Dick sighed and looked at his flamingo. He was rather proud of the flamingo and its ability to stand with perfect posture, but its origins were concerning.

The bird had started out as a robin. All the origami animals this morning had started out as robins until several folds in, when Dick had caught the shape trying to form and began hastily refolding. The robins weren't of particular surprise to him, in some ways, since it was one of those days where the birds seemed closer to the surface, more muscle and tissue than blood and bone.

Neal was a persona in that Dick didn't want to be found, but he could never completely discard his feathers. Wouldn't want to, really. Besides, the best personas always had a least a shade of truth in them.

And Neal had an entire palette.

Dick as Neal could still laugh and tease and smile and flirt. Could be intelligent and charismatic and talk to people, as he'd always enjoyed doing. Could be alert and wary and watch the exits, as he'd never be able to stop doing.

And the art. The art was easier than he'd expected, easier than ten-year old Dick would have believed when he was still trying to slip into high society and stumbling more often then little him would care to admit. The art was maybe a quiet 'fuck you' to all the mocking, casual cruelty of people who though the circus freak could never truly fit (and Dick might not belong, but damnit, Neal fit).

The art was also a homing beacon, a place to return to and feel safe. He'd always been good at art, at the sketches of crime scenes and suspects that occasionally required perfect recall, but it wasn't until art turned out to be one of the only reliable and non-violent outlets Damian actually enjoyed that art became special (Damian was Dick's Robin).

Dick's hands stuttered slightly and he choose a new fold that would lead to a pelican. Dick smoothed a thin line out with the pad of his thumb, slow and careful, and folded his nightmares away one by one into the wings of the bird in front of him.

There had been a lot of nightmares recently, and Dick wasn't really sure why. There hadn't been a

triggering case or a news story that hit closer to home (or a news story about home). The long nights were beginning to show, too, in the shadows under his eyes that he couldn't quite make-up away and the tightness to his stance that he couldn't quite hide.

Peter had started bringing him tea and cut fruit with El's muffins in the morning. Jones had started bringing him extra coffee throughout the day. Diana didn't bring him anything at all, except more paperwork, but had become more willing to chat and indulge Neal for a few minutes each time she dropped the work off at his desk.

They knew, even if they didn't know why.

Dick didn't know why. Didn't know why bodies of his friends and loved ones littered his dreams, even the people he hadn't seen in years. Especially the people he hadn't seen in years (Jason kept getting buried, Tim kept disappearing, Damian kept falling, falling, falling into sickeningly green water). Didn't know why Bruce's voice kept echoing, clanging around in his head as a soundtrack to each and every hit he'd taken when bringing down the Spyral.

Except, that wasn't accurate, exactly. It was the events before and after the Spyral that clung to his mind and his nightmares. His brothers' anger and betrayal. Bruce's words, even more so than the strike to Dick's cheekbone.

But it hadn't been Bruce who'd said those words, had it? It had been Batman, and Dick might respect the Batman, but he didn't love the vigilante. The Batman wasn't Dick's father. Fathers didn't extort their children, didn't emotionally manipulate them, didn't strike them outside of spars. (They did, but that was the kind of thing Nightwing had tried to prevent. They did, but that was the kind of thing Dick would never do to Damian, not that those things were the same at all).

So the dreams and the memories and the nightmares clung, and Dick clung to Neal in return, clung so hard his knuckles constantly ached.

He wondered, sometimes, usually when holding a blanket with white knuckles while Satchmo pressed into his leg and the quiet voices of El and Peter in their kitchen, what Peter would think if he knew at least half of the crimes that made of Neal's repertoire hadn't actually happened, or hadn't been him at all. What he'd believe if he knew the other half were accumulated on behalf of the Justice League, Batman, or as favours for Catwoman.

Selina had been the one to figure out that the acrobat and adrenaline junkie in Dick didn't quite mind playing thief, if it was a Robin Hood kind of thief. That he liked the test of skill and stealth without the ever-present threat of extreme violence. That, every once in a while, the Golden Boy needed a break.

Selina was probably the only one who could find him, now, without extreme difficulty, but she was also the only one Dick knew wouldn't do a damn thing with the information, except maybe invite him on her next heist.

He missed the flying and fighting and freedom of both vigilantism and thievery (he missed his brothers and his Baby Bird like a an anchor the weighed him down and down and down), but he was helping people again and that was usually enough to settle the nightmares.

And he had Jones and Diana and Mozzie and Peter and El, now (he didn't have to save them to be loved, just had to do his job and be useful and have their backs and Dick was good at that). He had them, even if they never knew how many extra hits he took, how many extra steps he took, how many extra nights he spent using skills he wasn't supposed to have to make sure they kept breathing right next to him.

Dick took a breath, felt it shake through him in a way that was just slightly off from normal, and ignored the concerned look shared between Diana and Jones. Instead, he tucked the remnants of angry words into the beak of his pelican and stood with a smile.

The pelican went to Jones, because Dick knew, even if he probably shouldn't, that the man had a small collection of Dick's best origami on his apartment shelf. As the man studied the bird, Dick turned to Diana and raised an eyebrow.

"Any idea when bossman will be out?"

"What, bored of mortgage fraud already?" Diana asked, smirk playing about her lips.

"Yes," answered Dick, flatly. "Come on, Peter's kept me in the dark about this meeting and it's big shot. Surely something exciting is coming our way?"

Jones looked up from the pelican. "Wait, Peter told you to keep out of this meeting and you listened?"

"I do that! Occasionally." It had nothing to do with Peter's soft eyes and quiet sentiments that maybe Neal could get more sleep, just a bit, and the velvet insinuation that, though Neal needed the sleep, the choice was still Neal's.

"Damn." Diana shrugged when the two men looked to her. "We've been kept dark, too. Though you might be useful for once, Caffrey."

"You wanted to use me for gossip?" Dick grinned. "Diana! I'm honoured. I'll do better next time, I promise."

She snorted as she walked away, but there was a smile lurking at the corner of her lips so Dick counted it a win. Dick threw out a cheerful grin to Jones, who laughed, which was another win, before sauntering back to his desk.

He glanced up to Peter's window and stared momentarily at the back of the head of Peter's guest, but really didn't have a great angle for snooping. Dick wasn't against being obvious and passing off delivering Peter coffee as an altruistic gesture, but he was tired. And Peter was pretty easy to get information out of, lately.

It was also maybe time to actually work on those files, and not just because he'd run out of office supply request forms to fold and wasn't quite brazen enough to use actual FBI documents as the base for his paper flock.

He'd made it almost all the way through the first page of a file before Peter's door slammed open, drawing attention from most of the bull pen. Dick's was a beat behind, which turned out to be a significant error.

Not as bad as his next error, though. When Dick saw Tim stalking down the stairs he did something he hadn't done since he was eight; he froze. He froze long enough to realize that Tim's attention was locked onto Dick, long enough to realize most of the office had realized Tim's attention was locked onto Dick.

He also unfroze by flicking his eyes to the door, which was stupid on so very many levels. Dick knew how far away the door was. Dick knew what pieces of furniture were between his desk and the door. Dick knew how many people were between him and the door at any given time.

Tim knew Dick had looked.

In the instant it took Dick to look back, Tim had hit the bottom of the stairs and broken into a full out sprint. Dick's training finally kicked in and he shifted his stance just in time for Tim to throw himself bodily at Dick.

Just in time didn't mean he stopped Tim, but rather that he caught the smaller boy and braced his head as the two of them were thrown down and into Dick's desk.

Dick couldn't decide wether to be touched or enraged that several agents, including Diana, had drawn their weapons; it was sweet they cared but they needed to get their guns away from his baby brother right damn now. Thankfully, Peter was a wonderful human being and promptly ordered everyone down with an odd look on his face.

Dick figured that was fair, and let his head be dragged back down by cool and trembling hands. "You idiot. You absolute idiot. You-wait, no. That's not how this was supposed to go. Though you

are an idiot, just so you know." "Hi, Timmie," Dick managed.

Time scowled at him. "Hi? Hi? Really?!" He slid his hand from Dick's face to wrap around his neck and settled more firmly over Dick's legs. "You're an idiot. I'm mad at you, like, so mad. And also really fucking happy. Do you have any idea how stupid you are? I've developed at least six entirely new programs and none of them could find you! What the hell, Big Bird?"

Dick flinched at the name, which Tim caught because he was literally sitting on Dick's lap and wrapping him in a truly impressive hug. Dick thought it was a hug at least. It might have been a restraint.

Tim tightened his arms at the flinch, but loosened them at Dick's next words. "You looked for me?"

"Of course I fucking looked for you! You never stopped looking for me even though I literally told you I didn't want to be found! Why wouldn't I look for you?"

Dick opened his mouth only to get palm slapped over it.

"Don't answer that," Tim said. "I see the flaw in my own question and also know you were about to spout nonsense. We really need to work on your self-worth." He glared a passable Batglare when Dick shifted. "Not self-esteem or confidence, worth. There's a difference. I know there's a difference because you taught me there was."

There was a pause where they continued to stare at each other, Tim's hand over Dick's mouth, before Tim removed the hand to press the base of his palm into one red eye. "Shit, shit! This wasn't how this was supposed to go." Tim's breaths were uneven, ragged. "I had, I had a list. A list of things I needed to say. If I let go to grab my phone and get the list, will you please not try to get away?"

Dick couldn't imagine trying to get away at the moment, but, as Tim's breaths continued to shake and rattle, Dick also thought there was also something way more important to deal with.

"Timmie, hey, Timmie, I'm here." Dick buried one hand in Tim's hair, carding through the uneven length that meant he'd forgotten to get it cut recently. "You caught me, I'm here. Just breathe, kid, follow me and breathe." With calm movements, Dick caught Tim's hand and brought it to Dick's chest and they slowly got Tim's breathing back to something that didn't worry Dick as badly.

It took longer than he liked, but eventually Tim was back to glaring at him half-heartedly.

"You're such a big brother. I love you so much. Oh, hey, that was number one on the list. I love you. Even if you're an idiot. I'm also mad at you, because I was fucking worried, damnit, but I don't think that was number two. It could be, I suppose. Let's make it number two. Number three. Um, right, number three."

Tim sat up. He sat up, but reached out to wrap both hands around Dick's wrists. There were tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have never have said those things to you. Any of it, really, but especially that bit about you not caring, cause, wow, that was stupid and wrong and mean. B should also never have done- should never have said those things either. And yeah, I was mad and you definitely screwed up a bit, but, oh my god, so did we, and I'm so so sorry, Dick."

Dick's heart stopped, and he had some experience in the feeling. He wasn't sure if it was what Tim seemed to be implying he knew about Dick's last altercation with Bruce, or the fact that his baby brother promptly burst into tears after speaking.

That tears ending up being the deciding factor. The moment Tim burst into sobs, Dick shifted his knees so Tim fell closer and then managed to scoop the kid up so he could properly sit in Dick's lap and let Dick hold him close.

The shock on the agents' faces would have been amusing, particularly Hughes, who looked nothing short of flabbergasted. But Dick was too busy murmuring platitudes to really pay attention (this was his brother, too thin and too light but here).

By the time Tim's sobs had slowed and Dick was brushing tears off his brother's cheeks, Peter and Dianna had shooed most of the watching agents away. Oh, they were still getting looks, very pointed looks on the part of Hughes, but the only people directly standing around them belong to Dick's team.

He sighed, and felt Tim's head thunk heavily into his collar bone. With a growing frown, Dick thought back to movie nights and long cases and a myriad of other times when Tim had dropped his head in just that way.

Careful fingers brushed over Tim's chin and under his bangs and forced red-rimmed eyes to meet Dick's while shaking hands didn't remove themselves from Dick's shirt.

Tim had always been one of the least emotionally repressed of their messed up family, but that really didn't mean much. This level of upset was uncharacteristic, even if Dick's disappearance had hurt Tim badly (which wasn't something Dick had expected, after the pervasive cold shoulder that defined their relationship after he'd faked his continued death, but maybe fit the growing evidence).

"Timmie," Dick said firmly, falling back into his big brother voice without a jot of effort and drawing surprised looks from Diana and Jones. "When was the last time you slept?"

Tim blinked at him, then snorted wetly. "I literally imply that I saw the fucking video of your fight with B, which I know you know means I saw all the fucking video, and you want to ask when I last slept?"

Even if Dick wasn't in a perpetual state of worry about his brothers and their self-sustaining habits (that moving across the country and not physically seeing them hadn't mitigated one damn bit), he wouldn't want to talk about the video.

Dick had expected Bruce to delete the cave surveillance footage, to be honest, but didn't it just figure the paranoid bastard didn't want to get rid of something that might be related to a case in even the vaguest sense of the concept. Also, Tim was right. Dick hadn't known exactly which video Tim had found, but it didn't really matter. If the kid-detective had found one, he'd found them all.

So no, Dick didn't want to talk about the tapes. Not one bit.

He didn't exactly think he get out of talking about them, but he certainly wasn't going to do it on the floor in front of his office desk in the FBI.

Also, his brother was too damn light. Dick raised an Eyebrow of Judgement, which wasn't a Batglare, but was still a long-standing successful part of his big brother repertoire.

Time could resist it fully-rested, but as things stood, he folded like he was being presented with the combined sad-face of the Superfamily. Tim pouted, and likely would have crossed his arms if he was willing to separate himself from Dick's personal space.

Dick almost missed what his brother was actually, saying, because it had been far too long since he'd seen that expression and his brother was really damn cute.

"Fine. I don't remember. Tuesday? Monday? Oh don't judge me," Time bulldozed right over Dick's attempt to point out that it was Friday. "When was the last time you had something for breakfast that wasn't sugary cereal?"

"This morning. Peter's wife makes fantastic muffins."

And that was a great idea. Dick looked up to meet Peter's gaze, and was momentarily taken aback by the sheer emotion there. Which, right. Dick might have gotten very drunk during their last amnesty night and mentioned his brothers once or twice. Or maybe rather more than that.

Dick was Bat-trained, so it's not like he gave out identifying details or anything that could be used to track any one of them. Just told stories. Like the time he showed Jason to drive a motorcycle or accidentally set the kitchen on fire with Tim or spent a hour discussing drawing techniques for cat eyes with Damian. (The fact that he'd loved them and protected them and failed them and missed them so much it hurt to breathe).

So Peter understood, and like a good agent who wanted to know more and like a better best friend who already knew more than he'd ever admit, Peter didn't hesitate a beat.

"There's more muffins in my office." Peter didn't offer to get them, not when his office had a capacity limit and a closable door.

"Perfect," Dick said, not giving Tim any time to protest before shifting them slightly and then rocking them both into a standing position. Tim squawked as his arms tightened around Dick's neck, breath quickly drawn in to protest that he wasn't a kid or could walk or something very similar.

He didn't though, just paused a moment before tightening his own arms and wrapping his legs around Dick's waist. "This is stupid. There are more efficient ways of doing this."

With a hum, Dick positioned his arms more carefully and walked off towards the stairs. "Good thing you never outgrew me, then."

When he didn't falter at the steps, he heard a quiet "whoah" from someone he suspected was

Jones. Peter didn't comment as he fell into step with Dick, but he did side eye Dick a bit. Some explanations about Dick's workout routine would probably need to be given; the FBI clearly hadn't expected their CI to be able to lift an adult male, small though Tim was, with such little trouble.

(Dick hadn't let himself go, not when movement was freedom and possibly the only thing between Mozzie or Peter and a bullet.)

He settled Tim on the couch in Peter's office then settled himself right next to him when Tim didn't let go. Peter handed over a muffin to each of them, staring Dick down when he tried to hand his off to Tim as well.

Diana and Jones didn't so much stay outside as guard the door.

Tim looked up to Peter as he ate the muffin slowly, analyzing him as intently as any villain. Peter, to his credit, didn't so much as twitch. Tim folded the little wrapper for the muffin up in careful triangles before tossing it in the waste bin, and then looked out of the corner of his eye at Dick, who nodded.

"Peter's my handler, but also my friend. A good one." The best, really.

Tim breathed out through his nose, but nodded back. "Okay." He turned on the couch to fully face Dick again, both hands digging into Dick's no longer perfectly pressed sleeves.

"I found the video. The one after, after and before." After Dick had died. Before the Spyral. There were oceans in Tim's eyes. "He hit you."

Peter flinched, this time, even as Dick didn't. Tim tightened his grip when Dick opened his mouth. "He hit you, and you're about to defend him," Tim said, deliberately cutting Dick off.

Dick sighed, freeing one arm to run a hand through his hair. Tim just latched both hands onto the other arm. "He wouldn't have done that to you."

"No, he wouldn't have. Jay, I'm not so sure."

They were both silent at that, for a long indiscernible moment that reminded Dick of a tightrope, even though he'd be much more comfortable there.

Tim sighed again, eyes sliding shut as if they didn't want to see this next reaction, but opening right back again because he always needed to see all the clues. And Dick had been the one to teach him there were never more clues than in a face.

"We also found the letters."

Dick blinked, head slipping to the side, studying Tim's face. "What letters?" "Well, Demon Brat found the letters. At the penthouse."

Dick's stomach roiled at the mention of Damian (his baby that Bruce wouldn't let Dick see), but he stomped it down with ruthless, practiced efficiency. And then he remembered the letters he left at the penthouse and felt the blood drain from his face.

He must have lost colour at an alarming rate, because he heard Peter step forward even as Dick refused to look up from his own trembling hands.

They weren't letters, exactly, at least in the sense that he'd never planned to send them. The first

was to Tim, in that time when Dick was Batman (never as good as the original) and Damian was angry (terrified) and Tim was gone (in danger, too far and too angry for Dick to reach).

It had been cathartic, so he'd written one to Jason. And Bruce. And Babs and Alfred and Steph and Cass and Damian. And then he hadn't written just one. He was never going to send them, not when they'd turned into confessionals and apologies and laments without filters and pretty words and the Golden Boy smile.

But he also couldn't bring himself to destroy them. Not when they were the most honest he could remember being. Not when destroying them felt like destroying the fragile truths that held his bones together.

They'd been hidden well in the penthouse, had to be, from when Damian and Alfred lived there with him. But things changed (always, constantly, no matter what he did) and he'd forgotten them or been distracted or thought they'd been moved. He supposed it didn't really matter.

"That was sloppy," Dick muttered.

"Little bit, yeah," Tim answered, putting a fragile smile into his words and enough pressure into his grip to ensure Dick was going to bruise.

Peter and Tim gave Dick a moment, would probably have given him longer, except there was a loud bang and a series of shouts that had both Tim and Dick whipping their heads to the door.

"Oh good. Phase Two." Tim beamed, with only the edges showing blades and rust.