Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Desert landscapes were quickly becoming Bruce's least favorite backdrop for battle. Especially with the League. Over half of them had no experience on a team, and the vast expanse of space led them to spread themselves thin. They quickly lost sight of each other as they battled against the giant sandworms that had been menacing the land and population for weeks.

He had planted himself atop a rocky outcropping cliff of the high plateaus pushing through the barren geography, keeping the high ground against the giant, writhing worm determined to eat him. The thing was far, far, too large to be moving as fast as it did, and its appetite seemed indiscriminate, livestock, crop stock, human stock---the worm tracked it all for substance.

And now the thing had a lock on Bruce. He didn't often subscribe to Jason's abrasive way of doing things, but the emergency grenade in his utility belt was showing its appeal just now...

In the distance of the high desert, he didn't see Wonder Woman go down.

He heard her pained grunt and the impact she made with the ground as she was smacked into it. The pressure stressed her comm and filled the line with sharp feedback. Through it, Flash's panicked exclamation was nearly lost as the speedster grabbed her out of immediate harm's way.

"Hey guys, she's bleeding bad!"

Bruce tossed the grenade without a second's more thought. Once it was in the worm's gullet, he didn't stick around to see the carnage. Grappling hooks worked just as well on natural stone rock faces as on skyscrapers. He slung down the canyon to where he thought Flash had stashed them.

In Gotham, he never had to worry about getting lost. The city streets were carved into the paths of his brains, the nightmare alleys and dead-end and freeways and suburb squares. He had all the kids trained to look for street signs, then significant landmarks, using Wayne Tower as the orientation point.

In the high desert, there were only scrubs, rocks, and gritty sand.

Green Lantern crossed paths with him, leading a desert-eating worm firmly in one direction. Bruce dove in the opposite, searching out his teammates.

Wonder Woman was down, and he hadn't seen what had hit her. He just saw the blood and her wain face grimacing in unfamiliar pain. Flash knelt beside her, his hands pressed into her shoulder. His shoulders shook from nerves and worry; under his palms flowed a steady run of blood.

"What happened?" Bruce demanded, landing beside them.

"I don't know," Flash responded, his voice high and panicky. "I just got here, and she was down. I thought I'd get her away from the worm, but---,"

Flash, when he ran on adrenaline and nerves, was not the person to be handling an actively bleeding shoulder wound. Wonder Woman winced, her breathing turning labored. Bruce growled his frustration and peeled Flash's hands away from the injury. A hard shove got the speedster to his feet so Bruce could take over.

"Javelin's right side, compartment B-1. Med kit, black bag, bright yellow labels. Grab it now," he ordered as he pushed down onto her wound with more confidence. Flash went, happy to turn over guidance to his surly, competent teammate.

Despite the tense situation, Bruce felt calmer seeing her. At least she was breathing and responsive. It looked like she had managed to protect her most vital spots, deflecting the blow to her high shoulder. There was no exit wound or matching gash on her back shoulder. The laceration was deep and would put her out of commission for at least a month. Any deeper and she might have lost the arm.

"Never be this stupid again," he demanded.

Her pale face grinned up at him in a weak reflection of her usual smirk. "Sorry to worry you, dear one."

"I'm not worried; I'm angry. Stop moving."

His teammates didn't bleed. He did---all the time, in fact. His body was a collection of scars and injuries, the undeniable signs of his work and the toll it took on him. The others were indifferent to the concept. Alien, immortal, or enhanced, their physicality should hold up better against this kind of abuse.

So why was it he had Wonder Woman's blood on his hands? Her sharp shoulder, tanned from sun exposure, trembled from the pain. He kept a steady pressure on her wound and ruthlessly silenced any further thought in his mind.

"This one, right?" Flash came crashing back to them with a familiar black bag in his hands.

Bruce grabbed it, dropped it beside his knee, and popped it open one-handed.

Medical supplies were undisputedly his purview, and he was fierce about having one on ready hand at every opportunity. The black-bagged, yellow-labeled supplies were laid out in the same order his father had stored them for years. The layout never deviated from kit to kit, so he could always rely upon their contents. If he knew where everything was, he didn't have to spend valuable time scrounging.

He stripped off his uniform gloves; the brief flash of his bare hands felt scandalous. Pushing through the instinctive need to hide, he grasped the wrist of her uninjured side and determined her pulse. She let him manipulate her, breath evening out to a steady rhythm.

Bruce double-checked his count: her pulse came back high but not concerning. Satisfied, he set her wrist aside and pulled on a pair of purple nitrile medical gloves.

"Dealt with the worm," Green Lantern called, landing beside them with a graceful thump of heavy boots. "How is she?"

"She's peachy," Wonder Woman replied with a tense wince as Bruce applied disinfectant in a liberal spread.

"Yeah, Bats knows what to do..." Flash trailed off, looking down at his hands. Wonder Woman's blood was a lusher shade of red than his bright costume and stood out in stark contrast across his gloves and chest. His shock set in stark and brutal across his face. He really was so young.

Tutting, Green Lantern leaned over and plucked a disinfectant cloth from the med kit, handing it to the Flash to clean his hands. "A real firefight, wasn't it?"

"Don't do that again," Bruce snapped, glaring at his pilfering teammate. If people started pulling things out of his medical kit on a whim, he'd lose track of what supplies he had. That thought made his skin itch and his hands flex in instinctive rejection.

"You really can't bring yourself to be civil, can you?" Green Lantern replied with a dry look.

"I'll be civil when you keep your hands to yourself," Bruce spat.

That comment earned him no friends, and a stony silence fell over them all. He took the quiet gratefully, letting his hands work as his mind went carefully blank. Focus on what he could solve---that was the only way to survive desert landscapes.

When Wonder Woman's shoulder was wholly bound up tight to her chest, he stood up, helping her along. Urging her towards Green Lantern, he pointed towards the Javelin.

"Go---keep your shoulder still, sit quietly, and think about how to stop this from happening next time."

Flash ran off like Bruce's dismissal was a firing squad aimed directly at him, while Green Lantern looked decidedly unamused at the reprimand. Wonder Woman just rolled her eyes at him in something that looked far too close to affection, a little dash of color coming back to her pallor now that her pain was manageable. She reached up and touched his cheek in thanks.

Bruce kept his glare in place to diminish the effect, though he didn't move away from her. She smiled at him just as a neon green enveloping glow overtook her, and she and Green Lantern rose into the air towards the Javelin. He couldn't mind Green Lantern's blatant exclusion of him---they needed some time away from one another, their personalities far too alike to find cohesion together.

Superman passed them midair, floating down towards Bruce with a look of sincere concern. His red boots touched down with a heavy thump, sending dusty sand up, and his bulk filled the immediate space between them. Far, far too close for comfort.

"What?" Bruce snapped. That open gaze unnerved him, and that nervousness made him cross.

Undeterred, Superman reached out and put his fingertips to Bruce's wrist, just beyond the bloody medical gloves. The small gap between the nitrile edge and the cuff of his uniform where nothing but skin showed.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Curling his fingers, he worked off first one and then the other glove, carefully rolling them into themselves to keep from letting the mess spread.

Bruce let him, working only to keep himself still. "I'm fine. Wonder Woman will be in recovery for at least six weeks, though. Maybe ten."

"But she'll recover?"

Bruce nodded. "She may have broken collarbone, but her lungs sound clear, and her pulse is strong. We'll need x-rays to know more."

"Good. Come on," Superman said, stepping back. He dropped the folded-in gloves into the black medkit, picked up the whole thing, and held his free hand out to Bruce. "I'll give you a ride back."

It was this, or walk the ten miles back to the Javelin. Bruce stepped into his arm and let himself be lifted into the air, thinking about deserts and bloody gloves and not how the back of Superman's neck felt under his bare fingertips.

Tim ran for San Francisco, retreating in the face of humiliated obsession.

The thief who had snuck into Gotham galled him. He expected better of himself, especially when his failure put Duke at risk. The library made for a weak point, he knew. He'd planned for grandstanding contingencies and daring nighttime raids. For super villains and megalomaniacs and aliens. He had charts and maps and indexes.

He hadn't seen the possibility of a simple smash-and-grab in broad daylight until it had happened. Too caught up in the contingencies to visit the easier path. Stupid, shoddy, and just horribly embarrassing on all fronts.

Tim hated being embarrassed.

Duke had taken his miscalculation in good humor, but Tim couldn't entirely scrub the shame of being outplayed, however accidentally. The feeling never sat well with him. This wasn't an attractive side of his personality, he knew. But it was an efficient one.

He tracked the thief, half in atonement and half in outrage. The moment she was processed through Metropolis agencies, he had a solid paper trail to follow. Within a day, he had found her past associates, her favorite fences, and her clients, both regular and one-off. Next were her bank accounts, networks, and suppliers, which he relentlessly pinned down and dragged into the light.

Once he had started actively hunting her ex-husband through international links and massively violating multiple privacy laws, he realized he may have gone too deep. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept or his most recent meal.

Years ago, he would have kept going, feeding his obsession rather than curtailing it. There was a vicious satisfaction in a hunt well-fought. It had taken many long, firm talks with Bruce and Dick and Alfred and the rest of his family for him to come to terms with the fact that he could not, in fact, simply work himself to death to sate his curiosity. Or his need for revenge.

Rather than go to his room, lie down, and continue to obsess behind closed eyelids, he opened up the Wayne Enterprises server. The West Coast branches were coming up on their inspections---he added his name to the board meets and reserved the earliest flight out. A quick email went to his assistant and another to Bruce. Then, he grabbed a medkit from the Cave and a go-bag from his room, barely catching the lunch Alfred pushed on him on his way out the door.

I’m running away to cali he texted Steph as he went. you in?

wish i could boo she replied a moment later. already promised cass a girls weekend.

Oh well. A solo trip wouldn't kill him. It wasn't like he had a good reason for going, anyway. It was running away, pure and simple. He had no illusions about his bad behavior.

His phone ding again. And again. And again. By the time he got to the airport, Steph had flooded his phone with photos.

Sunsets.

Sleepy cats.

Rams running into punching bags.

The Teen Titan's latest publicity photos.

A particular close-up of Superboy, grinning at the screen with his arms folded, his biceps and forearms doing things for Tim's imagination...

He caught himself staring and hastily scrolled by. Drunkenly mention a crush one time!

the TT are in SanFran, rite? you should check 'em out. Steph followed up when she saw his read receipt.

fuck no was his gut-punch response.

you need friends

what are you then?

OTHER friends. The not B-affiliated friends

Tim left her on read and got on the plane rather than defend himself.

The only thing waiting for him in San Francisco was board meetings and breakout discussions. Uncomfortable shoes and mediocre coffee, all set in unfamiliar surroundings. He kept his back to any windows facing westward so as not to glimpse the rising new construction tower in the distance. His self-enforced deprivation was a suitable punishment for his obsessive need to be right.

During his morning meetings, Duke sent him a selfie from the downtown cafe across from the Gotham library, looking relaxed and appropriately caffeinated. Tim saved the photo but didn't respond.

He only relented when the financial controller quietly suggested a lunch break, her face showing exhaustion. Grabbing another cup of coffee, he stepped outside into the lawned picnic of the Wayne Enterprises property to drink in a bit of sunshine and remind himself how to be human.

Just over the horizon line of the trees surrounding the park loomed the shadow of construction---a large tower in the shape of a T. The city of San Francisco had recently approved its construction. If all went according to plan, the teen Titans would be taking up residence in their new base of operations by the end of the year. The progress was much heralded in the media, especially on the West Coast.

In an odd blend of contempt and longing that he didn't want to inspect too closely, Tim couldn't help but indulge in compulsive curiosity about a group of heroes his age. Metahumans and skilled teens not raised in the shadow of the Bat. How different would they be? How would their styles line up? Had someone considered what kind of work they would be doing?

It was really just as well that he kept a safe distance. Tim could no more keep his mind off a case than Dick could keep his nose out of someone else's business. Who knows what he'd let slip if he stepped foot in there? All the bats and birds had enough excitement, what with Bruce tangling with the League. No need to add to the pressure of their lives being found out by a group of teenagers.

Unprompted, his knees wobbled under him.

Without any input from him, Tim's center of gravity shifted sideways. Bracing himself was instinctual; the first month of his training had consisted of nothing but Bruce teaching him how to roll, shift, and rebalance so that he always knew where his body was.

It was useless to him now. Grounding techniques meant little when the ground itself rolled and trembled.

Tim's thoughts split, compartmentalizing in a time of unprepared stress. Safety first and always--he could do nothing if he hurt himself out of dumb reaction. He dropped to his hands and knees before he could fall, stabilizing himself.

No doorways; that was an urban legend. Tables were safer to hide under. His mental space unfurled with a map of Wayne Enterprises West, drawing a red line to the outdoor picnic area, careful to avoid gas and power lines.

He wasn't alone. It was the lunch hour, and more than a few employees had taken the good weather to eat outdoors. Deliberately, he redrew the path on his mental map to include reaching anyone he could. The plan that would save as many lives with as little risk as possible. That was how Bruce had taught them to think over the years. And it was the mentality that had saved Tim from his more destructive tendencies, over and over.

Dispassionate facts rolled on under all his thought, like a ticker tape set to doom-scrolling: there was no such thing as earthquake weather.

He crawled along his proposed path, stopping first to grab a shaking young intern by the elbow and haul him along. Two more from the pathway leading off campus were herded in; he waved them down and shoved all three under a nearby picnic table.

This is what being a sheepdog felt like, he thought with hysterical amusement.

An earthquake was the ground shaking caused by a sudden slip on a fault line. The release of energy when two tectonic plates pushed against each other.

Wayne Enterprises West had been engineered for safety first and foremost, and Tim had faith the building would hold. But even the strongest convictions could be shaken when you saw a sixty-story skyscraper dance like a car-lot air puppet overhead.

He couldn't do anything about the building. Nothing about the I-beams or the foundation, or the architecture. So he kept grabbing people and getting them out of the way of falling trees, glass, and bricks. When he could, he grouped folks together so they could look after one another.

Twenty seconds passed, stretching themselves out into hours.

The fastest wave, and therefore the first to arrive, was called the P wave. The P wave alternately compressed and expanded material in the same direction it is traveling.

The ground ripped and rippled under his hands and knees as if tearing apart at the seams. Tim could do no more and hunkered down under the closest picnic table, protecting his neck and head. To keep calm, he counted his breathing and forced the instinctual flood of fear at bay. Fear was nothing but an indicator of danger, he told himself repeatedly.

The earliest recorded earthquake in California was experienced in 1769 by the exploring expedition of Gaspar de Portola.

And just like that, the ground eased under his body, calmed and settled. Tim held his breath and counted to five, suspiciously convinced they weren't through the worst of it. The ground stayed still.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet.

Thirty-seven seconds, his watch told him. Too prolonged. Too intense. Had to at least have broken 7.0 on the Richter scale. Disaster-level, at least a thousand likely fatalities.

The Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 resulted in the deaths of three thousand people.

"Find the safety officer and follow the evac plan," Tim told the others in the area, using his Robin voice to squash any argument and get them moving. The campus staff had to know the evac plan; quarterly drills were a requirement at all WE-operated buildings. Thomas Wayne had been fierce about it, his medical knowledge applied over a business environment, and Bruce had only doubled down on his father's priorities over the years.

The street outside the WE campus was in chaos--cracked foundations made buildings unstable, and utility lines had become compromised by the quake. A building had fallen sideways, blocking road access. There was a faint trace of leaking natural gas somewhere nearby. Glass littered about from busted-out windows, and the cracked and rippled asphalt made walking precarious. Active power lines were twisted and bared into the open, ready to become deathtraps. A busted water main spewed across the sidewalk, soaking muddy the ashy ground.

Into it all, people pooled out into the open, careful and nervous and angry and afraid. Some looked for ways out of their dicey surroundings, while others called out for their loved ones and neighbors. Pets---cats, dogs, the occasional ferret or bird or snake---lent their unique brand of chaos to the mix as their owners tried to chase them down.

Over them all, hovering like an ill-gotten phantom, was the constant threat of a second wave. Earthquakes were rarely singular events.

Tim was out of uniform and standing in broad daylight. Street-level, with no communicator. He tried his cell phone--no service. The towers were likely demolished or overloaded. He was running on two cups of coffee and no food, and about three hours of sleep he'd caught on the plane.

No time for second-guessing or obfuscation. There was work to be done, and Tim couldn't stand to ignore what he could solve.

He returned to his assigned WE car and popped the trunk with a quick jerk. It felt like a blessing to see the fully-stocked black medkit kit, complete with familiar bright yellow labels, laid out precisely the same. He didn't have to rifle through it to know what supplies he had to work with, down to the gauze pad count and the entire roll of duct tape. Thanks to Thomas Wayne's memory, there was no such thing as being over-prepared for a medical emergency in their family.

Bruce kept a whole wall of medkits stocked in the Cave. It was a habit that seemed ridiculous until the minute it was a lifesaver. Dick would grab a new one each month. Stephanie had one sitting under her apartment bed. Damian had snuck one into his locker at Gotham Academy. Hell, even Jason had a few stashed around his safehouses.

Tim cast off his suit jacket and tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Grabbing the medkit and the roadside emergency bag, he slung them over his shoulder and dug out a pair of utility gloves. The emergency radio from the kit got strapped across his chest and dialed into the emergency services channels. He scarfed down a dry energy bar, stuffed four more in his pants pocket, and packed in as many water bottles as the kit's spare room could hold.

Then, he went to work.

Destruction always had a human cost and came with very human calculations. Disaster response would be working to reinforce the structures first, to keep anything else from falling and causing more damage. Medics would be stretched few and far between, most of them concentrating on evacuation centers and checkpoints to reduce confusion.

The goal of emergency first-aid wasn't to repair a person to perfect health. It was to make the best of a bad situation; get them mobile so they could evacuate, or get them stabilized so medical services could get to them. Nothing else mattered.

His first year in the Robin suit had been a crash course in field medicine, preparing in detail for any injury he was at risk of encountering in the Gotham night. Bruce hadn't even considered letting him into a uniform until he could prove he knew what he was doing when it came to blood and pain. Tim had learned, years later, that Dick and Jason hadn't been put through nearly the same intensity on the subject, though every member of the Horde, from Tim on, had. Even Cass, who would rather just ignore an injury if she could.

But where Tim had a file of previous injuries, Dick had a volume. Jason had two. Never let it be said Bruce didn't learn from his mistakes.

"Help! Somebody help! He's under the truck!"

Tim ran towards the shouting. He wasn't the only one. By the time he arrived, a group of deli workers had shoved a jack under a truck bed that pinned a middle-aged man in a green utility suit to the road. He screamed as they pulled him free.

"Let me through," Tim ordered, using his bats and birds voice. They didn't argue, splitting away to let him pass and crouch beside the man. Tracking back the blood on the man's pants and his frantic, broken pleas, the wound quickly identified itself.

A femoral shaft break—Tim immediately recognized the massive bruises and swelling above the man's knee and the limp way he held his entire right side. While he worked, the ticker tape running through his mind changed: Femoral shaft fractures in young people are frequently due to some type of high-energy collision.

He had found Stephanie bleeding badly from a wicked bite from Killer Croc, directly on her thigh. The villain had been nowhere in sight, though the sound of brawling further down the tunnel had warned him of still lurking danger. Tim had held her hand and indulged her loud cursing as he disinfected the wound and laid in field care: brace it, prep it, make sure his work could stand transporting, get ready to move.

"That son of a bitch!" she had screamed while Tim worked, surrounded by the muck and grime of the sewer. "Where'd he go? I'm gonna knock his teeth out one by one!"

"B is chasing him down--hold still!"

Stephanie had screamed at him instead.

Tim stabilized the man's femur break and told the deli workers what he did, making them repeat back the medical jargon so they could recite it to the first responders when they arrived. By the time he finished, his sensitive ears had picked up further cries for help down the street. He grabbed his black medical back and stood up.

"Keep him still, and get the medics to come to him," he ordered, changing his gloves.

Following the cries, Tim found a pair of teenagers braced against the crumpled remains of a brick wall. One was fine, frantically fluttering around her friend and yelling for help. The other girl was slumped against the wall, curled in on herself while she cradled her head.

"What happened?" he asked as he descended.

"She hit her head when she fell!" the uninjured one replied, frantic.

The ticker tape now read out: Never return to play or vigorous activity while signs or symptoms of a concussion are present.

"Dude, I'm fine, lay off," Jason had yelled, his words slurring together as Tim had shown a flashlight into his eyes. The recently set ablaze and smoldering warehouse cast hot white-orange light over everything, making it hard to see details. Tim had to pay close attention to see the uneven dilation in Jason's pupils.

"Guh, just gimme back my helmet and let me up—hey!" Jason had screeched when Tim seamlessly picked up the Red Hood helmet, cracked over the forehead where it had stopped shrapnel from embedding itself into a stupid, unsuspecting face, and chucked it into the Gotham Harbor. It sank instantly.

"What were you saying, you jackass?" Tim had asked in a falsely pleasant voice.

He patched the bleeding head wound while he ran the injured teen through a basic TBI protocol. Determining that she was movable, he made her friend recite his diagnosis until he was sure she could say it in her sleep. Then, he had her download a radio app, using his more advanced phone as a hotspot when her service proved overloaded.

All the emergency channels broadcast medical triage centers and first-responder information, including directions to the nearest hospital.

"Go now—stay away from power lines and crumbled walls. Keep a nose out for any gas smells," he ordered. Even without his mask and uniform, his tone left no room for argument. The uninjured girl slung her friend's arm around her shoulder and headed for safety. He changed his gloves and moved on.

Further down the alleyway, he found an older man in a tattered coat with long, tangled hair curled behind a dumpster, clutching his eye.

"Hello," Tim said in Bruce's calmest voice, kneeling down to put them level. "Is it alright if I take a look?"

"I can't see," the man whimpered from behind his hands.

"I'm right in front of you. I'm reaching out," Tim replied, narrating their surroundings as he urged the man's hands away from his bleeding eye.

The ticker tape kept running: Do not attempt to treat an eye injury yourself.

Tim had caught Damian with the Cave with a half-scrambled first-aid kit and a guilty expression. The hand pressed over his eye had been slick with blood.

"Go away, Drake."

Tim had stared with sharp intent and said nothing. Then he had gone about his business, pushing down the knee-jerk guilt of being idle with the simple justification that Damian clearly didn't want help.

The logic trick hadn't worked. After about five minutes of listening to Damian struggle with the bandages and antiseptic, Tim had simply circled the Cave and returned to his side. Taking the medical gauze in hand, he told the youngest Wayne to sit down.

Damian hadn't argued with him, which itself was a massive indication of just how much pain he was in.

"What happened?" he finally asked into the stilted silence between them. It looked like an animal, in his opinion. Likely one of the many strays Damian couldn't walk away from, no matter how much they lashed out in their fear and pain.

"Training accident," was all the younger boy had said. Tim let it go in silence and set a neat line of stitches into his brow.

Tim washed the dust and debris from the man's eye and applied an antiseptic to the cuts across his forehead, brow, and nose. Then, he stayed with his patient until emergency responders arrived, listening to the man vent his fright. He took the opportunity to change his gloves. In the chaos of getting the man ready for transport, Tim slipped away and continued searching.

"Help! Over here!"

A young professional with good hair and in a smart dark suit and knee-length skirt was curled up under an awning. Her ankle was rolled from when she had fallen out of her bright yellow high-heels. Her exposed knees were bloody and grimy from the concrete. She rambled as Tim crouched down beside her.

"I–I–I thought it was just a sprain, you know? It wasn't that bad, but–but it got worse the more I tried walking, you know? And–and–and–and I can't," she hyperventilated.

"You're alright," he reassured. "Breath with me. Big breaths, breathe with me, and we'll get you sorted out, okay?"

A stressed ligament she likely tore when she put additional strain on it. A sprained ankle is one of the most frequent lower limb injuries and is very common when dancing, the ticker tape helpfully reminded him.

Cass rolled her ankle not while on patrol or training but while she was in her dance studio.

That had been a horrible time since not a single one of the Horde could take the injury seriously. Including Cass. The number of times she had fallen and reinjured herself was outrageous. What was a sprained ankle in all of the dozens of scars she carried?

So she kept dancing. Something odd overtook her face, though. Just around the edges, like the color slowly bleeding out of a cheap bolt of cloth. It took nearly two days before the realization hit Tim—he was seeing pain on her face.

He pounced on her from around a corner. He didn't surprise her, but his antics amused her enough to get his way.

"You need to stay off of it," he said, determined to wrap the ice pack around her ankle.

Cass said nothing, her expression rigid with stubbornness.

Tim sat back, his frustration making him fatigued. Why the hell was everyone in this family determined to ignore themselves?

"Have we shown you Zorro yet?" he finally asked.

She blinked. Cocked her head and shook it, causing her bangs to sweep across her face.

"Yeah, let's do that," he decided. She wouldn't move if she was enraptured, he figured.

By the time he had the businesswoman's ankle wrapped, her coworker had found them—a man in a ruined suit and ash in his short-cropped hair. Tim stepped back as they hugged each other, messy and frantic. Their emotional reunion seemed to bleed into the air, turning up the situation's fear, horror, and relief.

Tim deliberately turned that dial back down, resetting himself.

"Make sure she keeps her weight off her foot," he ordered, snapping to get the pairs' attention. The man in the ruined suit nodded with terrified determination and slung his coworker's arm over his shoulder.

Tim made them download the radio app and listed off his instructors. Then, he changed gloves and kept moving.

Not five yards away was a young jogger clutching her shoulder and sobbing quietly. The skin of her shoulder distended in a gruesome, familiar way.

Once a shoulder dislocates, the joint might be prone to repeat dislocations.

Dick's shoulder was a sensitive beast, prone to dislocation if he overextended himself the slightest amount after so many years of stress and training. That didn't mean Tim had the trick of resetting it down to an art.

Dick babbled when he was in pain; it was a trait he had never lost. While working on his shoulder, Tim had learned about his newest case, his most recent break-up, his thoughts on asparagus, what he planned on getting Bruce for his birthday, and his plans for the next week.

"You gotta hold still," he had told Dick between barely concealed panicked glances. "You may be an old hat at this, but I'm not."

"You're doing great, Timbo. Hey, how's the college hunt going?"

Tim had been sorely tempted to shove a roll of bandages in his motor mouth. His palms were clammy and achy once he reset Dick's shoulder, but the one-armed hug his older brother gave him made it worth it.

Flagging down the business pair before they had gotten far, Tim sent the jogger with them. Always in groups, if possible—they could look after each other until they were on safer ground.

Tim instinctively reached out for his next patient—and found a quiet street instead. He had worked his way into a residential neighborhood, quiet and vacant for being in the middle of the day. Works, errands, or school had drained the place of inhabitants before the earthquake. The silence was nearly chilling after so much activity.

He changed gloves and checked his radio. Emergency professionals' rapid-fire, calm and level-headed calls came through loud and clear. The assurance of action soothed the frazzled edges of his fright.

When he cut the feed, the penetrating sound of silence washed over him. Distant sirens. The rushing flow of burst water lines. The beat-beat of a helicopter on the horizon. Not unlike Gotham, really…

Then his hearing descended under the expected noise, picking up new notes. Just under the semi-collapsed building to his far left was the faint shrill of someone screaming. Tim picked up his medical bag and ran.

The building hung on by threads and hope. The entire street-facing wall had fallen in, making the remaining roof unstable and stressing the foundation enough to crack and fracture. Framing boards splintered, wrenched water and waste pipes sogged the building, and the floor groaned ominously when Tim gingerly set his weight upon it.

He held his breath and thanked Dick and Duke for every balance lesson and rock-climbing info dump ever imparted. Stepping through the twisted, broken wooden floor, he strained for his next patient.

"Hello! Where are you?" He called.

"Oh God, down here! Please, it's so dark…."

Tim stared down into the darkness of the broken floor, snapped into a splintered maw into a deep, dark basement. The ticker tape running through his mind was blank. It didn't know what advice to offer here.

Duke had come back from the library whistling to himself, the clear pitch echoing off the Batcave's high walls. His backpack was slung over his shoulder, and he cradled a half-drunk coffee in his hand. There were scorch marks on his clothes and a scabbed-over scratch on his forearm.

Tim had sat up in the wide chair of the Cave computer and watched him with wiry eyes. Guilt bit deep at him and tightened up his throat.

"You're bleeding," he finally managed.

Duke glanced at his arm with casual disregard. "Nah—it's already healing. But hey, you know where the painkillers are? I've got a raging headache thanks to that manuscript. S' creepy stuff, dude."

Tim silently retrieved a simple bottle of ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and handed it over.

"You need me to look at it, anyway?"

Duke munched down two red pills with a swill of coffee. "We're good, I promise."

And that, Tim realized, was the danger of Duke. He very well may mean it when he said things like that.

"Hold on!" Tim called, climbing down the unstable structure. Hand over foot, slowly, oh so slowly, moving in inches until the ground felt stable enough under him. Cracking on the flashlight packed in with the medical supplies, he searched the dark corners of the fallen-in basement.

"Where are you?" he called.

"Here!" came a weeping reply. He tracked it back to an elderly woman tucked into the closest wall.

She was in rough shape. The lower half of her housecoat was soaked in blood. Her arms gave out when she tried to push herself up, and she collapsed again with a cry.

"Don't move! I'll come to you," Tim ordered, doing exactly that.

Her leg had shattered, he could tell immediately. The blood was from where the bone had pierced the skin. A more significant concern still was the clear signs of a spinal injury. Numbness, slack muscles, and a lack of pain response. Not good. Getting her out of here…

He firmly set the fear aside, reaching for his radio to broadcast the address and a medical alert. Hopefully, there was an emergency crew in the area who could get them. He'd just have to stabilize her until then. He could do it—Bruce's training wouldn't allow him to admit defeat.

"I'm Tim. What's your name?" he asked, wanting to keep her coherent while he worked.

"M-Margaret."

"Hi, Margret. You're doing great—I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"

Margaret laughed in ragged disbelief, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. "My little grandchildren lie better than you do."

The building above them cracked ominously. Tim worked as fast as he could, trying to get Margret patched enough to evacuate her. Blood ran slick over his gloves, and the narrow circle of his flashlight held his entire focus, leaving only a sliver of congeniality to keep her going with him.

Louder, refusing to be ignored, the building groaned, loud and intolerant of its crumbling situation. His patient breathed out oaths of fear and panic, trying to hold still against her fright as he worked.

"You're doing great," he told her, his mouth running on autopilot. Just a little more—if he could stop the bleeding, he could consider moving her. "Just hang on with me a little bit longer."

Crack! went the house support beams.

Shit! went Tim. Margaret screamed as the floor caved in on them.

A roar. Then, nothing.

He opened his eyes gradually. As if the slightest movement would change the situation.

He wasn't squashed. Neither of them were…nervous, he looked up.

A massive neon green glowing dome encircling him and his patient. The house debris fell around them, sliding off the dome like powder over a mountain. The heavy building material, furniture, and rubble sloped away from them, well away from harm.

Tim didn't have time to feel relief, his hands working on habit through the surprise. His gloved hands were slick with blood, and the basic pressure cuff he'd slapped on Margaret told him her heart was still pumping, regardless of her circumstances. Which meant she was still at risk of bleeding out.

A shadow hovered over him. Tim looked up just fast enough to confirm the undeniable figure of Green Lantern. That shade really was eye-searing. That spot of attention was all he could afford; when Margaret gasped in pain, he returned his gaze to her.

"I've almost got the bleeding staunched, but it's a bad break, and she's got a possible spinal injury. She needs a hospital," he called up, having no time to be surprised by the super's arrival.

A beat of silence.

"Keep her stable and don't panic," Green Lantern called down rather than argue with him.

"Stellar advice," Tim called back, bitterly sarcastic from the scare and the adrenaline. "Got anything else you wanna tell me?"

If he had a reply, it was nonverbal, and Tim didn't bother looking away from his work to see it. Instead, a neon green light began to seep up through the ground. It first cradled his patient, conforming to her to keep her in the same position she had fallen in. Then, the light extended under his knees. The rocky surface vanished, and inextricably, they floated upward. The ground felt no different under his knees, and he couldn't take his eyes off his patient's abdomen to see how high they rose.

Tim wanted to stop and look around. Find out what it was like to fly unaided by grapple or glider.

That was nothing but a fleeting want, and he had bigger concerns. He focused on his hands, the information ticking across his inner eye, and kept Margaret from bleeding out. Compartmentalized his emotions the way years of Robin had trained him to.

Probably not healthy, but highly effective.

He didn't let his head come up until he was sure Margaret was in safe hands. Watching her get wheeled into the open doors of the local ER, he stripped off his gloves and tossed them into his black medical bag. Thankfully, it had made the impromptu flight with him, close enough to his side to be encompassed by the green light.

The hospital's parking lot had become a triage center. Initially chaotic, Tim looked closer to see the method in the madness. The center had a standard operating procedure, and the staff adhered well. It was just a system that didn't allow for a lot of improved leeway.

"Hey, kid." Tim turned.

Green Lantern's vividness extended into his very aura. Even dressed in civilian clothes, doused in the red and blue flashes of a dozen emergency vehicles, his acid green stare pinned Tim in place behind an expression of bemused consideration. The man stood with confidence and assurity—honestly, he stood a lot like Bruce did when he needed to project absolute control.

Tim instinctively mirrored that posture, meeting Green Lantern's gaze head-on. The super chuffed at him.

"You keep a level head down there. Good job. You got some training?"

"I'm an Eagle Scout," Tim lied in a heartbeat.

"Is that so? I always wanted to be a scout, growing up. What's your name?"

"Jason." It wasn't even hard at this point.

"Good to know you, Jason. You know who I am?"

"I've picked up enough context clues to figure it out," he replied, glancing significantly at Green Lantern's emerald ring.

"Heh. Alright, kid. You did good—now get to higher ground. We've got it from here."

The trite and banal sentiment instantly set Tim's teeth on edge. Dismissed not because he was a civilian but because he was young.

Tim had never dealt well with being dismissed. Green Lantern started to take flight; he reached out and snagged his wrist.

"Wait!" he said before he thought better of it. "Let me come with you."

Bruce was going to kill him.

The super's feet resettled on the ground as he stared in disbelief. "You serious?"

"I can help," Tim reiterated. "Look, I'm not an EMT or anything, but I'm a decent field medic, and you said it yourself--- I'm a level head. I'm calm and available, which is more than you can say for anyone else right now. If you're going back out there, you're going to run into people who need help. Let me tag along, okay?"

Let me be helpful, he almost pleaded. Don’t just dismiss me out of hand.

Green Lantern looked him up and down. Tim tried not to feel peeled back and inspected. His dress shirt was stained with soot, ash, and blood. His suit pants were ruined, as were his shoes. He needed a shower and a nap, and a cup of coffee. He wanted to call Alfred and Dick and Bruce and…well, all of his family to tell them he was safe.

He raised his chin and waited.

"Alright," Green Lantern decided. "But let's be clear: if I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions, no backtalk. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Tim replied. He was used to that rule; Bruce had been much the same in their first years together. Memories of Jason's tragedy made him reticent to trust Tim's instincts.

That had been a long, brutal slog, fraught with the kind of emotional tangles Tim had never been good at parsing. So he had kept his eyes forward, refused to budge, and worked. Sometime later, he had resurfaced enough to notice Bruce actually looking at him, not through him, searching for the outline of Jason or Dick.

After that, they had been alright.

This, though, was different. This was shutting off all the unimportant things like pride and shame and embarrassment. This was doing what he could, as fast and as well as he could.

This, Tim knew how to do.

But Bruce was definitely going to kill him.

That didn't stop the rush of excitement and fulfillment that shot through his veins when they helped evacuate a family trapped under a collapsed roof. Or tracked back a lost cyclist, tossed into a storm drain by the tremors. Or reunited a young boy with his frantic father.

"Come on," Green Lantern said once the grateful father finally let them go. "We need to find something to eat."

Through each rescue, the super trusted Tim to know his skill level and act accordingly. He didn't second-guess or demand an explanation. That was a heady drug for Tim, who continuously threw himself forward to prove himself to the man.

There was a trap in that ambition. It became challenging to keep himself back and not show off the extent of his abilities. How many aptitudes could he pass off before he started raising red flags in Green Lantern's mind?

It was a tantalizing game to play. So while Tim had energy bars in his medical bag, he instead followed Green Lantern down the street, following the smell of fried food.

A street vendor had set up shop on a corner intersection. His cart was still running, hooked up to a little generator. He was slinging coffee and hot dogs for free, and he was instantly Tim's favorite person.

The vendor looked somewhat awestruck by Green Lantern's patronage. The super did nothing more than nod to the man and the small crowd before asking for his own meal. Tim got two hotdogs dunked in mustard and honey, and the largest black coffee the vendor would give him.

"What's that?" he asked around a mouthful of food, pointing to the layers of duct tape wrapped around the vendor's knee.

"Ah, slammed it during the quake. Slapped some tape on it to keep it braced. I can go a little longer, yet."

Tim grabbed his medical bag, juggling it around his coffee as he scarfed down the last hot dog bite. "Sit down," he ordered, fully expecting to be obeyed. "You don't do that to your knee, man. It's only gonna get worse."

Sitting the nicest vendor in the world down on the curl, Tim popped open his black medkit. Yellow-labeled supplies flipped by as he dove straight for the splints and bandages he needed.

Busy as he was, he didn't see Green Lantern's eyes widen.

John prided himself on a level head in an emergency. He'd done it all with galactic war zones, League-level tactical missions, and emergency response with stoic will. It had earned him a steely reputation and a clear eye in catastrophe.

Now, though, his concentration was in shreds. One thought dominated his mind, banished all but his most basic instincts, and threw his body into automatic responses to cope with his startling disbelief.

Holy shit, Batman had a kid.

It was ludicrous. One day around their unbearably bad-tempered teammate was enough to paint an undeniable picture of his personal life: the Gotham Knight was single, living alone, and without connections that endangered familial or romantic concerns. Probably skulked off to some hole in the ground every dawn and ignored all his neighbors and coworkers during daylight hours. He was a loner, and loners were, by definition, never good pack mates. John was thoroughly convinced that Batman only stuck it out with the League because his controlling tendencies wouldn't allow them to run without his supervision.

Yet, taking Jason in... John's brain picked out hint after hint, contributing to a massive puzzle he couldn't help piecing together. The kid's Gothamite accent, so out of place on the West coast. It made for a familiar pairing with the steady, icy glare when he didn't get his way. The level head and skilled hands in a calamitous emergency. The method of control and assumption of responsibility the kid shouldered like it was nothing. The quiet, obsessive tracking of dangers and tasks.

The medkit bag with those obnoxious yellow labels, laid out just so.

The puzzle formed into a picture, and John stared at Batman in a young man's body. A young man who was exhausted, filthy, overworked, stressed beyond measure, and yet still determined to help.

John's first instinct was to grab the kid by the scruff like a disobedient pup, drag him to the first rescue tent he could find, and tie him to something sturdy and unmovable without remorse. He honestly wouldn't be able to justify doing anything else to Batman. Explaining to his most obstinate and paranoid teammate how he let Jason work himself into injury or mistake didn't bear thinking about, since John wouldn't survive the conversation.

Wait—take a step back. He couldn't be sure. There was no proof. It wouldn't be the first time John had taken a handful of context clues and extrapolated a false idea. Katma Tui had said it best: his best traits of observance, will, and focus turned to his worst impulses of judgment and suspicion. He jumped to conclusions, and those conclusions weren't always right.

So he watched Jason, trying to decide what to do. The kid kept glancing towards the horizon when he thought no one was watching him. John had initially thought he was simply keeping an eye out for air support, but now he realized—the half-built Teen Titans Tower. The kid kept looking towards the Tower.

Huh–really?

The Teen Titans was an uneasy experiment that John wasn't entirely on board with. Teenagers were unpredictable at the best of times. Add in superpowers, high negative-stress situations, and a lack of constant supervision; he felt they were just being set up for failure. But with Jason to balance them out…

Was this what Batman's month of radio silence had been about? There was no version of his neurotic teammate John could imagine that would have taken well to the idea of letting his kid out of his sight without some serious work. And interpersonal issues had a way of derailing even the best-bonded teams.

As it was, John had a hard time picturing that concept. Even if the kid was more congenial than his father. Did he get it from his mother? Oh God—was Batman married? Divorced? Widowed? The possibilities boggled John's mind.

Damn, but he was going to make sure Jason didn't get himself killed out here.

And then he'd gloat about it. For years. Already he could picture Batman's outraged expression at having John know something so personal about him. The thought alone made him chuckle during the dark day. The only thing funnier than an offended Dark Knight was a speechless Flash.

Once the hot dog vendor's knee was better braced and the medical bag had been closed, Jason stood up. In an absent-minded gesture, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, his thumb flicking across the screen. Then he sighed, glared at the little device, and sunk it into his medical bag.

"Cell towers still down?" John guessed.

"Yeah."

"Alright. May as well find something productive to do in the meantime. Ready to move on?"

Jason flashed him a renewed grin. "Lead the way."

When helping a group of utility workers clear the street of fallen trees tangled in live power lines, he caught Jason waving at a group of kids on the curb. They had their phones out, obviously recording. One of the group waved back before the utility lead shooed them off with a stern word.

"Really, kid?" John asked, dragging large branches off the street, using his ring to give himself a pair of workman gloves.

"They'll probably post this stuff online the minute they can," Jason explained, embarrassed but not ashamed. "I'm hoping one of these gets back to my--my family. My dad knows I'm in San Fran. I don't want him freaking out, thinking I'm dead or something."

I could just call him for you, John almost offered, thinking of his League comm in his pocket.

Instinct, and not a little self-preservation, stopped him. If he let on that he had figured out just who Jason's dad was, they'd never hear another word from Batman. The jackass had disappeared for a month and caused havoc within the Justice League in his wake. This, though, would be unforgivable. Bad enough letting on he had a kid, but to have the boy’s name and face known, even by one team member? The controlling lunatic just wouldn't accept it.

He had no wish to watch Superman and Wonder Woman set aside all competency and rationality as they slowly lost their damn minds over the stubborn bastard. Once was more than enough, thanks.

While his mind had wandered, he hadn't noticed Jason straying. Branches clear, the kid was already halfway down the street, nosing around in the debris the utility workers hadn't managed to clear yet. The power lines above him were live, and the cracked water hydrant further up the street left water pooling on the pavement.

"Yo–hey!" he flew after the kid, the ring enhancing his speed. "Didn't he teach you the buddy system? In Eagle Scouts, I mean."

"I can manage."

"It's not about managing; it's about staying with your team."

Jason blinked at him, looking dubious. "Okay, but like—you don't need to underestimate me. I'm doing pretty well, right? Don't think you have to look after me or something."

Yes, I do.

"That's not...kid," John tried again. Damnit, Batman---of course, his kid would be a clone of his worst habits. "Take it from a man who knows---doing well or no, your team's there to help you."

Jason didn't seem to have much filter from his thoughts to his mouth. Or at least not when he was exhausted. "I don't need help."

Well, that just put to pasture any hesitancy he had in his little bat-shaped theory. "Everyone needs help. Even me. I left mine in the dark once. I made a massive mistake. One I thought would ruin me."

The kid still looked jaded. The furious need to give more context was how he ended up half-lecturing, half-storytelling. While shutting the hydrant off, moving building debris, and directing civilians moving by, he told Jason about his arrest by the Manhunters for the faked genocide on Ajuris 4.

"And I just accepted it, you know—I faced it alone like I'd been taught. Didn't tell the rest of my team what was going to happen or why I had given myself up. And you know what those stubborn brats did? They came after me. They found out the truth and helped me see that going alone hurt more than it helped. You get me?"

Jason shrugged, outwardly looking nonchalant. His poker face was nearly as good as some of John's old army buddies.

Yet, he could see consideration building behind those intelligent eyes.

"Just think about it, kid. Good teammates are worth their weight in gold."

And maybe share that advice with your old man.

Jason's expression did something John couldn't quite follow, shutting down and breaking open in a rapid back and forth. Processing and trying to work his way through a thousand thoughts at once. Was this what Batman looked like under the cowl?

Then, with a sharp cut-off, Jason's eyes went considerate as he gazed out over the landscape. He wrinkled his nose and pointed eastward.

"What's that?"

Letting the distraction work, John blinked and followed the line of his finger.

"... that's a pay phone, kid," he replied, feeling older than dirt.

"Oh. Can I use it?"

"You got any change?"

Jason looked startled at the idea. John rolled his eyes and turned over his shoulder.

"Yo! Anyone got a couple of quarters?"

They got a handful of coins from the utility workers, most of them bemused to scrounge for change for the famous Green Lantern. He leaned against the payphone while Jason manipulated the number pad. His palm masked the exact number he dialed.

"Tell your dad I said hi," John couldn't help but say. Maybe a little dangerous, but he'd earned it.

Jason made a face at him, then pressed the receiver to his ear. After a moment, he shook his head and hung it up. "No luck—landlines are still down, too."

"Hmm."

John considered Jason long enough for the kid to start fidgeting under the scrutiny, feeling the edges of his stern expression soften. "Come on," he said, thumbing over his shoulder. "Let's see if we can get you a bigger platform."

Bruce scrolled through his phone again in an ineffectual distraction, borderline frantic for any information.

Tim hadn't hit his panic button or broadcast any distress, he reminded himself. Was that because he was fine? Or because he was dead?

He was fine--he was just trying to keep his head down and allocate resources for those who needed them.

He was dead--that's why he hasn't tried to get a message out. His son was dead under a collapsed building, and there was nothing Bruce could do about it.

Over and over, his brain oscillated between those points. His fingers continued to scroll, looking for any data he could incorporate.

"Sir," Alfred said, pulling his attention up. "I think you should see this."

It was a local interview, recorded at ground level. Green Lantern, his face stern and unyielding even in civilian clothes, was answering questions in a rote voice from a bedraggled reporter. Clearly, he wanted to be anywhere but in front of a microphone.

Behind him, leaning against a brick wall just at the edge of the frame, was Tim. He looked like a building had fallen on him, and his business clothes were stained with all sorts of things. But he was upright and seemed coherent enough. He was just in the back of the frame, scarfing down some wrapped sandwich. In between questions that Green Lantern stiffly fielded, he waved at the camera. He almost looked cheerful.

Bruce watched the feed for a long time. Then, he sighed.

"Where are we now?"

"Just over Arizona, sir," Alfred replied with a glance out the window. The Wayne private jet ripped across open space as fast as he could push them.

"Tell the pilot we'll detour to LA. I'm sure we shouldn't clog up San Francisco airspace any more than it already is."

Alfred generously did not point out that he had said the same thing mere hours ago when Bruce was frantic for any news out of San Francisco. He had been desperate for any confirmation of Tim's safety and completely willing to be the obnoxious billionaire over it.

Decision made, Bruce folded himself up, setting his face in his hands to hide his flooding relief. And to just hide.

"Sir, I believe you're now at a point where I can make this suggestion."

He looked up to Alfred delicately holding out his cell phone. Dick's contact was already ringing through. He wordlessly took the device and pressed it against his ear, waiting for his eldest to pick up.

"Any news?" Dick asked before anything else.

"Find the local news feed," Bruce replied. He waited as Dick did so.

"Wow—well, never let it be said he's not creative. I'm gonna record this. He knows that's Green Lantern, right?"

"I can't imagine he doesn't."

Dick hummed, the affectionate sound rattling through the tiny speaker. "How many layers of your skin have you peeled off over this?"

Bruce didn't rise to the bait on that one. "Can you let the others know?"

"Yeah. Also—hi, I love you. Take a deep breath. He's smart, and he's safe. That's not nothing."

"So I shouldn't ground him for the next five years?"

"That barely worked on me—there's no hope for the rest of 'em."

Dick, wondrous child that he was, stayed on the phone with Bruce for a full hour. By the time they disconnected, he didn't feel quite so broken open. Like he was on safer, more stable ground.

He dialed up his executive assistant on the West Coast with instructions to contact the San Francisco local with support. Now that he'd established his location, Tim would know to stick close to a communication center. Resources were what he needed, not incessant worry.

The logic calmed Bruce in the air. Leaning against a sleek rental car in the long-term parking lot of LAX, that same logic scraped at his raw nerves. He wanted his son, not rationality.

He needed a distraction. Once they had set foot on West Coast soil, he sent Alfred to rest in the air-conditioned hotel, unsure how long he would be waiting. Surrounded by nothing but vacant cars and kiosks, he was utterly alone.

Pulling out his League communicator, he set a single wireless earphone in and muted his side of the line. Then, he tapped into the Monitor Room's secure channel. The brilliant LA golden hour exploded overhead as he waited for the Watchtower to recognize him and establish a connection.

"And I don't understand the appeal of reading a work the author had no investment in," Wonder Woman said as Bruce's device tapped into her feed.

"Not all art needs to plumb the depth of the human condition," Superman argued good-naturedly. "I had a college professor argue that there's no such thing as high-brow and low-brow art. It's about the emotions you use to connect with other people."

"You attended college?" she asked, surprise coloring her voice.

"Yeah—my parents insisted. I fought them on it for a bit—thought they would need me at home, more. But the time apart did us all good."

Bruce said nothing as he eavesdropped, though he shuddered at the causal way Superman slung around personal information like it couldn't be used against him later.

With her wounded shoulder still healing, Wonder Woman had been assigned endless rotations of monitor duty. Bruce knew Superman kept up a conversation with her while he was on Earth.

Sometimes he tuned into it. Listening to them talk felt like coming up on a shoreline after days at sea.

“Do so many people find an emotional connection in The Da Vinci Code? Honestly?" Wonder Woman demanded. Bruce wanted to know who thought that had been a good recommendation.

"How did you get a copy of The Da Vinci Code?" Superman asked, agog.

"Flash loaned it to me."

Of course, Bruce thought, spiteful.

"Of course," Superman said, chagrined. "That's a bad example. I was thinking more about Conan Doyle. J'onn's been reading Sherlock Holmes—there's a complicated cause of wonderful literature from authorial disdain. Maybe ask if you can borrow his copy once he's done."

"I might. Is Conan Doyle a favorite of yours?"

"I always preferred Kurt Vonnegut. He saw something in humanity I'd like to find. I try to read Mother Night once every couple of years. It’s a satire about becoming who you pretended to be.”

That surprised Bruce. Mother Night wasn’t just a satire, it was a cautionary tale of the consequences of heroism and propaganda. The tale of a man who killed thousands because he was told it would save millions. And the tragedy of believing the results justified the means. He wondered how much Superman saw of himself in those pages.

"Is that a good one to start with?" Wonder Woman asked.

“God no—start with Breakfast of Champions. I'll lend you my copy next time I'm at the Watchtower.

A bus rolled out of the distant horizon line, huffing and puffing on old, tired wheels. Bruce watched it come, and felt like a weight dropped off his shoulders.

"You got a favorite, Batman?" Superman said.

He didn't start at the callout—he was better trained than that. He did pause, considering the device.

Across the lot, Tim disembarked from the bus, his shoulders slumped and looking thoroughly exhausted. Bruce leaned through the open car window and tapped the horn once, drawing Tim's attention. With a rare smile, he gambled over, moving like a sluggish vapor.

"Agatha Christie. And Then There Were None.," Bruce contributed, watching his son approach.

"I haven't read that one yet, either," Wonder Woman said, interested.

"Ten murders on a deserted island. The perfect puzzle box mystery. I'm not surprised. Did you guess the ending ahead of time?" Superman replied. His voice was rich with humor.

Bruce considered that tone, decided the warm excitement under his skin was from Tim's arrival, and cut the line. Tucking the communicator away, he let himself relax for the first time since news of the earthquake. His son was alive—he allowed himself to feel grateful for that.

Tim stopped his sluggish crawl by the car. "Hey, Bruce."

Bruce didn't let him get any further. Reaching out, he wrapped his arms around Tim's shoulders and dragged him in for a hug, regardless of the squawk it earned him.

He and Tim didn't hug often. Physicality simply wasn't a language either of them felt comfortable communicating in daily. Not like Dick, or Stephanie, or even Jason, who would hug, clasp hands, or simply touch at the slightest given opportunity. It wasn't a connection they craved—words and idea trading was more their stock.

But Bruce didn't have any words right now. Simply the sheer relief of holding his kid alive and in one piece.

Tim's slim body shuddered and twitched. He pressed his face into Bruce's chest, clutched at his waist, and exhaled in a long, steady gust of exhaustion. Thin shoulders slumped as his body cast off the tension and adrenaline he'd no doubt been carting around since leaving Gotham.

Together, they leaned against the car in silence for a long time. When Bruce felt like letting go, the sun had begun to set over the Pacific water.

Then, as abruptly as the hug had begun, Tim stepped back and scrubbed at his face. "I lost my sunglasses in San Francisco," he said as if the last ten minutes hadn't happened. "The glare is killing me."

"You can use mine," Bruce offered, finding steadiness in providing.

"Thanks. I want a burger."

"Alright."

"And a milkshake."

"That's doable."

"With about this much this much bourbon in it," Tim went on, holding his thumb and index finger as wide apart as they'd stretch.

"How about a single shot?" Bruce compromised.

"Fine. And I want to talk about the Teen Titans."

Bruce didn't have it in him to be surprised. Tim always knew what he wanted in the end. It really had been just a matter of time. "Alright. We can do that, too."

At least it wasn't sandworms this time.

John groaned and sat up. The cliff he had been thrown into by the giant, sentient cell phone tower crumbled around him. The hole he'd made upon impact was pretty damn impressive if he said so himself. He pushed dust and rubble off his face when a shadow fell over him.

"Don't say it," he growled as Batman's looming presence set itself on the ledge beside him, grappling hook in hand. There was a beat of silence.

Then, a black glove reached out to help him up. "You got a good shot in," Batman gruffly praised. John blinked and took the offered hand, too surprised and delighted to question it.

When John was on his feet, Batman dropped his hand and disappeared down the gorge towards the ongoing fight, with zipline buzzing. That was the most comradery they had ever expressed towards one another.

He considered asking about Jason. He had some investment in the kid, after all. Disaster zones forged steel-strong binds. But he discarded the idea the next moment.

They weren't there yet.

Despite that, John felt lighter, more at ease with the surly shadowman. He could see the man better now. All the abrasive, obsessive precautions and monitoring he did wasn't because he didn't trust them. He was used to looking after a family, not a teammate. John sometimes had the same problem regarding the younger members of the Green Lantern Corp. It was a challenge to see them as capable when he’d also witnessed how badly they misstepped in their early years.

He was markedly more tolerant of the behavior now that he understood it. Shaking out his limbs and sending rock dust everywhere, John took to the air and rejoined the fight with his teammates.