"Nightwing."

A pause. No response.

"Night! Wing!"

Another pause. Same result as before.

"Dick."

That one was whispered, because Batman never used names in the field. But this was a special circumstance. Batman had seen the broken piece of wood slam into his son's head, but it hadn't looked like a hard hit. Nightwing, however, had been unconscious for almost four minutes.

And then his eyelids fluttered. His breathing hitched as his brain began to force him back to consciousness.

"Open your eyes, Nightwing."

It took a long thirty seconds, but the light-blue of the younger hero's eyes finally appeared. Batman allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief.

Raising his hand, the man asked, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Nightwing squinted, then tilted his head.

"Uh…six?"

Batman grimaced, then tried again.

"Now how many?" he asked.

"Um…two?"

Nightwing had doubled the amount both times. Concussion. No other symptoms – yet – so hopefully just a mild one.

Just.

Batman internally growled at the thought, angry with himself for allowing his son to receive so many concussions that a mild one was 'just' a mild one.

"Not your fault," Nightwing whispered, recognizing the scowl.

It was true; Batman had been on the other side of the pier when he had seen the cowardly henchman sneak up behind Nightwing and swing the makeshift weapon at his head. There was nothing he could have done to stop it, because he was still in the process of knocking out his henchman. But that didn't stop him from internally berating himself.

You should have knocked him out quicker. You should have thrown a Bat-a-rang. You should have at least yelled his name.

"Stop," Nightwing suddenly said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Batman growled, although he did know.

Nightwing was telling him to stop blaming himself, but Batman should have…

"Did you…clone yourself?!" the younger hero exclaimed as he attempted to sit up, interrupting Batman's thoughts.

"What?! No, of course…"

Batman trailed off as he realized what Nightwing was seeing.

"Lay down," the older man commanded, putting his hands on his son's shoulders and gently pushing him back down on the asphalt. "You have a concussion."

"But why…oh."

Nightwing's voice faded as he, too, realized what was going on.

"You weren't holding up six fingers," he commented, "or even two."

Batman ignored the statement, choosing instead to glance around the pier for any signs of danger.

"I hate double vision," Nightwing muttered as he attempted to sit up again.

"For the last time, lay down!"

"I need to take care of this," the younger man responded.

"So you're going to get up, find your bike, ride home, and take care of a concussion while seeing double?" Batman answered skeptically.

Nightwing remained silent. The older hero had made a good point.

"We're going to the Batcave," Batman stated, as if taking Nightwing there was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn't – it hadn't been for a while – and both men knew it. But Nightwing also knew he wouldn't be able to get home by himself, and Batman also knew that Nightwing would have to accept the inevitable.

"Okay."

Batman sighed in relief again, although this one was internal. At least he could keep the stubborn boy from getting into an accident. He pulled out his mini-Bat-flashlight and shined it in Nightwing's eyes. The younger hero squinted into the brightness, so Batman gently lifted one of the nearly-closed lids.

"Pupils are dilated," he commented, "but you can get up now."

Nightwing pushed himself up as Batman returned the mini-Bat-flashlight to its spot in his utility belt.

"Dizzy?" the man asked, although he already knew the answer.

"A little," Nightwing admitted, "but nothing I can't deal with. I'm good."

Nodding, Batman stood up and held out a hand. Nightwing ignored it; he was strong enough to get up on his own. Or not, he realized as his body tilted toward the ground. Batman's muscular arms were there to catch him, like they always were. Well, like they always had been. Up until a few months ago.

Surprisingly, Batman held his tongue. Now was not the time for a lecture about being willing to accept help when necessary. He waited until Nightwing was steady on his feet before letting go. Turning away, he started walking toward the Batmobile.

"Thanks."

The word was mumbled, but Batman was…well, Batman. It was easily understandable, and a small grin flashed across the older man's face. He wanted to turn around and pull his son into a crushing hug. Or at least put a guiding hand on his back to make sure he stayed on his feet.

Instead, he glanced back and simply said, "You're welcome."

THE END