refused to encourage Nightwing to trust him again on the basis that he hadn't been in control of himself at the time.

For what had happened between them there could be no excuse.

Batman looked up from his chair yet again. Nightwing hadn't moved, standing stiffly as though he might bolt at any moment, looking as if it were taking monumental effort just to remain in a fixed position. Yet his voice betrayed none of that.

"I'd like to stay for a little while before going back, if that's alright with you,"

"I told you that the doors to Wayne Manor were always open to you, and I meant it," Batman returned mildly, inwardly surprised that Nightwing should choose to stay at all.

And Nightwing did stay for a few days. Yet, had nothing happened to change things, he would have made no further progress than to say that he'd braved the darkness and returned unscathed.

As it was, something did happen to change things between Batman and Nightwing, to restore the loyalty and faith that had once been such a part of their relationship. Perhaps it was fate, or destiny, or luck, or maybe the hand of God. Whatever it was, it made all the difference in the world.