A/N: Bear in mind that there has been, and will continue to be, a whole lot of unreliable narration in these chapters. Tread carefully.

Chapter 15: Loose Ends

I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake, we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps
—The Beatles, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" (excerpt)

ROBIN

"Thank you so much for giving Tim and me a place to stay," Dana told Bruce. "You've no idea how much it's helped us."

The two of them were walking side by side among the shady lawns of Wayne Manor. It had been ten minutes since dinner had concluded and she had asked to talk to him alone, and she had spent all of those minutes letting the cool evening breeze prickle her skin as she tried to think of what to say.

"Don't mention it," he told her. The simple words made her throat swell up again, the way it had almost every single moment she had let herself stop and think since… since then.

"I—I just couldn't bear to go back to the condo…" Her voice cracked on the last word.

"I understand."

Dana's head jerked up and she stared at him, mortified. For the first time, she felt sorry for him. "Of course you do. I'm so sorry."

Bruce only nodded once, gazing out at the horizon before them. She wished he were not so taciturn; it was clear that whatever topic she wished to cover, she would have to broach herself.

"It feels like a long time ago," she murmured, as they paused beside a large, bubbling fountain which was surrounded by a low stone ledge. "Tim asked me to look over his application to transfer schools."

Bruce nodded again. Dana ploughed on.

"I want to thank you for the lovely letter of recommendation you wrote for him. I know for sure that it went a long way. The principal was impressed."

Bruce seemed to relax slightly under her careful gaze. "Almost everything I wrote in that letter was true," he said.

Dana was surprised. Since learning about Robin, she no longer believed anything she'd previously known about Tim and Bruce's relationship. "You met Tim when he was thirteen?"

"Yes."

"Was there really an internship?"

"No. I was referring to his night work."

Dana frowned at the odd phrasing, then realised that he must have meant Robin. "How did he become… how did he get the job?" It seemed taboo to refer to such a secret during the day and in the open, even if they were secluded on the Manor grounds.

Bruce gripped the smooth stone of the fountain ledge. When he still did not speak, Dana bit her lip.

"I'm sorry," she said again, as the water gurgled before them. "I guess it's a personal question, isn't it?"

"Yes. No." Bruce winced. "It's complicated. How much do you know?"

Dana could speak to this, at least—had turned it over and over in her mind over the past few days. "Only that Jack knew—I don't know for how long. And the things you wrote in your letter. You said that Tim approached you, not the other way round." Tell me more about Tim, she begged silently, because right now, I feel like I hardly know him.

Bruce nodded, seeming to gather his thoughts as he pursed his lips. She had almost given up hope of a truthful answer when he murmured, "He saved me."

She drew a sharp breath, but dared not speak. Presently, Bruce continued, halting and deliberate.

"Dick became Robin because he needed a channel for the issues he was dealing with at the time. Training him was a way that I could help him."

The words Dick became Robin made everything seem so much more real to Dana. Tim was Robin now. The engineering vocational school had been a cover for his weekly trips to Titans Tower in San Francisco. She hadn't even known that he'd travelled so far away.

"My son Jason was Robin after Dick. He was similar in some ways, but—" Bruce faltered.

Jason. She filed the name away for later, and waited as Bruce visibly swallowed.

"After… after I lost Jason, I was—I wasn't in a good state of mind. Tim had figured out that I was Batman. He saved my life and told me that Batman needs a Robin."

Relief flooded through Dana. This, at least, was something familiar, something that rang true with how much—and how little—she knew about her stepson. She couldn't keep from smiling.

"That sounds like Tim. Noticing things, putting them together, and always trying to help others."

"Yes. It does."

"May I ask another personal question?"

Bruce made a grunt of acknowledgement that Dana took for consent.

"When Jack and I got married, it was just that. I didn't adopt Tim. At the time, all three of us agreed that it was a good arrangement. Tim's hardly a child—I'm not even old enough to be his mother—and I didn't want to overstep."

Bruce nodded. Dana took a breath, steeling herself.

"Jack's attorney is reading the will next Thursday. I don't care about the money or the condo or anything like that—I have savings of my own anyway—but I'm worried about what will happen to Tim now." Her voice trembled. "None of us ever imagined that Tim and I might be in this situation. I don't know if Tim feels the same way, but I don't want to lose him. I—I never knew you two were so close before, but now, seeing what you've done for Tim in a new light—how you were there for him after his mother passed away—I was wondering… well… if you felt the same. About… about not wanting to lose Tim."

Dana was watching Bruce intently, and saw the moment when he stilled. The space between them seemed cooler, stiffer; the air held no trace of wind. Only the fountain before them was incongruously and inexorably restless, continuing its practised routine with no signs of faltering.

She hadn't misread the situation, had she? Bruce had known Tim for years—even longer than she had—and their relationship was far more personal than she'd initially been led to believe. She saw as his lips parted, then closed again, and she was sure that a thousand thoughts were passing through his mind.

But then Bruce shook his head, and the words that he let himself speak were, "It's not my choice to make."

Dana hesitated, then asked, almost desperately, "And if it had to be?"

He was silent so long that another apology sprang to the tip of her tongue, but she kept still, not wanting to break the sanctity of the moment or disrupt whatever emotions he was wrestling with. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet.

"I lost both my parents when I was young," he said, pouring so much grief into the scant words that Dana felt the weight of her own recent bereavement pressing down upon her too. "It's not a pain you can ever forget. I thought I was alone—that the loss would destroy me. I can't bring Tim's parents back—I can't replace his father, but I…" He looked up at the cloudy sky above them as he trailed off, but Dana was sure she could complete the thought, for it resonated with her too.

But I can help him feel less alone.

"You've helped us so much," she said quietly. They began walking again, around the back of the house, and she knew they were in the right place when he gazed upwards at the neat row of bedroom windows above them, tidy and precious. It was an unusually warm afternoon, and Alfred had opened both Bruce and Dick's windows to let air in, but the window of the room between them remained firmly shut—no curtains blew; no life escaped.

He noticed that she had followed his gaze, and his eyes turned distant.

"I rebuilt the Manor after the earthquake,' he said suddenly, his face turned a little away from hers. "It had collapsed into the Batcave."

He took a long breath, while she tried to remember what it had looked like in those days. She and Jack and Tim had been living next door back then, and though Tim often spent time there, she had never thought about Wayne Manor enough to wonder about its design or engineering. Like the rest of Gotham's older buildings, it had had distinct Gothic architecture, though the current Manor resembled a whimsical, modern-day castle more than anything else.

"I wanted to rebuild it brick by brick, exactly the way it had been, but it was impossible. I grew up in that house—my father's house. Dick grew up there, and Jason—" Bruce voice had a choke in it, and he closed his eyes and turned away again.

"Jason ran away from it. From me. Sometimes I think that it was too much of a change for him—he grew up in Crime Alley, practically on the streets—that I expected too much. Pushed him too much. And now…" Bruce's jaw clenched. "He'll never come home."

She did not need to ask who that room belonged to now, not when she was a grieving widow standing and listening to a grieving father, both of them forever wounded by guilt about what they should have understood or seen or done differently. Tears sprang to her eyes, as they had done so often in these past days, and she did not move to wipe them away, not when she realised that Bruce's cheeks were glistening too. Was there anything as quietly tragic as building a room for a boy who had died several years before, who would never again know how much he was loved, and missed, and never regretted?

He said no more just then, but she thought she knew the sentiments that pride and personality would not let him confess outright, lest they be spoken into existence and truth.

"There are many things I—we all—would do differently, if given the chance," Bruce said softly, speaking to the sky, but also addressing the window above them that remained forever closed. "I can only take consolation in the fact that, in the end… Jason knew how much I loved him. No matter what's in that will—no matter what happens on Thursday, it is imperative that… that…" He passed a shuddering hand over his face. "That Tim knows that, too."

NIGHTWING

Bruce was talking with Dana on the grounds. Alfred was washing the dinner dishes, Cassandra was with Steph, and Tim had locked himself in his room. Dick took a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg as he hobbled downstairs to the Batcave. Bruce hardly left it these days; now might be Dick's only opportunity to locate the information he was after.

With a sigh of relief, he eased himself down into the chair in front of the Batcomputer, logged in and began to search. Against his will, his heartbeat picked up as he typed in her name. There it was—a case file entry with a recent edit date.

ID: 611391225318919919

FILE NUMBER 0005

SUBJECT: TARANTULA/SUB CAT: "CATALINA FLORES"

CLASSIFIED

As Dick read on, he discovered that his suspicions were correct. Batman had sought out Tarantula, who had a tenuous hold on the Latino Unified Gang, and interrogated her about Blockbuster. An audio recording of their conversation was attached, but Dick opted to read the transcript instead, forgetting to listen for intruders as he took in the words before him.

BATMAN: YOU KILLED HIM?

TARANTULA: WELL, TRUTH BE TOLD, I DID HAVE A LITTLE HELP FROM MY PARTNER.

BATMAN: TAKING A LIFE DOESN'T MAKE YOU A HERO.

TARANTULA: TAKING A LIFE! BLOCKBUSTER DESERVED TO DIE, AND REDHORN TOO. YOU CAN'T LIE TO ME AND TELL ME THAT THE WORLD ISN'T BETTER OFF—

Dick couldn't read any more. His heart was hammering; the screen seemed to turn blurry before him.

Bruce knew.

Bruce knew, and yet he hadn't said a word to Dick. How long would he continue this pantomime of caring about Dick's wellbeing, comforting him through delirium and panic attacks caused by suffocating guilt that they both knew was of Dick's own making? How long would it take before he decided that he could not live with a murderer under his roof? Dick was no longer a child. He could not wait around, helpless and miserable, for the hammer of Bruce's judgement to fall; this was an inevitable endeavour that he had to complete alone.

Alongside the audio file and transcript was the location data from a tracker that Batman had placed on Tarantula at the conclusion of their conversation. Although it was no longer active, it had been transmitting long enough to gather information on her general whereabouts and travel patterns.

It had to be enough.

Grimly, Dick shut down the computer, suited up—adding a brace for his leg—and sped out on his motorbike towards Gotham. It was a windy night; the bracing salt air cooled his face and touched his neck as he left Bristol and crossed the bridge that led to northeast Gotham.

Dick appreciated the discomfort. It kept him grounded, focusing on the grim reality that lay before him: how to confront the past without losing either his nerve or himself. He could not let himself search for what had happened in those lost days since Blockbuster's death, not when he was living on borrowed time, every second's energy spent pulling himself back from the brink of a panic attack. In due course, there would be time to remember—and, if need be, to fall apart. In Blüdhaven, it had happened at the worst possible moment. He would not commit such an error in judgement again.

He found Tarantula in Otisburg, perched on a rooftop as she surveyed the street below, heedless of his approach. First, he sent a quick message to Amy, then landed softly behind Tarantula, discarding his crutches behind himself; he wanted to face her with his strength alone. Stepping closer, he forced himself to keep enough breath in his lungs for this final confrontation.

"Cat…" he began, steeling himself not to jolt when her attention jumped to him.

"Querido!" she cried, her face lighting up even behind her orange mask. "I was worried about you! You okay, guapo?"

Darling. Handsome.

"Batman has Gotham under control again," he said, ignoring her question. "It's time for you and me to go back to the 'Haven and make things right."

"Sure, papacito," she agreed, springing to meet him, a little too close for comfort: he had to force himself not to take a step back as she pulled him into an enthusiastic hug. "Anything you say."

Her gloved hands around his shoulders seemed to burn, and he was keenly aware of how close her face was to his own. His stomach turned over, and he pushed her off him, keeping her at arm's length. "And another thing—call me Nightwing."

The flimsy, homemade mask could not hide her surprise as she said, touching her cheek and tone turning playful, "I thought you liked 'Dick'. Not my style at first, but you've more than convinced me, mi amo—"

My lover.

Damn it. Even knowing her worst nature, he'd hoped to breach the subject gently, steering her towards the right path while letting her believe it was all her own idea, but if she insisted on maintaining this coquettish act…

"The ride's over, Tarantula!" He drew up his crutches, holding them in his crossed arms like the escrima sticks he'd lost that night. His vision turned red—he swung at her, more to scare her than anything else, and she gasped and jumped away as he snarled, "If I ever have to touch you again, you are not going to enjoy it!"

Don't think about that night. Don't think about her lips on yours, or the weight of her body pinning you down. Don't try to remember those nights afterwards…

"Querido?" she said again, sounding small and lost, and he took a moment to evaluate her from a distance, noting the fresh scratches on her arms, the torn black pants, the mussed hair and rudimentary armour. Pity mingled with his disgust.

"What happened to you, by the way?" he asked, stowing his crutches on his back. "You look pretty worked over."

She turned away from him then, and he saw that her back, too, was littered with scars, some newer than others, but all displaying her lack of expertise. She had no training. She was just a civilian in a homemade costume, trying to make a difference in the world, even if she was going about it all the wrong way.

Like Spoiler, he thought, but dismissed it immediately. For all her faults, Stephanie would never have killed in cold blood. Stephanie had wanted to learn, and to be accepted, but Catalina only wanted control.

He saw it now, his mind clearer than it had been for weeks, saw the way she tried to twist him around to her point of view, to have pity on her and remorse for what he was about to do. She had drawn him into her web, spider to fly, until he had been so thoroughly disoriented that he could only react to the immediate. He knew better now, could see the moment she realised it too as she murmured, "I'm fine."

"All right," he said, activating his grapple. "Let's go."

"And where exactly is it you're taking me now?"

So she still thought she was in control.

"Up the river." The grapple shot out and connected with a satisfying ka-thwwpt.

"Silly gringo. Blüdhaven's south of—" She trailed off into a gasp, voice breaking as she whispered, "You… you'd… you'd turn me in…?" Cursing at him in Spanish, she surged away and began to run, hair flying and limbs flailing.

"Damn it," he muttered. He threw out a batarang; it caught her on the leg and she stumbled, crashing to the hard rooftop as he swung over and stood above her, the moonlight behind him casting a looming shadow.

"You son of a—" she gasped out, all traces of allure gone in her shock and helplessness and rage, but now he saw her for what she was.

"You know exactly who I'm the son of." His shadow blotted out the light above her, bats beat their way across the sky behind him, and cold satisfaction pulsed through him at the way she recoiled. "Now, are you going to come quietly, or do I need the cuffs?"

She screamed at him, striking one of his crutches away, but he was prepared for the onslaught, twisting away from her.

"Don't"—he swung the other crutch to trip her, sending her spinning to the ground—"test me!"

She landed roughly, hissing and snarling. "I'm gonna kick your crippled butt!"

"I don't think so, Cat. I think it's gonna be the other way around."

"I've beaten you before, when all you had was a hurt shoulder! You really think you can take me down now?"

She'd turned desperate, hoping for him to feel sorry for her, but he was wiser now.

"Yeah, I do. In fact, I know I can." He leapt over her, forcing her to duck out of his way, unable to check her landing. "And if you're honest with yourself, Cat, you know it too." Now, he was the one in control, pushing her to react, keeping her swinging her fists wildly, anger getting the better of her and driving her to further carelessness.

"Because you're an amateur, Tarantula. You remind me of what I might have been without—" Batman. "… if things had been different."

Spring to the next rooftop. Chase her over beams and platforms. She was breathing hard; he was not.

He thought of Barbara and Stephanie, and how they had first donned masks and capes in desperation to work towards a cause they believed in, before being officially sanctioned and their raw energy harnessed. Catalina had done that too, but she had had no moral basis for her actions, no sacred oath to swear—and that critical oversight had been both of their undoing.

"We met at a time when the past was being ripped away from me so fast, I—I wanted to believe in you. I wanted someone like you—someone wild and impulsive and audacious—to be able to win."

She pulled out her dagger, but he disarmed her easily, and she shrieked as he twisted her wrist. If she spoke, no words reached his ears; vengeance was his and his alone.

"And after what happened with Blockbuster, I—I needed to believe it. I needed to believe there was nothing I could have done."

There was a tiny blip in his ear. Amy was ready below.

Tarantula was throwing knives now—he dodged them easily, flipping to the rooftop's edge. "But now I find that leaves me with nothing to do. And I can't be who I need to be as long as I'm avoiding responsibility for my actions—for my inactions—"

She stopped moving, then turned away for a moment, face shrouded in shadow. When she turned back, there were tears running down her mask and face as she fumbled with the empty holster at her side.

"God damn it," she whispered. Weaponless, she made a pathetic sight as she screamed, "I won't let you do this! If you take me in, I'll take you down with me!"

Another ping in his com-link—Batman, this time. Dick ignored it.

"You won't have to, Catalina," he said clearly. Nobody else could hear them, but he felt as if he were swearing a new oath as he continued, "I'm turning myself in, too."

Sources:

Wayne Manor was rebuilt in Batman: Gotham Knights #1.

The last paragraph of Bruce's dialogue is inspired by Batman #618 (Batman: Hush).

Bruce's case files are inspired by early issues of Batman: Gotham Knights.

Nightwing's confrontation of Tarantula is based on Nightwing (1996) #100.