Consciousness came in waves. A breath here, a twitch there. The weight of a blanket, the cool of a pillow. When the shackles of sleep slowly chipped away, some things began to… feel off.

His bed was too comfy. Cloth wrapped around his arms and legs. Pajamas. With long sleeves and pants. No socks. The room smelt… it smelt different yet the same somehow. Like the bedrooms over at Wayne Manor but he was sort of… blind to it? Like one would be to their own room. (He wasn't entirely sure how that was possible. To be able to smell something but to be blind to it at the same time.)

Eyes cracked open, squinting at the world around them. As his eyes focused, he noticed some things.

One: this is most certainly not his room back at home.

Two: this is most definitely not his room at the manor for when Wayne decides that it's best to have him stay the night.

Three: it very much so has signs that it belongs to someone else.

Four: he felt tiny.

Five: the clock on the dresser said that it was noon.

Shock struck him like lightning. He bolted upwards to see if it was correct. Then, not unlike an uppercut from Superman, the events of last night smashed into his brain.

Terry scrambled out of the bed, Dick's bed, and nearly tripped on his way over to the full length mirror.

In it was a young teen with pale skin, dark black hair, and pale blue eyes. (But it was the wrong shade whispers something from within.) The teen wore mint colored pajamas. It had long sleeves, long pant legs, with white buttons. Bruises scattered around what skin was shown. A white gauze was taped to the forehead.

A small hand rose up to the mirror.

It was him. Robin. Richard. The kid whose body he was… sharing with.

The hand was shaking.

'I could've sworn that Alfred wrapped a bandage around my head last night.' A young voice suddenly cut through, rattling about in his head. It was his voice. His head. Dick.

"Maybe he changed it while we were asleep." He murmured oh so softly. That wasn't his voice. This wasn't even his body.

Faintly, dark, insane cackles fluttered in the back of his mind.

No. This wasn't like that. It never was nor will it ever be.

How did this even happen?

Ebony eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Pale eyes dimmed with frustration. He was… informed that there was trouble somewhere. A warehouse? Or was it a museum? Maybe a warehouse for a museum? There was… some floating kid?

Terry rubbed his (this wasn't his body he's stealing a Robin's body-) forehead in irritation. Eyes closing to concentrate.

What else? He's forgetting something. Something important. What was it?

A child of roughly nine years, with black hair, disheveled, and impossibly wide, blue eyes are overflowing with fear. His mouth opening up for a scream, his petite hands are slow to rise in order to shield his face. The green shirt is dirtied with mud as well as his pants and black shoes. The child's knees are locked and he knows that he wouldn't run.

Eyes snapping wide open. Gasping. Hands gripping dark black hair. Getting harder to breathe. Heart beating faster that it just might leap out of the chest. Air filled lungs.

(Important, important. This was important. Why didn't he remember till now? How could he not remember till now?)

"Matt!" He nearly shouted. "Oh my god, Matt."

Feet stumbling backwards. Back bumping something. Furniture.

"Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit." What was Matt doing there? He wasn't supposed to be there. Where was he supposed to be? Why was his memories so shaky?

(False images of grey pale skin, of popping blue veins as dried brown blood flaked off into the night sky. That wasn't real. It won't be real. What if it just might happen?)

Nails digging into a scalp.

"Remember, you have to stay calm in every situation. If you don't, then it could be a matter of life and death." The echoing words of an old, wise, bitter man rang bright and true through his mind.

Blue eyes blinked rapidly. That's right. That's what Bruce told him when he started being Batman. He remembered.

"And why's that?" He had asked. He was leaning against the chair that Bruce was sitting in. They were in the cave. The original Batman was working something on the computer. Terry didn't remember what it was.

It was cold down there. In the cave. It was filled with… mementos, trophies, of battles long gone. Of fights that were carved into the history of Gotham or wiped from it completely.

A deep, deep part of Terry, down within his mind, his soul, wondered if he too, would start to collect such things. Of future battles that could determine the future of the city.

A wrinkled face, aged by the wear and tear of time, turned to his own.

"Because," Bruce had said, "there will be moments that you can and will feel overwhelmed. You can not be drowned in your emotions. If you do then it just might be your last night in the world we live in."

The older man's voice was darker, grimmer than usual. Perhaps he was remembering something from the past. It was something from experience. Had it happened to him or someone else, Terry didn't know. He wasn't sure he would ever know. Bruce Wayne likes to keep his secrets. And Terry bets that most of them would never see the light again when the man kicks the bucket.

The memory faded, and Terry began to calm down.

Pain prickled his head, his hands. Stifining, Terry realized what he had done. He yanked the hands away.

Regular hands. Regular fingers. No blood to be seen. Good.

He let himself sigh in relief.

Slagg it. He shouldn't have freaked out like that. This wasn't his body damn it and he was going to protect it from harm as much as possible if he's the one in control. And it wouldn't be a lot! This wasn't his and he's not going to steal Dick's life! No way, no how.

All was quiet. And then… 'who's Matt?'

Terry inhaled, then exhaled.

"My little brother." He whispered. He ran… his hand down his face. (This wasn't his and it never will be.) "He was there when it happened. Whatever it was."

'You mean you don't know?' Robin, Dick, asked.

Sighing through 'his' nose, he closed 'his' eyes.

"I can't remember. I think it might've been the reason why… we're like this."

Silence. What a recurring theme huh.

But it was odd. Even though it was quiet, now that Dick was still there, not disappearing, it felt… like, like someone was just. There. With him. Leaning against him. Close.

And last night he took the gamble of telling Dick about him. He really, really, shouldn't have. Terry hadn't truly found out if this was sort of ploy from Spellbinder, or from someone else. Something else. Or if it was all really, truly happening and he was stuck in some sort of alternate universe within the body of the first Robin.

If this was sort of a sign that he was supposed to be a Robin or get a Robin of his own, he didn't like it. He doubted the old man would find any humor in it either if it was all a huge joke.

Actually he wouldn't pass the idea that this was all actually Bruce's idea of a simulator to see what he would do in some sort of outlandish situation. He would probably record everything and then point out Terry's mistakes when all was said and done.

But fuck did everything felt, smelled, looked, and everything all in between too real. Even when he was pushed back into the shotgun seat known as Richard Grayson's body.

'You think your body and brother are here too?' Dick suddenly asked.

Dick's body jerked to the command of Terry's shock. No. He hadn't thought of that.

Running the small hand through dark hair, Terry thought.

'What do you think the odds are that they're here, in Gotham?' He thought over to Dick. As the son of a talented mathematician, well, scientist really, he already knew how low the percentage was.

'Minuscule.' Dick replied, solemn. 'But it never hurt to check.'

Terry fought the want to bite 'his' lip. This wasn't his body damn it.

Dick wasn't wrong though. It didn't hurt to look. But there was always the chance that neither his body or brother were even remotely near Gotham at all, and every moment wasted in Gotham was another moment closer to some probable horrible fate.

Wait a second. Fate.

With furrowed brows, he tilted 'his' head in thought.

He could've sworn he heard that word before. Quite recently too. But where? And when? Who even said it?

A gut wrenching growel gurgled up from within. It was then he realized that oh yeah, it was noon. So that means that they hadn't had breakfast. And he wasn't sure if Dick even had dinner.

'Okay, so, how about some breakfast first then we start searching yeah?' Dick suggested. It sounded like he was almost snickering.

"Yeah yeah," he muttered, finally walking away from the… he turned to see what he was leaning against. It was a dresser. "Considering what time it is, it should be at least brunch. Wonder if Alfred would let me eat cereal."

'Nah, he probably already made something.'

Well, less work for him he guessed. And he finally gets to try the famous Alfred Pennyworth's meals.

Sighing through 'his' nose, Terry finally decided to walk out of the room.

'Wait a second.' He thought, slightly panicked. 'What I'm going to say?'

'Calm down. Just act passive aggressive to Bruce who'll think it's about last night and shower Alfred with compliments.'

Terry rubbed his forehead, careful of the large bandage.

"Yeah okay. Whatever. Slagg it."

Glancing around, Terry tried to assess where he was in the manor. Just because it was another Wayne Manor doesn't mean that the building wasn't built differently. Already could Terry tell the difference between the two. For one thing there wasn't as much dust. Another was the decor. Different paintings, curtains, you name it. Only a few were somewhat the same.

Honestly he wasn't sure if he was in the West Wing or the East. However the faint scent of home cooked food wafted to his noise, alerting him that a meal was, in fact, being made. If not it was already made. So, without any prompting from Dick, Terry followed 'his' nose.

'How are we even switching?' Terry asked. He did not want to have any questions asked if he continued to speak aloud. 'Is it every time we… go unconscious? Can we switch around when awake?'

He got the vague feeling of a shrug enter his mind. 'Not sure. We should probably experiment with that later.'

Terry frowned. He'd rather just let go and let Dick stay in control. It must feel jarring and intrusive for Dick. Just being there wasn't great at all. And somehow the younger teen was acting pretty cool with it all. The only time he actually freaked out was when he found out Terry stole his universe's Bruce Wayne's last Batsuit. And when Terry took control for the first time. (He actually calmed down once Terry told his story, so. Uh. Yay?)

How was Dick taking it? And why didn't he tell Bruce about him? Won't he tell the older man about him in the future?

What would Bruce do when he finds out?

Terry froze in his tracks at that. What would Bruce do? His Bruce would probably go through a thousand and one tests and even then probably wouldn't believe him completely. And being with a Bruce Wayne that doesn't trust him?

Terrifying.

'Do you plan on telling Bruce any of this?' He ended up finally asking, turning a corner.

'… maybe.'

An eyebrow twitched. 'Maybe?'

'Okay, how about we try to find your them first ourselves and then we ask Bruce whenever we feel like it.'

Terry stopped, lips thinning as they were being pushed together, and just stared into the nearest reflective surface. He was summoning The Look. The one look that Bruce would give him at any moment where he was suggesting something for an ulterior motive. Or something along those lines.

He learned from the best after all.

Instantly Dick broke. 'Okay, okay. I'm still bitter about the fact that he didn't take me to the Justice League's real HQ! And after what they've did when we got out with Superboy.'

It was super effective. Honestly Terry was kinda surprised that Dick relented.

'Thank you. That wasn't so hard was it?' Blue eyes rolled. 'Do you want to feed me anything to say and or do to make sure 'the greatest detective in the world' doesn't suspect that maybe I'm not you?'

'Just act like a moody teenager. You can do that right?'

Terry snorted. 'Yep.'

Without a glance, the vigilante walked away.

Hallways gave way to a grand staircase. Which was good because that meant he was obviously getting closer to food. Well, that and the stronger scent of what could be soup. It was certainly a possibility for what meal it was.

Tall windows embedded themselves into the walls. Bright light filtered through, illuminating the world within. Terry had to stop for a moment. Outside was a world filled to the brim with green. So much so that he couldn't see Gotham at all.

It almost felt like someone was being cheated.

But to who, of what, and why, well, Terry didn't know. He wasn't sure if he ever will. Yet the sun kept on shining down from the big blue sky; the big puffy clouds, that looked like they should've been in a painting, drifted along.

Maybe, just maybe, this was something that his Bruce could've had. Used to have, once upon a time.

Sometimes the Gotham Terry knew was too dark to have nice days like that.

Another gurgle from Dick's stomach reminded him of what needed to be done. Eat lunch.

Sighing through the nose, he turned to walk away.

Immediately a black wall blocked his way.

Light blue eyes, thinning grey hair. A mustache. Wrinkled skin. The person who held these facial features was wearing a three piece suit, with a maroon shirt.

It was Alfred Pennyworth, the saint himself.

"I would say 'good morning' to you young master Richard, however it seems to be more so 'good afternoon'. Wouldn't you say?" His eyes twinkled and his voice was dry yet held a hint of good humor within. A faint smile was trying to twitch into place but held back quite firmly.

Heat rose up. A blush dusted upon cheeks. Honestly this wasn't what Terry wanted as a first impression.

If truth be told, Terry never expected to meet the man. Let alone a version of said man. Alfred was long gone before his time.

'Dude, say something.' Dick hissed in the back of his mind.

Oh yeah. He should totally do that.

"Uh, yeah." Terry coughed. "Something smells good. What is it?"

And the man looked even more amused. Great.

"I imagined a classic chicken noodle soup would suffice."

He nodded at this. "Sounds great." He then gave the man a smile. "Is there any left for me?"

The old man sniffed his nose. "You wound me, master Richard."

'Remind him to call you Dick.'

The smile turned into a grin. "Come on, it's Dick."

"If you say so, master Richard."

Blue eyes rolled in good fun at the poke.

Tall man walked away. Short teen followed soon after, not unlike a shadow.

As they walked, the second Batman was creating a mental map. Doorways were noted, windows were jotted down. Any and all hiding places were very much so highlighted.

Sharp eyes landed on a long table. Bowls of soup were seated together. Most chairs were empty, including one that was paired with a bowl. However there was one seat that had been taken.

At the head of the long, familiar, table, sat one young Bruce Wayne.

(He looked so… well, young. No crevices for wrinkles, no aching bones setting in. Not even a hint of his heart about to give. He was far too young for that, and Terry knew that Mr. Wayne was a healthy man. The life of a vigilante and a hero was going to make that health decline.)

Someone had to have punched him right then. It could only explain the sheer amount of pain he was feeling in 'his' chest and stomach. That or the hunger was getting to him.

'Okay, time to act like a angsty teen.' Dick informed.

'I think I can work with that.' He inwardly snorted.

He set 'his' face into a scowl, clicked 'his' tongue, and then sat down in a huff, not looking at Bruce directly.

"Good morning Dick." Bruce said in a pleasant enough voice. Except that Terry has heard that voice before. When the old man was pretending to be nice for the sake of politeness and the want for information.

Terry set the scowl further.

It might've helped with the fact that he was called 'Dick'. Which wouldn't be such a good thing to be called in normal circumstances.

Blue eyes focused down onto the soup. Silver spoon over to the right. Instantly Terry recognized it as the soup spoon.

"Are we seriously doing this?" Terry turned his head over to look at the old man. Maybe the famous Bruce Wayne truly was going senile.

They were in the main dining room. The one where all the guests would go to have their meals during parties.

And Bruce Wayne was standing behind a cart full of dishware and cutlery.

"Yes. We are." Bruce stared right into Terry's eyes, daring him to say otherwise. "You're lucky that Alfred isn't here for this. Or else he would've made you go throughout the whole table."

Terry raised an eyebrow at this. "And you're not?"

At this, the old man smirked.

"Trust me, once you hear how I was taught this, you'll be thanking me on doing it this way."

Scoffing at the memory, Terry picked up the spoon. At least he'd be good for formal events.

Immediately he could feel a stare drill into the side of 'his' head. He glanced to the side.

It was Bruce. While taking a bite of his meal. How lovely.

Rolling blue eyes. Silverware dipping into broth. Out comes the noodles, meat, and vegetables.

It smelt heavenly.

Terry popped the spoon into 'his' mouth. Letting everything run over the tongue made him want to just melt. It was simply delicious and he honestly wanted to eat it forever. If the truth were to be told, he wanted to try some of Alfred's other home made meals, except for the fact that he felt crushing guilt over the fact that he's having it in a body that wasn't his.

But slag him if he wouldn't help keep the body healthy and not injured.

So bottoms up.

Although he's going to keep side eyeing the young Bruce Wayne like he murdered his cat or something. Not dog though. There's no way Ace would go down without a fight.

Even if it was Bruce.

And wow he's not going to think that while eating soup.

Speaking of, he's going to need the exact recipe for this (and possibly any other food because hoo boy if everything is as good as this if not better) for back home. Maybe Mr. Wayne would like it and he just might have to make it if his mom or little brother gets sick.

Wait was this sick soup?

Terry stole a glance over at the older man. The one who made the meal. Alfred Pennyworth was standing at attention, but paid no mind to Terry. Or Dick he supposed.

Another glance at Bruce.

Ugh, fine. He supposed he should make some conversation.

"What." He didn't exactly snap. He made sure he sounded irritated at best.

"How did you sleep last night?" Bruce, mildly, asked. The spoon was down.

"Like a baby." Terry made it sound like sarcasm. Or what some people might think as sarcasm while others think he might've been serious.

Did Dick sleep well last night? Terry didn't know. But did he? Well, he didn't have any dreams now did he. So then that might've counted as a good night's sleep. Especially when one didn't remember how exactly they fell asleep.

He faintly thinks it was at Bruce Wayne's expense.

Bruce frowned. "About last night-"

Immediately did Terry cut him off. "What about last night?" He challenged.

Shoulders slumped down. Handsome features fell. A sigh escaped from the man. "I know that you're feeling… angry about what happened-"

"Alright. So then there's nothing to discuss." He interrupted again. He's going to try to eat the soup in peace.

The billionaire pursed his lips.

It's obvious that he isn't going to eat the dang soup in peace.

"Dick."

Terry froze.

He watched as the younger version of his boss rub his closed eyes. He watched as the man inhaled, exhaled, and mentally prepared himself for such a difficult teenager.

"Look, Dick," he tried again, "you just can't do what you did yesterday. Last night. There's only so many variables to account for. Especially for something so unknown."

"Like Superboy?" Terry couldn't help but say. "He seems like a pretty okay guy to me."

And then something odd happened. He noticed Bruce's eyes soften. Weird.

"I'm sure he's a perfectly fine young man, but we have to account of what he has learned in his time… over at Cadmus."

Reflexively, a snort graced the air space. "Like what? The good guys are actually the bad guys? False memories of things that didn't actually happened? Oh what about the classic having a trigger word to do the bad guy's bidding?"

Everything stopped. Then, Bruce had the audacity to tilt his head and gained that special look. The one that Terry had seen multiple times over.

Immediately did Terry get the connection.

Face twisting up, Terry began to shake his head. "No. No. There is no way that you're actually thinking about it." Of course, the old man would think that could happen. He could never have give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Never.

"But it is possible." Bruce made a bad attempt to throw him a bone. "It never hurt to give it a check. Just in case."

He crossed his arms. "Just in case." He repeated, deadpan. His boss just needs to make sure if he's right or wrong.

(After all the difference between right or wrong could be the life of none, one, or many if not all.)

"Just in case." Bruce confirmed. He then stood up, and turned to face Alfred. "Alfred, you can store the rest for later. I'm going to see J'onn and have him check for anything."

Terry began to stand up, "Bruce-"

"Stay here." Apparently it was his turn to interrupt. "And I mean it Richard."

It was that same tone of voice whenever the old man would call him Terrance.

Yet Bruce Wayne used the name Richard. Not Terrance.

He sat back down. "Fine." He spit out.

With a nod, Bruce left the room.

Blue eyes glared hard into the sort of touched soup. He was now genuinely angry at the man. Maybe it was when they had to actually start the conversation.

It was odd. It was weird. Strange. Whatever one wanted to call it. He didn't like it.

(This Bruce reminded him of his Bruce already. There were stark differences too that made it all the more jarring. It didn't help that the man… was almost acting like a father. Like he was supposed to be his father. But Bruce wasn't. Or perhaps it was the way he forgot that he was trapped in the body of the first Robin. Who was thirteen years old. Not seventeen.)

He didn't like it.

He began to eat his colder soup.

(It didn't taste as good after that bitter taste Bruce put in his mouth.)

'Well. That could've gone better.' Oh hey it's Dick.

'You think?' He thought back, a tad salty.

'At least we don't have to really talk to him for a little while longer?' Dick would probably be shrugging if he were in control of his own body right then.

Terry just continued to eat the soup.

A cough sliced through the silence.

Snapping upward, blue eyes locked onto blue.

"If I may, young master Richard," Alfred began, "master Bruce is only being cautious."

The scowl upgraded to a plain frown. "Doesn't mean that he has to be a jerk about it."

Grey eyebrow rose.

"Okay fine," he threw up 'his' arms. "He could've reacted worse, but come on! Everything turned okay in the end! If anything Superboy is a victim in this! Did you even see Superman's face when Superboy told him who, or what, he was? No!"

Robin did. Batman did. And Batman is still bitter about what happened over in the icy fortress in the arctic.

"Okay, yeah, I get it that you suddenly get a clone outta nowhere so obviously that means someone went out of their way to get some of your DNA. But that doesn't mean you gotta be… so bad about it to the kid in question!"

"And what if you had a clone made without your permission?" Alfred asked calmly.

"Well I'd be furious! Not at the clone because he certainly didn't asked to be made! It would be at the people who made him! Like seriously? But now Superboy's here and he's got feelings and he doesn't deserve any of this."

"And I agree with you that the poor lad doesn't deserve this," Alfred nodded.

Blue eyes blinked, body jerking back. He… certainly wasn't expecting that. (He wasn't sure what he was expecting if he were telling the truth.)

"Both Superman and Superboy are both victims in this situation. However Superman needs time to process this information, and Superboy is in need to make sure that nothing from his old residence keep such a hold on him if he is to become a fine young man in the future." The older man's voice was calm, and soothing. Almost like a balm upon an agitated wound. So much so that Terry began to settle down.

Did Alfred truly had that effect on people? If so, then he was sorely needed over at the manor that Terry knew.

His Bruce would certainly benefit from it.

(And maybe he would too.)

"Yeah." He turn his gaze downwards. "Okay."

He was almost done with his soup.

He wasn't exactly hungry anymore.

He had to finish it.

He couldn't get himself to.

"Thank you for the meal, Alfred," he said, pushing himself away from the table. "I think I'll be in my room or something."

Before the butler could say anything, Terry sped away.

'Yeah that definitely could've been handled better.' Dick muttered.

'And you wouldn't have acted the same?' Terry bit back.

Silence.

Shit.

Zeroing in the closest couch or lounge or whatever they were calling it, Terry went to go sit down. Once he did, he began to try to calm himself.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

'Yeah.' A voice whispered in his mind. 'I probably would've acted the same way.'

Thunk, went the sound of Dick's head softly hitting the wall. No noise was made when blue eyes fluttered closed.

"'M sorry." Terry whispered, adolescent voice curling this way and that in the air. "Shouldn't have lashed out on you."

He felt something like reassurance drape around 'his' shoulders. Kind of like a blanket.

'It's alright.' The soft voice echoed faintly.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

'Do you want to explore Gotham?' Dick suddenly asked.

One pale blue eye cracked open a sliver. Terry hummed.

"Maybe."

'I got some clothes that Dick Grayson wouldn't really wear, and some that Robin hasn't really touched yet.'

What a clear offer.

"Yeah okay." He muttered.

Cracking both eyes open, Terry decided it was time to get up.

Observing the surrounding area, the teen brought up the mental map from earlier. When 'his' eyes landed on a particularly gloomy painting of a stormy night over some sort of village, he knew where he was.

It helped that that particular painting was in the same place back on his Earth.

And so, off he went.

Getting back to Dick's room was easier than trying to find the dining room. It might've been because of how he had a better idea on where to go. Or it could've been because Dick thought it would be helpful to give him directions to his room when he could've done that when they were going to lunch. Like seriously that would've been so nice but no. He just had to let him wander around. Although maybe the younger teen was just trying to delay seeing Bruce.

It was something he would do.

A sigh escaped 'his' mouth at finally reaching the room.

'Uh, this isn't my room.' Dick pointed out.

Terry blinked. A guest room greeted them.

"You're right."

Backing out, Terry looked around. He had actually overshot by at least seven doors. Shooting looks around him, he came to a realization.

He actually stopped in front of his room back at his Earth's manor.

"Wait why are you giving me a room?" The teen kept on swerving his gaze between the room and the cane wielding man.

Bruce grunted. "This is for if you can't get back home. Too injured, a bad storm and you're stuck here. Things of that sort."

He tilted his head slightly, ignoring his black hair falling into his eyes. "You're serious."

"Hn."

He's always serious.

Shrugging, Terry gave the man a smile. "Well, as long as I get to decorate it however I want."

A grunt.

That's as close as he's going to get to a 'yes'.

Blinking away that memory, Terry backed away from… the guest room.

It wasn't his. Not now. Not ever. Not here.

(He's a stranger here. An interloper. He doesn't belong and he should leave. He can't.)

While the wrong room was practically empty save the essentials for some rich guest, Dick's room was very much lived in. Posters were up on the wall, clothes slightly peeking out of their hiding places, nicknacks scattered around.

An original Flying Grayson's poster was smack dab in the middle of the closet door.

Terry… never saw one of those before. He knew about Dick Grayson. Everyone in Gotham knew about Dick Grayson, even years later. The little boy who parents flew until they fell. The little boy who, amongst countless others, saw them fall, fall, fall, down to their demise. And one man who saw took the boy under his wing.

Not long after a bat gained a bird.

This bat was determined to never have a bird. Not after what happened to the last one.

Steady hands turned brass doorknob. Retro clothes met his view.

"You said that they're in the back?" Terry asked aloud.

'Yeah. Way back.'

A grin grew. "Schway." He began to dig around.

'What's 'schway'?'

"It's like cool."

A hum buzzed in his mind.

Yoga pants? Nope. Leather pants? No way. Some classic blue jeans that are black? Sure, he can deal with that. Green Arrow socks? Why is that even there? Swirling red and blue socks? Nah. Plain ol' white socks? Why not.

A regular black t-shirt? Yes.

An actual real brown leather jacket? Sign him up. He quickly checked the pockets of the jacket. One had a wad of cash while the other…

A wide grin stretched across 'his' face. Actual bonafide real black leather gloves. The awesome kind.

Now to find some shoes.

Lo and behold, there was some steel toe boots. He could wear that.

It didn't take much time to put everything together. But when he took a look of… himself in the mirror did he froze.

The outfit was very close to the one he would normally wear. And if he were to change the hair, Dick would… look scarily close to him.

Flashes of grey to green, of dark blue eyes turning red. Of skin bleaching itself.

Terry felt sick.

'Ooo bad boy look. I like it.' Snickers stabbed into him. Sawing the bad thoughts away.

"You think?" Terry hummed. He ran 'his' fingers through 'his' hair. "And why do you have a random amount of cash in the jacket?"

'Why not? Besides, who knows when I want to run away back to the circus?' The joke weaves in and out of 'his' ears, trapped within the middle.

The jacket, jeans, and gloves fit all snug on him. It was most likely tailored for Dick, to fit him perfectly. As for the jeans? Most likely store bought.

'You can do whatever you want with my hair dude.'

Blue eyes stared into their glass counterparts.

'It helps make me look less 'Richard Grayson'.' He elaborated.

Yeah. Sure. He can do that.

Grabbing a comb from the nearby dresser, he tried to brush it to how he normally has his hair be. Key word: tried.

With a huff, he went for some hair gel.

Hair gel could make or break a person depending on the day. And hopefully the hair gel gods would take pity on him.

Which apparently they did when he got it just right.

Yay.

As for the final touch, Terry carefully took off the gauze. He didn't think it was needed anymore as the wound was more than likely to have already healed. Ish.

'That doesn't look bad.' Terry thought.

'Eh, Alfred tends to make the wrappings larger so the injury is exaggerated. Apparently it's some sort of thing that tries to 'deter' us from gaining any.' Dick explained.

There was a scab already grown. And it wasn't really that bad. It was more like a scrape or something. Except neither really saw how much blood came out. Probably not a lot if Kid Flash didn't freak out about blood getting everywhere.

The speedster was just concerned that Robin was knocked out.

"Right." He huffed, "so do I need any sunglasses to complete the disguise?"

'Yep!' Dick chirped. 'I have like, two different sunglasses for this. I suggest using the bulkier ones.'

Ebony brows rose.

"Alright. Okay. Are they in the closet again?"

'Nah. In the bottom drawer of my dresser.'

Lo and behold it was there. Underneath many pairs of underwear.

While trying to keep a neutral face, Terry looked at the glasses. The lenses were large and tinted dark. The arms were thicker and it would hide 'his' eyes from the side.

No one would be able to read him. And when he put them on and saw how the world around him went unchanged, he realized that he would be able to read them.

"Schway."

He could practically feel the grin grow from within. 'Let's blow this joint.'

He let the grin come into existence. "Sounds good to me."

Terry went to open the bedroom door-

'But first we gotta let Alfred know.'

Only to nearly trip out of it.

There, standing in the hallway was the man himself. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"Heeeeeeeeey Alfred."

Alfred rose an eyebrow. "And what, perchance, do you think you're doing?"

"Uhhhhhhh." He replied rather unintelligently.

'Way to go.' Dick nearly snickered. Except he sounded nervous at the same time.

"I'm going into the city? With a motorbike?" Oh god his voice did not squeak at the end.

"Is that so." His voice was rather deadpan.

Was he sweating bullets? He felt like he was sweating bullets. Was Alfred always like this? Maybe it is best that the man is no longer amongst them back at home. Terry didn't want to know what would happen if the man caught him.

"Well, I'd imagine that if you were to do such a thing, you would be awfully careful and not do anything that would cause harm to yourself. And that you wouldn't go out to cause any grief for the common citizen."

"Uhhhh."

'Dude, he's saying yes!'

Snapping out of his stupor Terry gave the old man a grin. "Thanks Alfred!"

Going around the butler, Terry made his great escape.

Here we are again! With chapter two! Now remember July 5th is split into three parts, so after the next chapter we're going to have a short chapter on July 6th. Speaking of July, I'll be gone for a good chunk of the beginning of July so don't expect any updates for a little while. Either way, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter and are interested in this story even more!