Author's Note: This chapter is a bit longer than usual, but also a bit on the action-less side—we're nearly wrapping up what I call the story's first arc—if you have a suggestion for a name for this arc of the first 13 chapters, let me know in your review! I think one more chapter until that arc's done, and then an interlude chapter, and then the second (and final) arc follows. Thanks for sticking around! It should be (hopefully) 'shway.'

By the way: my focus on how Dick Grayson looks right now (silver hair, eye-patch, etc) is based on current depictions in the comics. I decided to linger on that in this chapter momentarily because I just couldn't get past the irony of how much he looked like a beard-less certain someone. (Shout out to Teen Titans fans? It's not Sladin, but it's at least a name check...)

Anyway, hope that you all enjoy!

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I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to DC comics, Bob Kane, etc.

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Darkness Cannot Drive, Part 13/? (Chapter 12)

The temperature seems to fall considerably, Dick Grayson thinks to himself as he steps through the clock's hidden door and into the expanse of the cave on the other side. Some of that temperature change has to do with physical differences—wet, dripping stone; open air; flapping bat wings; and a lack of insulation. However, a great deal more may have to do with the fact that Dick and Bruce haven't spoken directly to each other in nearly a decade. Oh, they haven't completely lacked for communication—there was a Christmas card here, a message sent via Tim Drake there. But nothing more than cursory obligation, and certainly nothing face to face. So, the message that Bruce left for him this morning, the one asking him to come to the cave for a conversation, is throwing Dick for a loop, tilting his whole world out of balance.

He takes a deep breath, tasting the wet and icy coldness that the Bat Cave had long etched into his memory, and starts the achingly long walk down the cave's stone staircase.

Bruce is at his computer console, the screen lighting the whole cave a dim blue. Grayson pauses on his path toward the computer station, stopping to stare at the first prototype of his Nightwing costume, carefully preserved behind sterile glass. It's very different than the way he keep his own, last version of his costume. Bloodied and cut through with bullet-holes, he keeps it open to the air, able to be touched and the memories confirmed with visceral realness. Here, memories seem condescended and distant—he wonders if Bruce does that intentionally,if he makes things clean and ordered and shiny so that he doesn't have to think about the darkness and the pain and the chaos that many of these boxed-up memories contained.

He catches a vision of himself in the glass and realizes, not for the first time and not without a sense of irony, that he's really starting to resemble Slade Wilson. It's not just the ever whitening and greying hair or even the eye-patch that he wears to cover the mangled remains of his right eye which remind him of the man called Deathstroke the Terminator—although those would both be comparable hallmarks of both Dick Grayson and Slade's physical appearances right now. No, instead it is, at its core, the tired severity of their eyes. They have both seen too much, become too jaded.

At least, Dick decides, he made a less harmful decision to get out of the heroing business all together and focus on acrobatics, rather than follow Slade's route and simply sell his skills to the highest bidder. Dick's life may be a tad more boring without dangers and capes around every corner... but there was a quiet justice to it that Dick Grayson treasured. And now, here Bruce was. Dragging him back in—even if only for a moment.

He sighs, cursing under his breath, and finally takes the final steps over to where Bruce sits silently. "Hey, old man," he means it to come out biting, but his traitorous throat won't allow it and, instead, the words sound almost reverent.

"Dick," Bruce curtly acknowledges. The former Batman's voice is sharp and cold, the tone Grayson had been trying for made manifest. He immediately regrets coming here...

"I'd like you to watch something," Bruce continues. He pulls a security camera recording on the computer's giant monitor and presses play. On the screen, Grayson sees a semi-pixilated image of the new Batman fighting a small group of Cobra cultists. While Cobra training was usually nothing to sneeze at, it didn't take long for Dick to see how out-matched the Cobras were and how much better Terry had become since they had last crossed paths. He's precise and forceful, his motions fluid one moment and tight the next. At one moment, the kid kicks a Cobra operative away for distance and then proceeds to take out another Cobra member with sharp ferocity. When the man begins to fall, Terry uses the man's shoulders as a vault to reach the next Cobra rushing from behind. Dick nods approvingly.

"That's a classic Bat-move. When did you teach him that?"

"I didn't." Bruce's voice is severe and weighs heavily in the darkness of the cave.

"Then how—"

"Someone's been training Terry secretly. Without my permission."

Dick feels like someone has poured ice water into his veins. His hands tighten into fists and it takes some effort to unclench his jaw. "So this wasn't a social call—you called me here to see if I was training him. You know, Bruce, if you'd taken any time to stay in touch and get to know me, you'd know that I have two Olympic hopefuls taking up a gigantic amount of my time, putting in extra hours before qualifiers. You'd also know that I left Gotham for an invitational in Munich for almost a month and—"

"I know all of that," Bruce interjects. "And I know you aren't the one training Terry. That's not why I called you here."

Dick pauses, unsure how to proceed. The conversation feels like walking across cracking ice, like it could drop out from under him. "Then why...?"

"Because it seemed to me that you were the best person to ask for advice."

After a moments hesitation, Bruce swivels his chair around. For the first time in what seems like ages, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson meet gazes.

"As you can imagine, my immediate reaction is to take away the suit. Terry betrayed my trust. Batman is my name, my legacy, and the suit is my property. I arranged for him to have a trainer myself. I also devoted significant time and energy helping Terry become the Batman that he wants to be—and that he needs to be. But his current training choices damage the mission for... obvious reasons. It's a betrayal. It's secretive..."

"He's trying to get better, Bruce, to do what's right," Grayson scoffs. "Not everything is a declaration of war."

"I know. That's why I called you." Bruce draws back into his chair slightly, letting the shadows surround him. "Every instinct I have about how to handle Terry, I already tried with you ages ago. Those points when I felt you had betrayed my trust, I took away the suit and fired you from being Robin. But you..."

"I just dug in my heels harder," Dick agreed. "You won't let me use my suit? Fine, I'll make a new one. I can't be Robin? Fine, I'll be Nightwing. You don't want to work with me? I'll work with the Titans." He sighs, nodding. "For all your punishments, Bruce, I wasn't safer or more obedient. But when it became clear that no amount of love or trust or history between us would stop you from distrusting me and my commitment to the 'mission'... it just made me hate you."

Someone who didn't know Bruce Wayne better would see his face as impassive and stoic at Grayson's reply, but Dick sees the slight wrinkling under his former mentor's eyes, the tell-tale signs of a held-back wince.

"I know," Bruce says. "I don't want to make the same mistakes with Terry. I've already taken the suit back twice—once for disobedience and once for protection—but I saw how he reacted. The fire in his eyes reminded me so much of you. I know that whatever I do won't stop him; it'll just stop my overseeing of him."

Dick hesitates. "You really want my advice?"

Bruce nods solemnly.

"Okay, well, I've struggled with questions like this both in my former life as leader of the Titans and with my students today. Ultimately, you want to force them to do what you think is right, to make sure they never make any mistakes—especially dangerous ones. But you can't make decisions for them... So, you do what you can to stress what you think is incredibly important, and explain why it's so important so they internalize it and don't just see it just as 'your' rule. You try and guide them in best practices and make sure they practice and are trained. But, really, you have to trust them. Trust that they'll protect themselves and do what they can to do what they need to. And, if they fail and fall?" Dick looks pointedly at Bruce. "Then you goddamn be there to catch them or at least to help them pick themselves back up."

And that's the part that Bruce had never been good at. Trust was never a part of his vocabulary, of course—after all, he has long stored a whole arsenal of weapons with kryptonite cores ready to take down his so-called best-friend and he has spied on friends, allies, and loved-ones alike. But supporting someone when they needed help? When they had failed in some way? Not lived up to his expectations or hopes? Bruce has always been even worse at that than trusting.

"It's my name that's out there every night. My legacy."

"You're right... but your legacy is more than Batman, Bruce. And—ultimately—you have to decide whether you care more about the name or the kid who's helping it live on."

Bruce is silent as Dick Grayson turns away and heads back toward the cave staircase. He pauses briefly, staring at the costume case again and remembering. "Let me know what decision you end up making," Dick calls back into the darkness of the cave. "I'd be very interested in that."

Bruce Wayne doesn't reply as the cave's door closes, leaving him alone once again.

.

.

"I really think he knows," Terry insists. Jason shrugs and chews on another spring-roll.

"Of course he knows. He's the goddamn Batman."

"Well, then why aren't I fired? Why hasn't he said anything? It's totally making me slagged!" Terry scowls and grabs the last roll before Jason can eat them all. "And, besides, I'm the goddamn you-know-what."

Jason shrugs. "Maybe he's plotting the most painful way to fire you possible. Maybe he's running tests to make sure I haven't been brainwashing you or that you haven't been infected by Starro. I don't know—why does Bruce do anything?" He dips the spring-roll in the house ginger sauce and smirks. "And no, you're not. You're borrowing the title, but you haven't earned it as yours yet."

"Oh yeah? Then what should you call me?"

"Hmm," Jason makes a big show out of pondering as he chews on a bite of mint, carrot, and ginger. "Bat-kid? Bat Jr? Bat-mite? Oh, I know!" Jason gestures dramatically with a chopstick. "Baby Bat! It's perfect. It's snappy, it has alliteration. I like it. In fact, I bet I could get Tim and Dick on board with that name too. Maybe even Babs..."

"Have I mentioned recently that I hate you? Like, a lot? Seriously. This is me loathing you." The effect of Terry's comment is ruined slightly by the fact that he is grinning ear to ear.

Jason smirks. "You may have mentioned it." He taps his chopstick on the laminate table and sighs. "This phō better be worth waiting so long for. I'm hungry and have high Vietnamese food expectations—I lived in Vietnam, you know. Gotham is going to have to do a lot to impress me."

Terry rolls his eyes. "You said the same thing about the Curry House and about living in India. Is there any place you haven't lived? Or at least any cuisine you're not going to be a pain in the ass about?"

"Mmm, I've never lived in Germany. Anywhere around here known for good borscht?"

Terry smirks and Jason feels his heart briefly tighten in his chest. How long have they been dancing this strange dance now? Two whole months? Almost fifty days of back to back training. Terry has come a long way in that time—he is stronger and his moves are faster and sharper. When they spar—hand to hand or with blunted weapons—Jason still beats Terry soundly nine out of ten times... but once in ten, Terry does something brilliant to surprise him.

As soon as that began to happen, there emerged a strange, nearly-unspoken rule that the next day's training would be replaced with a trip out for a late lunch or some sort of errand that Terry insists on dragging Jason along for. A trip to the only physical music album store in the city. The "museum" in the basement of the shopping mall in the Gotham suburbs which hosts the largest collection of Batman memorabilia in the country. A viewing platform at the top of the Gotham Ritz that gives a view on a cloudless day that even rooftop-swinging doesn't rival.

Jason doesn't call them dates. They're rewards for a hard day's work training. They're ways to blow off some steam. Any resemblance to a date is purely coincidental, he tells himself, as he tries not to notice the piece of ginger clinging to Terry's lip.

The teen finally wipes his mouth with his napkin and grins. "So, the field trip I was on earlier this week?"

Jason nods, knowing that Terry is referring to time spent on Monday with the Justice League for group training drills. "What about it?"

"Barda said that she saw, 'A decidedly notable increase' in my fighting skills. She said that—if I keep training and getting better—that she'd like to spar with me soon. Like, actually test my skills. Implying that I have skills to test!"

Jason chuckles at Terry's enthusiasm, but can't help but be impressed and even mildly giddy himself at the news. "The master combatant, former lead of Darkseid's Fury Batallion, and current professional JL brawler wants to take you on in hand to hand... and not just squish you like a bug? You're moving up in the world, junior."

Terry smirks and opens his mouth for what was sure to be a witty retort when the both hear a female voice ask—"Terry?"

Jason looks up to see a stunning young woman with jet-black hair and almond eyes walking up to their table. She has an embarrassed and hesitant smile on her face which screams "ex-girlfriend trying to be nice."

Confirming his assumption, Terry stands up with a matching embarrassed-hesitant smile. "Dana. Wow! Hi."

The girl's smile melts into more of a warmness. "It's good to see you. I didn't know you still ate here."

"Yeah, not too often. But I've been trying to introduce my friend to the best places to eat in Neo-Gotham." Jason rolls his eyes at the name for the main stretch of the city—he will never call it that. Not in a million years. "So," Terry continues, "of course I had to bring him here for your uncle's phō."

"Hmm, glad to see you haven't lost your charm." Dana turns to Jason now, not being shy at eying him calculatingly. "Hi, I'm..."

"The illustrious Dana. Yeah, I assumed." Jason holds out his hand in greeting. He does not feel at all jealous. Nope, that's not jealousy. Not at all. He thinks if he can just repeating that silently to himself that it'll become true... "I'm Jason."

"Well, nice to meet you, Jason." Dana smiles sweetly, but the smile isn't deep. She's suspicious of him for some reason—Jason can see it in her eyes.

"So," she pivots back to Terry, "are you excited for graduation?"

"Er... maybe? I still have to go back to school next week. I failed the econ final—Mr. Dellas is giving me a re-test so I can still graduate."

"Terry!" Dana's tone is shaming, like there's a puppy who has peed on the carpet. Terry winces.

"It's okay—Max is tutoring me. I actually know a decent amount... I just didn't sleep the night before the test."

Dana makes an exasperated sound in her throat. "Terry, you have to take your future seriously. Please tell me you at least are planning on college!"

"Yeah, GCC at first then a transfer over to Gotham U as long as I can keep my grades up. I think not scheduling any classes before noon will help..." Terry flashes a smile that could melt butter. The warmth clearly gets to Dana—her frustration warps into a sigh and a grin.

"Okay. Sorry—we may not be dating, but that doesn't mean I don't worry about you, you know? I'm glad Max is helping too."

"Mmmhmm. And I heard a rumor you were headed to the great city of Metropolis?"

Dana nods, her cheeks coloring ever so slightly pink. "I know it's a cliché—Asian girl going to study medicine. But I'm excited—U of M has connections with Star Labs and students have been known to get internships. I think the experience will be fantastic and I may be able to really help people, you know?"

Terry nods. Jason finds the expression on his face impossible to read. "Definitely."

Dana stares at Terry a moment—her eyes have such love and intensity that they make Jason want to stab something with a fork. He tries to school his expression into something less psychopathic when Dana turns to him. "What about you, Jason? Are you in college?"

"Actually," Jason starts, momentarily amused by the flash of panic that flies across Terry's face, "I'm already done with all my studies. I went to school abroad."

Dana's face lights up with instant interest, "Really? Wow, but you look so young."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." Terry snorts from across the table. Jason resists the urge to flash him a glare.

"Where did you go? What did you study?"

"Uh, Thailand mostly, but I traveled... around. I was studying athletic training, with a minor amount of world religions mixed in." Jason remembers long sessions with Ducra trying to teach him to meditate—he was always better at breaking things with sharp objects than he was with silencing his mind.

"That's fascinating!" Dana seems to have dropped some of her distrust and looks as if she is about to ask another question when Terry's phone buzzes. Terry excuses himself quickly; Jason can tell that it's Bruce calling. Possibly a new emergency? The guess is confirmed when Terry walks back over grimacing.

"I have to go... um, hey Dana, do you want my phō? It's the number 13. That still your favorite?"

"Uh, yes."

"Great," Terry leans forward a moment as if to give her a quick kiss, then jumps back with his face flushed a brilliant red. "Sorry. Habit."

Dana giggles awkwardly as Terry flashes a quick look at Jason. Jason gives him a nod of understanding, which Terry returns with a sharp smile before he darts out of the restaurant door. The cook places the phō on the counter just a moment later.

"So, does he still do that a lot?" Dana asks, pulling apart a pair of chopsticks.

"What? Almost kiss his ex-girlfriend?"

Dana laughs. "No—have to bolt off like that. He did that to me all the time. I hate to tell you this, but if you're with Terry, you're going to have to get used to eating alone." Jason makes a non-committal noise as he gulps down some soup broth. Hmm, okay, he'd have to tell the kid that he was right—at least one place in Gotham could make a mean beef and rice noodle soup. "So, how did you and Terry meet?"

Jason fiddles with a piece of mint and thinks of the closest not-quite-a-lie response. "My family and Wayne Enterprises go way back. I met Terry while he was at work."

"No kidding? When was this?"

Jason tries not to glare at her. What was with the nosiness? "About three months ago."

She nods approvingly. "That's great. Really. I've been seeing Mark—my boyfriend—for about four months. It's nice. I don't think ours is the love of a lifetime. In fact, I'm pretty sure we'll break up before I move to Metropolis. But, well, it's good to have someone there, you know? I'm glad Terry has too—I worry about him sometimes."

"Er," Jason puts down his chopsticks, frowning. "I think you may have gotten the wrong idea. Terry and I are just friends. We're... we're not dating."

"Oh!" Dana's hands fly to her mouth and her face flushes an impressive shade of pink. "I am so sorry! I just thought... you two looked... and sounded... and, for some reason, you remind me of... god, did I put my foot in my mouth or what?"

Jason chuckles. "Don't worry about it." His curiosity latches on to one of Dana's stammers and he asks, "What or who do I remind you of?"

Dana waves the comment off. "No one. Someone Terry used to go out with. You seem nicer than him and, for goodness' sake, I'm sure far more stable. He was chain-smoking, law-breaking, trouble with a capital T." Jason tries not to wince at the resemblance. "I don't know why you make me think of him—just a weird vibe I guess. Well, anyway, sorry."

"Like I said: don't worry about it." A few moments of silence pass as they both nibble at rice noodles and drink Dana's uncle's heavenly beef marrow broth. Jason briefly wonders if he should say anything else, but he's at a loss on what he could possibly say to Baby Bat's ex-girlfriend. He wants to ask about the implication of an ex-boyfriend in Terry's past and what the story was there—Dana clearly knows about it—but Jason can't think of an elegant way to ask that doesn't sound forced or creepy. He never was a people-person, after all.

He's saved from further contemplation by his own phone buzzing. As he checks the number, he's surprised to see the code 'E410' listed instead of a full number. Which means the call is from a Bat and from a very old emergency line. The code references Ecclesiastes 4:10—"If one falls down, his brother can help him up. Pity be to the man who falls and has no one to help him up."

Jason curses under his breath and answers the phone. "Yeah?"

[[Jason?]] It's Tim, which shocks Jason immensely. He was pretty sure that the former Red Robin stayed as far away from Bat-antics as possible. Jason tries to make his voice sound more flippant and casual than curious, if nothing else then for his pride's sake.

"What can I do for you, Tim?"

[[There are a series of raging fires at Star Labs, Lex-Co, and the Wayne Enterprises Research labs. The kid went to one Wayne lab and is now headed to Star's, but the other Wayne tech fire is across town. There's no way he can get to it, and the firefighters have their hands full.]]

"Um... okay? And you expect me to do what now?"

[[We have a series of prototypes in the lab that's still on fire. They're nano-tech research prototypes which may change the face of medical and surgical technology. We cannot lose those—so, I'm expecting you to get your butt over there.]]

"Not on your payroll, Drake. What stake do I have in this?"

[[I'll owe you a favor. A big one. And—whether he admits it or not—so will the old man. It's my project, but he's been behind it the whole way. And, honestly, I think they may be the reason the lab was set on fire in the first place—there aren't a lot of overlaps in the work that Wayne, Lex-Co, and Star Labs does, but nano-tech is one of those areas. Now, can you—will you—go save my tech?]]

Jason pops the last piece of thinly sliced beef into his mouth and chews loudly into the phone, making loud humming sounds to simulate thinking about a grave and difficult choice. The growl in Drake's throat on the other end of the line hinted at a great many swears that the younger Robin is biting back.

"Yeah, I'll help you out. Send me the address."

Tim's sigh of relief is the last thing Jason hears as he hangs up the phone. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and turns to Dana. "Well, it was... interesting meeting you. Tell your uncle that the soup was great."

"I will," Dana says. "And Jason? Even if you and Terry aren't, you know, together? Watch out for him, will you?"

Jason wonders what he did to warrant all these people asking favors of him and—oddly—expecting him to do the 'right thing.' In this case, though, he can answer without hesitating... "Of course."

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TO BE CONTINUED...