A/N: I know I said that this story would be completed by the end of the month, but time makes fools of us all, and these last few chapters are proving more lengthy and difficult than I expected. To make up for the delay, this chapter is the longest so far.

Chapter 20: All I Know How to Do

You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
—Mary Oliver, "The Journey" (excerpt)

BATGIRL

What would Batman think of her now if he knew that she was taking the investigative process he had taught her and using it against him? Cassandra did not know, but she wasted no time wondering as she proceeded to the next step.

Question the witnesses.

This was the stage that Robin had assumed control of in Blüdhaven; his interrogative skills and command of language far outstripped her own. She knew she had to concentrate her efforts on those who knew Batman best, but both of her attempts so far had been unsuccessful, and her pool of potential witnesses was dwindling.

Nightwing was currently out of town, meeting with Amy Rohrbach in Blüdhaven. Steph and Dana had only recently learnt Batman's identity and were therefore out of the question. That left Robin and Catwoman—and Robin was closer.

Cassandra checked Robin's room, but it was empty. Remembering that he had been spending much of his time in the Batcave lately, she made her way there, trying to prepare the right words that would convince Robin—Tim, she had to remind herself, his name was Tim when he wasn't in uniform—to believe her. Too hesitant, and he would grow impatient. Too blunt, and he might misunderstand her. Too… careless, and he would not take her seriously.

She was about to round the corner towards Bruce's study when the door opened and Tim himself stalked out, radiating such intense anger and bitter resolve that she felt compelled to wait; she obeyed, lingering until she was certain he would not detect her before soundlessly following him to Steph's room, which he entered after the barest of knocks. Cassandra crept up and listened at the door.

"Steph, I need your help," Tim was saying, but though she could make out his words, Cassandra was hampered by the lack of visual cues. It made her frazzled and jittery; she had to force herself to remain still and concentrate as Tim continued, "I'm going away."

"What? Where?" Steph's surprise was obvious.

"It's for this case. He tried to put me off it, but it won't work. He has a blind spot. I just know there's something about Red Hood."

"The new crime lord?"

"Yeah. I need time to investigate on my own. You understand, don't you?" There was yearning in Tim's tone. His earlier frustration had transformed into desperation—an all-encompassing need to be heard.

"I guess," said Steph, sounding wary. "What do you want me to do?"

Cassandra pushed the door open. Steph was sitting up in bed, while Tim was perched on its edge, pressing his hands into the blankets as he leant close to talk to her. Both of them turned as Cassandra entered, but she fixed her gaze on Tim, telling him, "You can't go."

"What do you mean?" Her interruption had thrown him off-guard, but there was still a heavy wall of defensiveness between them that she didn't know how to tear down.

"You're chasing out the—" she began. No, that wasn't right. Why did words have to leave her now? Tim's impatience was growing—she could see it. "Barking up the wrong… tree?"

"You think I'm doing the wrong thing?" Tim narrowed his eyes.

Dangerous. Flighty.

"Yes… and no." She reached for his arm, trying to calm him, but he flinched away.

"You sound just like him. Listen, Cass, I know I'm right about Red Hood. I just need to prove it. It's the only thing I can do."

Steph was watching the pair of them with wide eyes, but Cassandra's mind was whirling through a blur of images and possibilities. Several paths lay before her, each as convoluted and murky as the others, and she had never so fiercely hated the fact that she struggled to put her thoughts into words. Now, faced with confronting someone whose methods of communication were so thoroughly unlike her own, she was in agony.

"You can't leave him alone!" she blurted. Can't you see?

Both Tim and Steph stared at her.

"Who?" Tim asked. "Dick? Alfred? Nobody's alone in the Manor, not now."

"Batman," she said. "Bruce."

But Tim shook his head. "Batman can take care of himself. But I have to do this. Do you understand? It's for Batman. I have a theory, but I need to be sure."

"Forget the Red Hood," she ordered. "Batman needs our help. He's hiding something."

Tim threw up his hands. "I know he's hiding something!"

"Stop!" Stephanie interrupted. "Cassie, what do you mean? What's Batman hiding?"

Thrust into the spotlight, Cassandra faltered. "I… I don't know." Then, when Tim's eyes flashed, she added, "A secret. It changes him. Makes him afraid."

"What?" Steph breathed.

"Since when?" asked Robin quietly.

This, at least, she could answer. "After the war, he asked me to come to the Batcave. He was… upset about something. That's when he asked me to stay." She took a breath, hyper-aware of the way her blood rushed in her ears. "You can't abandon him. You need to talk to him. Find out the secret. Help him. I can't…"

But he was staring at her so blankly that she could have burst into tears right then and there.

"I'm not… good with words," she finished, voice breaking a little. "You are."

Robin was still, but at last she saw the emotions warring beneath the surface, tugging him in opposing directions. As she watched, barely breathing, she saw the moment when he decided, and her own helplessness and anger swelled.

"I'm sorry," he said, and though Cassandra recognised truth in his words, she sensed little regret. "I can't just go off a feeling. I need something concrete, something real—"

"You have a feeling!" she cried. "How is that… different?" It was a cruel irony that the subject of her concern was the one person whom she knew would have been able to understand her. How could Batman and Robin be so similar, yet so unlike each other?

"I have clues! I just need proof! You have—how can you prove what you're saying? He doesn't even care—"

"He does! You don't understand—"

"Stop it, both of you!"

Both Tim and Cassandra froze. Steph's fists were clenched and her cheeks were splotched with pink.

"I get it! You're both genius superheroes with egos to match! I don't care! You need to stop fighting and listen to each other!"

"Steph…" Tim began.

"Tim, can you hear yourself? You sound unhinged! And Cass—I believe you, but…" Steph paused. "You said that he's had this secret since the last night of the gang war?"

Cassandra nodded, scarcely able to breathe.

"That's the same night you and Batman brought me here," continued Steph, directing this at Tim, who inclined his head in agreement. "And then Dr Thompkins left Gotham soon after, didn't she?"

Cassandra nodded again. She remembered how Batman had reacted upon discovering the boarded-up clinic on Park Row, and said as much to Tim and Steph.

"You don't think that Batman forced…" Steph's words faltered and hung in the air.

"I… I don't know," said Tim slowly. "Leslie's always been around, ever since Bruce was a kid." He flushed a little as he added, "I kind of thought that she and Alfred were… you know…"

"No way," said Steph, but Cassandra grinned, knowing Tim was correct.

"I don't… I mean, I know he doesn't like me, so he must have had a good reason to take me away from the clinic," Steph continued, serious again. "He said it was for my safety, but maybe…"

But he does like you, Cassandra thought, seeing Steph's discomfort. She wished she could alleviate it, but she knew Steph would not believe her.

"It doesn't matter," said Tim. "Secrets or not, I know he has a blind spot when it comes to Red Hood, and I need to leave Gotham to prove it."

Steph met Tim's gaze with a glare, but his resolve never faltered; if anything it grew stronger. "Fine," she said. "But you need help. Cass, you're going with him."

"What?" said Tim.

"But…" Cassandra began.

"You promised me," Steph insisted.

Promise me you'll keep an eye on Tim. He needs it.

"What about Batman?" Cassandra asked, her voice small.

"I'll work on him," said Steph. "If this secret of his is from the end of the gang war, there's a fair chance it has something to do with me."

"I don't need help," Tim muttered mulishly.

Steph raised her eyebrows. "What's your plan?"

Tim took a breath, intensity honed to pinpoint accuracy. "I'll need the Batplane. I have a few stops, because I want to be thorough. I need to investigate the possibility of someone coming back from the dead."

The reaction was instantaneous. Cassandra grabbed Tim's arm, feeling suddenly afraid that he would bolt, while Steph gasped, a hand flying to her mouth.

"Tim," she cried, muffled. "Tell me this isn't what it sounds like."

He looked completely nonplussed for a moment, then Cassandra saw a myriad of emotions cross his face—first realisation, then shock, then guilt that gave way to resolve as he said, "It isn't what it sounds like, Steph. I promise."

Steph shook her head. "Spell it out."

Cassandra tightened her grip on Tim's arm. "Prove it," she ordered. "Swear that this has nothing to do with your father."

Tim choked. "This has nothing to do with my father," he echoed dutifully. "I swear it." His face was pale.

Seeing the truth reflected in his words, Cassandra let go, though not without reluctance.

"But you have to see how it looks," said Steph. "People know what happened. If you're going to go around asking those sorts of questions, nobody's going to take you seriously. That's why you need backup."

Tim glanced at Cassandra. "Fine. But Bruce is in the cave right now."

"I'll stall him," said Steph confidently. "Leave it to me." And then, when Tim stood to leave, she grasped Cassandra's arm and whispered urgently, "Take care of him, Cass. Bring him back. You promised me."

Cassandra nodded, fears eased somewhat, but not daring to look at Tim as she said, "I will."

When they had prepared for their journey and Steph had ensured that the coast was clear, Cassandra followed Tim down the stairs to the Batcave, where he made a beeline for the computer and printed off information that was too complex for her to understand without careful scrutiny. Then he wrote a note and left it on the computer desk, but she had no time to decipher it before he was heading to the Batplane, leaving her with no choice but to follow.

They both knew how to pilot it, but it was Robin who took the lead, enabling silent mode, disabling the trackers and programming their itinerary into the navigation system, while Batgirl sat on her hands and watched, heart thumping as she thought about who they were leaving behind, and what Batman might say when he found out.

"Here," Robin said—the first words he'd spoken to her since they'd left Steph's room. "This is where we're going."

He had stuck a piece of paper to the dashboard. It contained what appeared to be a handwritten list, but despite her reading lessons, the letters were so messy and unintelligible to her that they might as well have been in another language.

Embarrassment flooded her, then anger. "Don't make fun of me."

Tim turned to her, frowning. "Oh—sorry. Here." He gestured to the navigation system, increasing the map size so that she could read the locations that were part of their route.

"I didn't mean to make fun of you," he added, awkwardness apparent in his grimace as he watched her painstakingly mouth each word on the screen.

"Okay." She didn't really want to talk to him, not after how he had spoken to her, but she never broke a promise. If Robin needed credibility for his self-imposed mission, so be it.

"You see it, don't you," he said quietly, though with no less fervour than before. "You must have—you were there. Batman doesn't want to believe it because it seems like it must be a trick, and it would kill him if it turned out to be Clayface again, but it's become a blind spot. People have come back from the dead before—I just need to convince him."

Despite herself, her interest was piqued. "You think… Red Hood came back from the dead?"

"I know he did." Robin started the plane and began easing it out of the hangar. "There's only one person he could be—and if I'm right, this changes everything."

Her head was spinning. "I don't understand."

"Think, Cassie. I know you've wondered too. Who else would have movements and training so similar to Batman's? It can't just be someone he worked with for a bit, or who trained him ages ago—he's had dozens of teachers. But who else would he stop me from investigating—who else would he be so reluctant to hunt down?"

She had made an assumption earlier, when she had described Red Hood's familiarity to Steph. There was someone else that description fitted—someone who had been trained by Batman, but was no longer working with him—but she had not considered that possibility, because she knew that Jason Todd was dead.

But that answer had further implications. By all accounts, Red Hood was a crime lord and a murderer, and the fact that he seemed to have a moral compass only slightly less ruthless than Black Mask's did not put him in good stead in Batgirl's mind. She had little empathy for someone who would squander a second chance by using it for revenge instead of rebirth.

"Suppose Jason's back," she said. "Why does it matter how?"

Robin stared at her. "Because if we find out—if it has anything to do with who he is now—we can help him."

"He's a killer."

He winced. "I know. But he's still Bruce's son."

This logic made little sense to her; after all, Batman had helped her well before he had offered to adopt her, while David Cain's treatment of her had been entirely the opposite. She articulated this with difficulty.

"Look, you didn't see how Batman was after Jason died," Robin said. "He was so angry and brutal—it was awful. That's why I became Robin in the first place—because Batman needs a Robin. We're partners. It's always been my job to help him, even if he doesn't want me to. Bruce needs help, and Jason does too."

"Batman has us," she cried, her discontentment from earlier returning in full force. "But we left him!"

"I know. But we'll be back. I promise."

She saw that he was not lying, and this knowledge calmed her a little, but still she could not stop her mind from replaying every detail of the confrontation in Steph's room. As Robin piloted the Batplane out of the Batcave and away from the city she had learnt to call home, she hoped desperately that she had made the right choice, and that Batman would not perceive her sudden departure as betrayal or rejection of either of the names that he had given her.

NIGHTWING

When Dick was twelve years old, every familiarity in his life was ripped away from him with the snap of ropes and the sounds of his parents' bodies crashing to the floor of their circus tent. In the days and months that followed, he found himself reliving those fragmented moments so relentlessly that they drowned out his capacity to form new memories, with the result that even now, more than twelve years later, he could barely recall details of the joyless period of time he had spent in Gotham's youth study centre immediately after the tragedy.

And then Bruce had taken him in.

Bruce had been unapproachable at first—physically absent most of the time, and lacking the reassuring warmth of home. Nevertheless, a transformation took place over that first year, as Dick trained to became Robin. Bruce's presence and guidance gradually restored Dick's ability to form new memories, culminating in a book he gave Dick for Christmas the year Dick turned thirteen, titled Adrift But Not Becalmed. It had a breathtakingly realistic illustration of a compass on its dust jacket and contained true stories of survival after significant adversity.

Even as a teenager, Dick had been profoundly touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift. But it was only much later that he could fully appreciate the depth of what Bruce had been trying to tell him through it: that he believed Dick was extraordinarily resilient, and that he was proud of him. As Dick pored over the book, reading each personal account over and over, he began to emerge from the ashes, stitching together his past and present into a new story that was truly his own. In the difficult and distant years to come, Dick would glance at the title on his shelf and wonder how it had all gone wrong—how the man who had once shown such faith in him could come to distrust him like this so deeply.

Dick did not have to wonder where the book was now. It had been one of the few sentimental items he had taken with him upon moving to Blüdhaven, and had therefore been destroyed along with those other possessions when Blockbuster had razed Dick's apartment building. Adrift But Not Becalmed—at least, Dick's worn copy with its awkward, irreplaceable inscription from Bruce—was lost forever.

Dick had not thought about the book for a long time, but as he walked out of the Blüdhaven Police Department that evening, he found himself wishing he could leaf through its pages, grounding himself in the stories that had once helped him regain his sense of self. The spontaneity of the desire puzzled him for a moment, until his realisation was so sharp that his knees nearly buckled. As it was, he had to steady himself against his car, breathing as rapidly as if he were still confined to the limbo that had held him hostage for far too long.

Not long ago, everything that had made Dick's life whole had been ripped away from him with the bang of a gun in a hotel stairwell and the sickening sound of a body falling to the floor. Some time afterwards, Batman had summoned him back to Gotham to help deal with the gang war. But, just like before, there was a length of time in between the initial trauma and being recruited by Batman that remained unaccounted for in his memories, because his mind had been able to do little else but replay what had happened in that stairwell, driving more recent events into a disjointed haze that haunted him while he slept.

And so, when he got into his car and immediately received a blunt phone call from Bruce asking him to come back to Gotham as soon as he was able, Dick felt no small amount of relief. Perhaps it was born from the sort of love he had been craving since childhood that cried out, you still care about me! Or perhaps it stemmed from that other deep-seated pattern of Bruce needing him, and Dick needing that validation that told him he was still known, that he held a position that no one else could fulfil. Whatever the reason, the abrupt call was very much welcome, and Dick wasted no time in returning to the Batcave and putting the events in Blüdhaven out of his mind as best he could.

The crutches were gone, but he still moved with a slight limp as he exited his car and approached Batman, who was at the Batcomputer.

"Hey," he said, trying to imagine how Bruce must be feeling. "Any word?"

"Negative." Bruce exhaled in irritation. "You're certain he hasn't attempted to contact you?"

Dick shook his head. "Nothing since you called. But, more importantly, what are you still doing here? You can't tell me that he managed to disable every tracker in the Batplane. I'd have thought you'd have grabbed hold of them by now."

There was a long silence, then Bruce said in a low voice, gazed fixed on the computer screen, "He's disabled remote piloting."

"To hell with remote piloting! Why aren't you out there bringing them back?"

Bruce lowered his gaze, fists clenching and unclenching. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and then he silently thrust a folded piece of paper at Dick.

"So that's how we're doing this. All right," Dick muttered, unfolding the sheet and instantly recognising Tim's scrawled handwriting.

B,

I've taken the Batplane. Batgirl's with me. Don't blame her—it was my idea. Don't bother trying to track us—I won't be back until I've found answers. Tell Dana and Alfred not to worry.

R

Dick looked at Bruce in disbelief. "So, that's it? They just… left?"

Bruce stood up and moved away from the computer. "He's been spending all his time down here, fixated on casework. When the negative impacts on his health became apparent, I removed him from the case, effective immediately."

"You fired him?!"

"No!" Bruce had begun to pace between the computer and the memorial case, but he stopped to draw breath, voice ragged. "He's in denial—grieving—"

"Did you tell him that?" Dick asked, his dread mounting as he tried to piece together the conversation.

"I tried," Bruce snapped, halting before the desk and pressing his fists into it, head bowed. "He accused me of not trusting him."

It made far too much sense. Dick lifted the letter in his hand and waved it at Bruce. "So—you think that this is how to prove to him that you trust him? By letting him go?"

Bruce snarled, punching the computer desk with a rough curse before dropping into the chair and pressing his face into his hands.

Irritation evaporating, Dick hurried to his side and touched his shoulder. "Bruce?"

"I don't…" Bruce choked on his words. "I don't know what to do. I have suspected—I know that Tim's not happy."

"Of course he isn't," Dick interjected. "He just lost a classmate and his own father."

"I mean," Bruce said, as if he were forcing the words out, "that he's not happy here. He has been… different since his father's death. Obsessive."

Dick winced. "Yeah, well… that sounds like someone else I know."

The look Bruce shot him could have burned through steel. "Yes, I know. That's why I'm concerned. Taking the Batplane indicates that he's left Gotham, but if I force him to return, he'll see it as a breach of trust."

"What about Batgirl?"

A shadow of a smile crossed Bruce's face. "Batgirl is the other reason why I haven't gone after him. I expect her to look out for him, and bring him home when he's ready."

"Home," Dick echoed. "Damn it, Bruce, you still don't get it, do you? Tim's not you. He's just had his world ripped from under him. What he needs an anchor—someone to catch him and give him something to do…" He stopped abruptly, conscious that he had said more than intended.

Bruce gave no indication that he had been listening, but Dick heard a stuttered inhale, and his own breath caught. As had been happening for the past few weeks, another scrap of memory emerged from the mire inside his head—a reminder of being somewhere with Catalina, knowing he was following a downward trajectory, yet being powerless to stop either her or himself.

Had it not been for a timely phone call, he was sure that he would still be there, having fallen entirely into the life she had pushed him towards, and just like back then, the dread of knowing what future awaited him was drowned out by the elation he felt upon hearing Bruce's simple words.

Dick—there's some unusual activity in Gotham. How soon can you be home?

"Dick. Dick."

Dick blinked. He was leaning on the computer desk, head bowed as he gasped from one second to the next. Bruce was beside him, one hand gripping Dick's shoulder as he peered into Dick's eyes.

Dick swallowed. "I'm okay."

Bruce's eyebrows drew together slightly. "No, you're not."

Before them, the Batcomputer sprang to life, beeping to signal an incoming communication.

"Onyx, come in," Bruce said. There was a heavy pause, then—

"He's here," she whispered, voice tight. "The Red Hood."

"Understood. I'm on my way. Batman out." Bruce cut the connection and turned away from Dick, clearly heading for the Batsuit. Dick caught his arm.

"I'm coming with you," he said. He felt Bruce's gaze probing him, and concentrated on keeping his features neutral, but Bruce just nodded assent.

Despite this tacit approval, Dick found it difficult to focus, even as their night rapidly escalated into situations fraught with violence and confrontations. They arrived at Onyx's location to see Red Hood yanking a blade out of her shoulder, letting her crumple to the ground outside a warehouse whose doorway was littered with bodies oozing blood.

There was something strange about their adversary, something familiar, but Dick could not make sense of what he saw, not while focused both on evading the pounding bullets and keeping his mind in the present, refusing to let himself slide into a past that kept threatening to bring him to his knees, insistent as it was on becoming known.

And so, when Red Hood began taunting them, turning the tables so that he was pursuing them through alleyways and across rooftops, Dick saw a moment when Batman froze, and recognised himself in it—saw the paralysis born of confrontation and terror. Quick as light, he jumped into action as a single thought flew through his mind.

Not again.

Dick was fast enough to stop the bullets from striking Batman, but his momentum sent him careening off the edge of the roof, fumbling for his grapple and helpless to do anything else but let the memories overwhelm him as he heard the panicked sounds of Batman—Bruce—calling his name.

A/N: Can you tell I much prefer writing conversations to action scenes?

Sources:

Cassandra's line of "Yes… and no" and Tim's response of "You sound just like him" are adapted from Batgirl (2000) #58 (Robin/Batgirl: Fresh Blood).

The impersonation by Clayface was in Batman #617-618 (Batman: Hush).

Dick's stint in a youth study centre in Gotham was mentioned in Nightwing (1996) #12.

Bruce called Dick back to Gotham in Nightwing (1996) #95.

Robin and Batgirl's quest, as well as Batman, Nightwing and Onyx's confrontation of Red Hood, are based on Batman #639-641 (Batman: Under the Hood).