Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian slept curled in the crook of Dick’s arm, face pressed so close to Dick’s side that their breath fogged the same spot on the blanket. Even at rest, the kid was coiled tight, knees to chest, hands balled up under his chin, as if the whole night was just a pause between battles. When Dick woke, he didn’t move for a long time. He lay there, cataloguing the size of Damian’s body—small but solid, every limb heavier than it looked—and the way his own arm curled instinctively around the kid, palm open and steady against the flutter of his heart. The room was cold, but under the covers it was all heat: the sleep-warmth of bodies, the thrum of city pipes in the wall, the constant low roar of winter wind against old glass.

It was almost nice. Or would have been, if the house above hadn’t been filled with ghosts.

They got up together, Damian extricating himself with surgical care, stretching his toes against the floorboards before pulling on the sweatshirt he’d abandoned the night before. His hair stuck out in all directions. His eyes were still rimmed with the red of old tears, but his face was set, deliberate, like he’d spent the last hour armouring himself for another day. He didn’t speak until they were both in the hallway.

“Do you think he’ll be at breakfast?” Damian asked, voice as soft as the carpet underfoot.

Dick shrugged, but he already knew the answer.

“Probably. But we don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want.”

Damian made a face.

“If I don’t talk, he’ll make it about obedience. If I do, it’s a test.” He shrugged, as if the algebra of Bruce was one of those problems with no right answer, only less-wrong ones.

They took the stairs together, Damian a step ahead, Dick matching his pace without thinking. The kitchen was already alive: Alfred moving at the stove, the clatter of forks and plates, the gleam of silver laid out with the kind of precision you could measure in microns. Tim sat at the table, half-hidden behind a copy of the Gazette, eyes flicking up at their entrance before dropping back to the page.

“Good morning, Master Damian. Master Richard,” Alfred said, not missing a beat as he plated a pair of omelettes and slid them onto the table. “Juice today, or tea?”

“Tea, please,” Damian answered, voice clipped but careful.

Alfred nodded, then poured from a blue-and-white pot, the steam rising in twin curls. Dick watched the ritual, the way Alfred made breakfast feel like the only part of the day that still obeyed the old laws.

They’d barely started eating when Bruce entered. He wore the morning the way he wore the suit: like a shield. He was dressed down in black, hair still wet from a run, but he looked more alert than anyone had a right to at this hour. He stopped in the threshold, scanning the room—Dick, then Damian, then Tim, then the small details Alfred had left perfectly imperfect on the counter top. He took a seat at the far end of the table, folded his hands, and waited. There was something almost theatrical in the way he let the silence fill the space.

Dick set his fork down, wiped his mouth, and looked Bruce in the eye.

“Good morning, Bruce,” he said, letting every syllable slide over glass.

Bruce’s face didn’t shift.

“Morning,” he replied, voice a hair softer than expected.

Tim, still behind the paper, snorted just loud enough to be plausible as a cough. Damian ate in silence, gaze fixed on the grain of the table, hands trembling just a fraction with every movement of the fork. Alfred moved through the kitchen, topping up mugs, slicing a grapefruit into perfect quarters, doing all the small things that, in this house, counted as love.

Bruce cleared his throat.

“I reviewed the patrol logs. East End looks clear, but the Narrows are still hot. Tim, I’ll want your analysis on the traffic uptick. Damian, if you’re up for it, we can run drills in the cave after breakfast.”

Dick stiffened.

“He has school in an hour. He’s not skipping for drills.”

Bruce nodded, but there was a glint behind the eyes—like a calculation running in the background, always looking for the next opening.

“It can wait,” Bruce said. “After school, then.”

Damian didn’t answer. He just stabbed a piece of omelette and chewed, jaw set like he was eating gravel.

Steph burst into the room without knocking, hair wild, purple hoodie a flare against the greyness of the kitchen. She made a show of sniffing the air.

“Is this… actual food? Did someone bribe Alfred, or is this a hostage situation?”

“Breakfast,” Alfred said, deadpan. “Would you like some, Miss Stephanie?”

“Hell yes,” Steph replied, sliding into the chair beside Tim and kicking his shin under the table for good measure. She looked around, took in the temperature of the room in a single breath, and grinned at Dick. “So. Did anyone sleep? Or is this just a contest to see who can look the most like a raccoon?”

Tim grunted.

“I’m winning.”

Damian didn’t look up.

“You’re only ahead because you never shower.”

Tim snorted, but the edge was gone—he was playing along, buying Damian a buffer against the gravity of Bruce’s presence. Dick relaxed, just a fraction. He watched Steph load her plate, watched Tim flick orange juice at her when she wasn’t looking, watched Alfred refill the scones with a tray that, miraculously, appeared just as the basket ran low.

Bruce tried again, though.

“Damian. I’d like to talk to you. Alone, if possible.”

Dick put a hand on Damian’s shoulder, not hard but clear enough to make the point.

“If it’s important, you can say it here.”

Bruce glanced at Alfred, who was drying a mug with surgical precision. Then, quietly:

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For yesterday. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Damian didn’t speak, but the tremor in his jaw faded. He kept his eyes on the plate. 

Steph, never one for long silences, jumped in:

“Anyone see the forecast? I’m betting five bucks on more snow before lunch. Freeze is busy again.” She shot a look at Dick, as if to say: see, this is how you do it. “Also, patrol schedules are a nightmare. Can we get those sorted before someone falls off a roof?”

Bruce turned to her, as if grateful for the out.

“I’ll send you the updated routes. But you and Tim are paired tonight, so coordinate with him.”

Steph saluted with a scone, sending a cloud of crumbs onto Tim’s plate.

“Copy that, chief.”

Tim, voice lower:

“Don’t call him chief. He hates it.”

“Yeah,” Steph said, but she winked at Dick. “That’s the point.”

Alfred set a fresh mug in front of Bruce, hand lingering a moment longer than usual.

“Sir,” he said, “perhaps today is a good day for reflection. The city will wait. Family matters should come first.”

Bruce looked up at Alfred, then at the table, and for the first time since entering the room, he seemed smaller. Human, almost.

“Thank you, Alfred,” he said, and even though it was nearly inaudible, everyone heard it.

The kitchen settled into a kind of uneasy truce. The old rituals—coffee, newspaper, the slow orbit of plates and conversation—pulled everyone along, even if no one quite relaxed. Damian finished his food and set the fork down, hands folded neatly in his lap.

“May I be excused?” he asked, voice just above a whisper.

Dick nodded.

“I’ll walk you to the car.”

They left together, moving in sync, two shadows peeled from the same line. In the kitchen, Tim finally lowered his paper.

“You think they’ll be okay?” he asked, voice pitched only for Steph and Alfred.

Steph shrugged, mouth full of scone.

“They have to be. It’s Gotham.”

He sighed.

“Are we?”

At that, the blonde stopped chewing. Swallowed slowly. Sighed as well.

“I'm not sure, Timmy. You and Cass… I get why Jason left. Hell, I even understand why you two refused to be lead by Dick. But me? Why did you cut out me too?”

He blinked, and she didn't let him reply. Steph got up, and left for the Batcave. Alfred just smiled, sad and secret. Encouraging.

“In this house, sir, even the smallest cracks can be mended. With time. And a little patience.”

He cleared the table, the sound of cups and silverware the only proof the world still spun as it always had. Tim stared after him, and leaned back defeatedly.

Down the hall, Dick waited as Damian zipped his backpack, shoulders squared for a day that would be harder than any drill in the cave. He put a hand on Damian’s head, gentle, and said, “If you want, I’ll pick you up after school.”

Damian looked up, and for the first time all morning, he smiled—a real one, small and sharp, but real.

“I’d like that, Baba.”

They stepped out into the chill, the day not yet begun but already brighter than what they’d left behind.

The Batcave came alive before anyone reached the bottom step. Sirens in the old limestone started as a low howl, then arced up into a chorus that made the walls vibrate. At the main terminal, screens cycled from blue to red, security overlays stacking in real time. Alfred’s voice cut through the alarms:

“Master Bruce. Citywide emergency. You are needed downstairs immediately.”

Dick and Damian hit the elevator together. Tim was already on the platform, head down, shoes untied and hair still wet from his morning shower, but he moved like someone who’d been waiting for this call all his life. The rest of the household followed in short order—Steph, still chewing an apple she had grabbed as a snack, skipped the first four rungs of the ladder and landed in a practiced crouch. Bruce appeared last, his steps the only ones you could hear above the noise. He didn’t run, but the shape of his body said urgency in a language everyone understood.

At the foot of the stairs, Bruce’s voice was already Batman’s.

“Report.”

Alfred, unflappable even with a klaxon two feet from his ear, pressed a comm to his mouth.

“There’s been a breakout at Arkham. Multiple confirmed: Joker, Scarecrow, Dent, Zsasz, Harley—possibly others. GCPD requests immediate containment support. The city is escalating to Code Black.”

Bruce spun to the console, hands flying over the keys. The screens split into quadrants, each one a window into hell: burning squad cars, masked figures in clown white, riot gas clouding the alleys. In the top-right window, Joker grinned into a handheld camera and waved a canister labelled “Smile, Baby!”

“Of course he’s streaming it,” Tim muttered. “Why wouldn’t he.”

Bruce didn’t break stride.

“Tim, get every open comm channel on lock down. Steph, coordinate with GCPD’s digital forensics and get a trace on Joker’s uplink. I've called in Cassandra and Jason. Dick—”

Dick, who had been half a step behind Bruce, straightened to full height and crossed his arms.

“I’ll run my own team. We’ll take the Narrows and the Red Line tunnels.”

Bruce’s mouth snapped shut, then opened again—about to object, or maybe to bite through the objection.

“That’s not protocol,” he said, every word pressed flat as a pressed penny.

“It is now,” Dick replied. He didn’t raise his voice, but every syllable was pure steel. “We cover more ground this way. You know it, and I know it.”

He looked over at Damian, eyes barely flicking there. Bruce's jaw stiffened, and he nodded, slightly. Tim, stuck between them, edged closer to the console. He threw a quick glance towards his older brother, who ignored it. Didn't even send him his usual smiles. With a sigh, he still said is piece.

“He’s right, Batman. They’re moving in packs, not solos. If we split, we can head off the copycats.” 

Bruce glared at the screens, then at Dick, then at Tim. The old chain of command buckled, but didn’t quite break.

“Fine,” Bruce said. “But you run point on your own sector. No freelancing.”

Dick gave a lazy two-fingered salute, the kind that bordered on disrespect but stopped just short.

“Copy that, chief.”

Steph, already in the gear-up bay, giggled at the nickname, then called back, “I want west side! If there’s a fire, I want the hydrant teams.”

Tim grinned, despite everything.

“I’ll take the grid. Call me when you’re about to get blown up. Otherwise, B, send Cass my way when she shows up.”

Alfred, who had been quietly pinging the family network, looked up from his tablet.

“We’ve managed to reach Master Jason. He says he’ll cover the harbour. I’ve also contacted Miss Cassandra; she’s already en route from the south bridge, and will regroup with Master Timothy.”

Bruce nodded.

“Deploy them. Full masks, anti-gas, and patch them in to our comms.”

In the chaos, Damian edged closer to Dick, shoulder brushing against his arm. He watched the flow of orders and the flicker of screens, eyes darting to every point of weakness. He didn’t say a word, but the way he stood made his allegiance unmistakable. Bruce, catching this, turned.

“Damian, you’ll be with me.”

Dick opened his mouth to protest, but he didn't have to.

“No,” Damian said, before Dick could.

Just that—no, flat and unshakable.

Bruce’s jaw flexed, but he managed, “Then with Dick. No matter, suit up. We need you in the field.”

Damian didn’t move.

“I’m not Robin anymore,” he said, voice clear enough to cut glass. “Not for you. And since you remain as Batman, I will not go out in Robin gear.”

Steph looked over her shoulder, a glint of respect in her eyes. Tim closed his laptop with a snap, as if to underline the statement. He may not really get everything that happened, but even he saw that Bruce’s way of demanding a change — or to get everything back to before — wasn't getting them anywhere except further away from Dick and Damian. And Steph, probably. Dick put a hand on Damian’s shoulder—not as a shield, but as an anchor.

“He’s with me,” Dick said. “We’ll go as Nightwing and—” he hesitated, just long enough for the kid to fill in the blank.

“D,” Damian said, like it was already settled. “Call sign D. For now. I’ll think of something.”

Bruce’s eyes were unreadable behind the cowl, but everything about his body said no. He looked at Dick, then at Damian, then back. He wanted to argue, to order, but there was no angle left. The decision had already been made in the space between father and son.

“Fine,” Bruce said, voice reduced to gravel. “But you keep him safe, Dick. Or I’ll bury you both.”

Dick grinned, a feral flash.

“Noted.”

Alfred, never missing a cue, glided forward with the cowl and gloves.

“Might I suggest the armoured undershirt for Master Damian, and the reinforced utility belt?” His gaze flickered to Bruce, then back to Dick. “And perhaps a blue-on-black hoodie, if one is available.”

Dick laughed, tension draining out.

“He’s already got one. Borrowed it yesterday.”

Damian smirked, just barely, and took the cowl and gloves from Alfred.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll get ready.”

Steph and Tim were already at the weapons lockers, checking out nonlethal rounds and snare lines. Steph pulled a spare set of riot pads from the shelf and tossed them to Damian.

“You’ll need these. There’s a lot of shrapnel when Joker’s in play.”

Tim opened his mouth again, but she just walked off.

“Later, Tim. Not now.”

Damian caught them one-handed, not bothering to thank her, but Dick could see the set of his shoulders relax. Bruce, meanwhile, was already halfway up the Batmobile platform, voice crackling in every headset:

“Team assignments: Red Robin, you’re with me. Spoiler, you’re with Batgirl and Red Hood. Nightwing’s team gets the Narrows, but I want hourly check-ins. If you see a breakout, you isolate and contain. If not, you fallback and regroup. This isn’t about heroics. It’s about keeping the city alive until sunrise.”

Tim punched the comm.

“Understood. On your lead.”

Steph spun her three-piece bo staff, shrugged into her jacket, and grinned at the others, her jaw tense.

“Fine. Let’s go ruin a clown’s day.”

The room broke into its separate orbits, every member snapping into their place like a piece of old machinery finally allowed to run at full speed.

In the armoury, the routine was as old as the Cave: select, adjust, seal, test. But today, every click of a fastener or hiss of Velcro sounded different—louder, closer to the bone. Damian stood in front of the lockers, hands sunk deep in the pockets of his regular cargo pants, the usual Robin suit draped limp over the back of a bench. He stared at it for a long time, as if expecting it to animate and slither back onto his skin. It didn’t. Instead, Dick nudged the suit aside and handed Damian a folded bundle: armoured undershirt, black tactical cargos, and the softest blue hoodie this side of civilian life.

Damian unfolded the shirt, running a thumb over the mesh.

“You sure this is bulletproof?”

“Only to small arms,” Dick said, with a grin. “But it has extra ceramic plates for the chest and spine. You’ll be faster than anything they can throw at you.”

Damian shrugged off his old T-shirt and pulled on the new kit. The fabric was snug, but not restrictive. He rolled his shoulders, tested the range. Satisfied, he slipped the hoodie on, flexing the sleeves.

“It matches you,” he said, half-mocking, but with something like pride underneath. "I took it because it calmed me down, but... It also matches."

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” Dick replied, kneeling to help lace the boots. “Try not to outgrow me.”

He cinched the boots tight, then grabbed the utility belt from the hook—Robin’s, but stripped of the logo, a single blue line painted across the buckle. He held it out.

“You’ll need this. Gas grenades, tranqs, smoke pellets. I added extra cuffs for this run.”

Damian took it, clipped it on, and nodded.

“Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”

Dick laughed.

“Just get us home in one piece. That’s payment enough.”

From across the armoury, Bruce watched. He stood beside his own locker, cowl already up, gloved hands folded in front of him. The new suit—grey and black with a flex-gorget and no bright yellow anywhere—made him look less like a man and more like a shadow that decided to walk. His jaw worked, but whatever he wanted to say stayed locked behind the mask. Tim sauntered over, suited up as Red Robin: matte black with red accents, a staff collapsed at his hip.

“Hey, B,” Tim said, pitching his voice casual. “You ready to ride together?”

Bruce didn’t look away from Damian, but answered, “I’ll follow your lead on comms. We keep contact at all times.”

“Copy,” Tim said, and clapped Bruce on the back, drawing a surprised grunt. Tim shot Dick a wink. “See you on the roof, D. Don’t let the blue get you shot.”

“I could outpace you on a bad day,” Damian said, but his lips twitched.

“Gear looks good on you, kid,” Steph said. “Don’t let the old man bust your chops.”

Damian bumped the offered fist, not smiling but not pulling away, either.

“I’ll stay out of your way. Try not to maim anyone.”

Steph grinned.

“No promises. But you get points for style.”

Cass entered without a word, already in her Orphan blacks. While she was supposed to close in outside, she had decided to stop by anyways. She checked her gloves, then glanced at Steph, who was halfway through strapping on her own purple-and-black Spoiler kit. Steph caught the look, flashed a small smile, and said, “We’re covering the docks, right?”

Cass nodded, and together they started double-checking the gear bags. In all the chaos, their silence was a kind of glue—Cass’s calm a counterweight to Steph’s nervous chatter.

Dick pulled the hood up on Damian’s new jacket. It fit perfectly, the blue line down the spine just bright enough to mark him as Nightwing’s.

“You look good,” Dick said. “Intimidating, even.”

“I’m not scared,” Damian replied, but Dick felt him shake, just once, in the time it took to adjust the drawstring.

“You don’t have to be,” Dick said. “Just stay close.”

They moved to the hangar, where the bikes and cars waited, polished and predatory. Damian ran a quick systems check on his comms.

“Audio check: one, two, three. Nightwing, you read?”

“Loud and clear,” Dick said, sliding on his own mask. “D, you’re primary on my channel. If you lose signal, fall back to the cave. No improvisation.”

Damian smirked.

“You do nothing but improvise.”

“Yeah, but I’m better at it,” Dick said.

Bruce stalked past them, cape flicking at their knees. He paused a moment, then turned to face Damian head-on. For a heartbeat, the old gravity returned—the expectation that a single look could flatten a room. But Damian didn’t wilt. Instead, he straightened and zipped the hoodie, standing shoulder to shoulder with Dick. Blue and black, side by side. Bruce’s mouth pressed thin.

“You’re making a statement.”

“Not everything is about you,” Damian replied.

Dick stifled a grin.

“Let’s get to work.”

The teams split—Batman and Red Robin to the Batmobile, Orphan and Spoiler on the Batcycle, Red Hood would join with his own ride. Nightwing and D took the custom bikes, lighter and faster than anything on the street.

In the moment before the teams deployed, Damian tugged the edge of his mask and looked up at Dick. His helmet was still in his lap, hands fidgetting.

“You trust me?” he asked, quiet.

“With my life,” Dick said, and meant it.

Damian nodded.

“Let’s go, then.” 

Damian gunned the engine, Dick revved his own bike and shot down the tunnel, Damian a streak of blue and black right at his side. They vanished up the access ramp, two shadows moving perfectly in step, ready to face whatever waited in the streets above. Back at the main console, Bruce stared at their retreating forms, the echo of their footsteps fading into the stone.

“They’ll be alright, sir,” Alfred said, voice a soft certainty.

Bruce didn’t answer. But when he turned to the city map on his dashboard, his hands didn’t shake at all. Above ground, Gotham burned. But in the Cave, the old war was paused, if only for the length of a single night.

As they pulled out, Dick glanced in the mirror. He saw Bruce watching them, not angry or even disappointed, but searching. Like he was trying to find a reflection that made sense.

In the Batmobile, top still open, the old mask watched them go, and understood, for the first time, that the old rules were over.

It was a new team. And it belonged to them.

Gotham had always known how to break itself, but tonight it did so with a kind of deranged exuberance. The East End was a war zone: glass on the sidewalks, every fire escape crowded with people clawing for the high ground, and a chemical haze that shimmered green and gold over the floodlights. From the top of the rail trestle, Nightwing and D watched the chaos unfold, helmets up and visors polarised against the streetlights.

Dick flicked two fingers—west alley, quick and low. Damian nodded, dropped to a crouch, and slid down the maintenance ladder like he was born for it. Dick followed, flipping over the edge and landing with barely a sound.

Below, a half dozen masked bodies prowled the block: Scarecrow’s typical recruits, faces stretched by cheap plastic and eyes wild behind the mesh. They worked in pairs, corralling the crowd toward the mouth of the alley, forcing them through a choke point layered with canisters. Each burst released a fresh geyser of orange gas, rolling in sheets over the curb.

“Crowd control first,” Dick whispered, comm open.

“Copy,” Damian said, already inching forward.

They moved as one—Dick scaling the fire escape, moving horizontal, Damian darting shadow to shadow at street level. The henchmen barely had time to register the strike: Dick dropped two with a cross-line swing of his escrima sticks, the impact thudding through armour and into bone. On the street, Damian shoulder-checked one in the knee, sent him sprawling, then rolled over his back and yanked a second down by the collar. Dick landed beside him, neutralising another with a choke wire.

“Count?”

“Two left,” Damian said, scanning the street.

Dick pointed: the last two had peeled off, racing for a side door.

“Flank.”

Damian sprinted, boot soles kicking up chemical dust. He slid under a half-lowered security gate, straight into the lead henchman’s legs. The man went down, and Damian took his weapon—a short baton—then planted a boot square in the man’s ribs. The other goon got a punch off, but Damian caught it, twisted, and countered with the baton. He worked the guy down with clean, precise movements—no wasted energy, every blow a lesson in anatomy. Dick arrived at the curb, took in the tableau, and nodded approval.

“Nice work.”

Damian wiped his mouth on his sleeve, eyes watering behind the mask.

“Not even winded,” he said, but he swayed just enough for Dick to catch the lie.

Dick tossed him a canister.

“Antidote. Spritz, don’t chug.”

Damian inhaled, shuddered, then steadied.

“Ready.”

They cleared the rest of the alley, then double-timed it to the next checkpoint. Dick paused at the wall, tapped a sequence on his comm.

“Nightwing to Bats. East End perimeter neutralised. Requesting crowd support at Ave D and Market.”

Bruce’s voice came back, all grit.

“Red Robin en route. Expect resistance. Joker’s in the old post office, but he’s moving.”

Dick clicked back.

“Understood. We’ll hold here.”

Damian tucked into the wall, fingers splayed.

“If Joker’s moving, it’s a decoy. He wants you to chase.”

Dick smiled.

“You think I’d fall for that?”

“Wouldn't be the first,” Damian said, deadpan.

They waited, breath fogging in the cold, as a squad car careened up the avenue. Cops in riot gear spilled out, eyes red and blinking against the gas, but still moving with intent. 

Dick flagged them down, weapons holstered, and gave a ten-second debrief.

“Scarecrow’s people are scattered, but he’s still active. Avoid side streets until we clear the chemical agents. The crowd should move north, toward the hospital.”

The lead cop, a woman with a cracked visor and three stripes on her arm, nodded.

"Got it. We’ll set a barricade at Avenue D. Thank you, Nightwing.”

“Good luck,” Dick said, and the woman barked at her people to move, no hesitation, just the muscle memory of Gotham’s finest at their best.

They fell back to the rooftops, moving along the ridge until they hit the warehouse cluster at the edge of the river. Damian popped the lock on the hatch and went in first, keeping low. Inside, it was chaos squared: pallets knocked over, the air thick with fear gas and the sharp bite of ammonia. Scarecrow’s signature. 

They worked the perimeter, silent. Damian took the lead, signalling with two fingers for every new corner, every shift in the soundscape. In the centre of the warehouse, a cluster of henchmen huddled around a portable sprayer, canisters lined up like a macabre punch bowl. Dick made a quick gesture—wait, then hit from above. Damian grinned, and in that second, Dick felt the old thrill of running rooftops, of being part of something that fit.

They waited for the right moment—three seconds, four, five—then Dick dropped, using the overhead pipes for leverage. He knocked out the sprayer with a baton toss, then dropped into the thick of the crowd, fists and sticks moving in blur. Damian joined in, working the fringes, disabling three in quick succession. When a fourth lunged, Damian countered, locked his wrist, and bent the man backward over a crate. The fight went hot for a minute, then sputtered out. Dick cuffed the last conscious goon and keyed the comm.

“Warehouse clear. Moving to next grid.”

Scarecrow’s voice, piped through the PA system, filled the warehouse with static.

“You never learn, do you, Nightwing? All that muscle, no mind. I thought you’d know better by now.”

Dick laughed.

“We adapt, Crane. That’s the difference between us.”

He scanned the rafters, eyes sharp.

“He’s not here. This is all a show.”

Damian picked through the crates, found a handheld sprayer, and popped it open.

“He’s using a new dispersal method. The gas is—” he sniffed, carefully—“weaker, but it sticks to the skin. It’ll keep the crowd scared for hours.”

Dick relayed the info up the chain.

“Red Robin, Scarecrow’s gas is surface-active. Advise GCPD to keep masks on even after the zone is cleared.”

Tim’s voice:

“Copy. We’ll update.”

Damian loaded the sample canister into a case.

“Should we track him?”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “But we keep it tight. You okay for another round?”

Damian rolled his eyes.

“Obviously.”

They traced the chemical residue to the old subway tunnels. Down there, every echo was a threat. Dick took the lead, Damian right at his hip. Halfway through the second tunnel, Scarecrow sprang the trap: a tripwire, a deluge of gas, a battery of masked thugs charging through the smoke. Dick and Damian went back to back, Damian’s baton flicking in tight arcs, Dick’s sticks sweeping wider. They barely spoke—every move anticipated, every counter answered in the split second before it mattered. At the height of the melee, Scarecrow himself appeared, perched on a subway car like a vulture. He aimed a gun, not at Dick, but at Damian—classic leverage. 

Dick yelled, “Down!” and Damian dropped, flat to the rails.

Scarecrow’s shot whined overhead, splattering gas across the wall, but Dick had already moved, swinging up to the car roof and catching Crane’s wrist before he could fire again. They tumbled together, Dick getting the worst of it—breathing mask ripped off, a shoulder slammed into the car frame, a boot to the kidney—but he muscled through, twisted Scarecrow’s arm up, and wrenched the weapon away.

“Nice trick,” Dick said, voice raw from breathing in the gas.

Scarecrow hissed, tried to knee him in the gut, but Dick countered, using the man’s own momentum to send him crashing to the floor.

Damian was there in an instant, cuffs ready. 7

“You do never learn, Crane,” he said, echoing Dick’s words.

Scarecrow snarled, but it was over. Dick collapsed to a knee, breathing hard. Damian helped him up, grip steady.

“You hurt?” Damian asked, searching his face.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Dick said, and clapped him on the back.

"Antidote?"

"I've had worse exposure, I'm fine for now."

Their comm crackled. Tim:

“Batmobile reports Joker on the run, eastbound toward the river. Cass and Jason need backup near the power plant—Two-Face has hostages.”

Dick looked at Damian.

“Your call. Help the others, or chase the Joker?”

Damian grinned, teeth flashing white.

“Both.”

They ran for the exit, laughter echoing off the walls. In the darkness, the blue and black of their suits cut through the haze like a promise. The city could burn itself down a hundred times, but together, they would always find the way back.

The warehouse wasn’t on any map, not anymore. It was a lattice of rust and broken glass, huddled at the edge of the river where the city liked to hide its worst memories. By the time Dick and Damian arrived, the air was already thick with Scarecrow’s new toxin, orange vapour backlit by swinging work lights, every shadow crawling and twitching with the suggestion of things that shouldn’t exist. Dick slipped his mask down tighter, thumbed the filter to maximum.

 “Stay on my six. If you get dizzy, call it out.”

Damian grunted, “Copy,” but his steps sounded lighter than usual.

They moved fast, dodging the exposed rebar, up and over a heap of splintered pallets. The place was a maze, every corridor lined with stacked crates and old shipping containers. Dick caught the movement first—two, maybe three shapes in gas masks, holding down a perimeter at the far end of the loading floor. He signalled a stop, then pointed.

“Go wide, take the catwalk. I’ll draw them down.”

Damian hesitated.

“You’re exposed on the floor.”

Dick winked.

“I’m not as easy to hit as I look.”

He burst out, drew the first volley of rubber slugs, then veered behind a concrete pillar. The goons followed, closing fast, and Dick used their momentum, sweeping the legs out from under one, dropping an elbow into the second’s solar plexus. The third hung back, more cautious. From above, Damian dropped in, using the catwalk railing as a pivot. He caught the cautious one from behind, driving him face-first into a support beam, then cuffed him with zip ties before he could even reach for a weapon.

“Nice,” Dick called up. “Textbook.”

Damian grinned—then the floor shuddered, and the world turned upside-down. A trapdoor opened beneath Dick, dumping him into the under-level, a tangle of metal and old conveyor belts. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but he landed mostly okay—right up until the next wave of toxin rolled in, twice as strong as the stuff in the tunnels. And he still hadn't antidoted against that dose.

The world went off-axis. The edges of everything pulsed and doubled, shadows trailing behind even the smallest movement. Dick blinked, tried to reset his vision, but the colours bled, neon blue and nuclear yellow. He staggered upright, only to see three Scarecrows, each holding a different kind of weapon: syringe, pistol, scythe. He aimed for the one in the centre, but when he lunged, the others closed in. Dick ducked a sweep of the scythe, countered with a baton strike, but the hallucinations made it impossible to keep them straight. The voice came from everywhere.

“Do you see them, Nightwing? Do you see what you’ve become?”

Dick ignored it, focused on the real threats, but the more he fought, the less sure he was of where he was, or even who he was fighting. The syringe jabbed at his arm—he caught it, twisted, but then a bullet ripped through the side of his suit. The pain was hot, bright, almost electrical. He stumbled, clutching his ribs, as blood soaked through the blue lines.

Up above, Damian watched through the catwalk’s grated floor. He saw Dick drop, saw the blood, and for a second, his hands went cold.

“Baba!” he whispered, comms still picking it up, voice cracking, losing his cool for a second. "Nightwing, status!", he called, louder.

Dick looked up, blinking.

“I’m—” He tried to say “fine,” but the word dissolved in his mouth.

A fresh wave of goons poured in from the loading dock, their eyes wild even through the gas masks. Damian did the maths: six, plus Crane, and Dick was hurt. No backup yet. He had seconds. He ducked back, yanked a handful of smoke pellets from his belt, and rolled them down the stairs. They popped in sequence, filling the lower level with dense, grey fog. The henchmen hesitated—just long enough for Damian to drop down, three-point landing, and scramble to Dick’s side.

Dick was kneeling, still fighting to stay upright.

“Little busy here, D,” he muttered.

Damian slid an antidote injector into Dick’s thigh, then fished out a bandage and pressed it to the bullet wound.

“Pressure. Hold this.”

Dick complied, wincing.

“You’re in charge.”

“Obviously,” Damian said, scanning the perimeter.

He spotted Scarecrow, moving in slow arcs around the fight, using the chaos to stay clear. The henchmen pressed in, more aggressive now, less careful about friendly fire. Damian counted again: six enemies, one of him, one Baba with limited function. He grinned, feral and mean.

D grabbed Dick’s escrima sticks, flicked the ends open, and charged. He was shorter, lighter, but every move was calibrated—never waste energy, never telegraph a hit. The first goon went down with a crack to the kneecap; the second tried to grapple, but Damian ducked, reversed, and slammed a stick into the man’s jaw. The third got a hand around his throat, but Damian headbutted him, then jabbed up under the ribs until the air left the man in a groan. 

“Three down,” Dick gasped, keeping count. 

At least his vision was clearing again, the toxins slowly getting less. Damian used the bodies as cover, weaving through them, pulling one in front as a shield as Scarecrow fired off a round of darts. The darts stuck in the goon’s back, and he dropped, twitching. The last two hesitated, maybe spooked by the speed, maybe by the way Damian never stopped moving. He taunted them, left an opening, and when the first rushed in, he feinted, tripped him, and smashed the man’s wrist with a stick. The second tried to run, but Damian caught him, slammed him against a crate, and cuffed him hard enough to bruise.

The room spun with gas and noise, but it was suddenly very, very quiet.

Scarecrow, realising the tide had turned, started to back up, but Damian tossed a pellet at his feet, sending Crane into a coughing fit. Damian closed the distance, caught Scarecrow by the arm, and used a wrist-lock to drive him to his knees. He lost his own gas mask in the process.

“Your games are boring,” Damian spat, voice low. “You only ever pick on people smaller than you.”

Crane tried to claw free, but Damian held him, even as the fear toxin pooled in his own lungs and started to work. For a second, everything looked wrong—colours sliding, shadows crawling up the walls, Dick lying dead and bloody on the floor. Damian blinked, hard, then slammed Crane’s head against the cement.

“No more nightmares,” he growled, and cuffed Crane with trembling hands.

He crawled over to Dick, who was still pressing the bandage to his side, breathing shallow.

“Hey,” Dick said, voice soft. “You good?”

Damian shook, but nodded.

“I’m fine. Just—” He looked away, then back. “You’re bleeding a lot.”

Dick smiled, even with the pain.

“You did great.”

Damian pressed harder on the wound, maybe a little rougher than necessary.

“I told you to stay down.”

Dick laughed, and the sound was almost normal.

“Didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not helpless,” Damian said, a waver in his voice.

“I know,” Dick said. He rested his hand on Damian’s, grounding both of them. “But you're still my kid. You saved my life, D.”

Damian flushed, looked down at their hands, then at the chaos he’d left in his wake—six men out cold, Scarecrow drooling on the cement, the whole place a monument to what he could do when he had to.

“I could have killed them,” he whispered, not sure if it was fear or pride.

“But you didn’t,” Dick said. “You had a choice. You made the right one.”

Damian exhaled, shaky.

“We should leave. Before the toxin comes back.”

Dick nodded, and together, they limped for the exit, the orange haze swirling around their legs. At the door, Damian glanced back. He saw, not hallucinations, but the real damage—the line of unconscious men, the battered bodies, the blood. For once, it didn’t scare him. Not exactly.

Outside, the wind cut through the haze, and the city sounded almost normal: sirens, car alarms, the distant rumble of trains. Damian steadied Dick with one arm, walking him toward the distant blue of a cop’s floodlight.

“Hang on,” Dick said, leaning on Damian. “We’re almost clear.”

Damian gritted his teeth.

“I’ll get us out.”

He would. Because tonight, for the first time, Damian wasn’t just surviving. He was saving someone else.

And it mattered more than anything in the world.

They didn’t make it two blocks before the world found them. The city’s edge was burning, all the old orange sodium lamps replaced by police strobes and the epileptic flicker of news drones. Damian half-dragged, half-carried Dick along the riverside walk, both of them leaving a thread of blood that glowed black in the streetlights. 

Dick was fading—he held the bandage tight, but every breath sawed through his ribs. Still, he tried to joke, tried to lighten the load.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he said, voice slurred. “Have you been working out?”

Damian huffed, steady but raw.

“If you make a joke, I’ll drop you. Right here.”

“Better men have tried,” Dick said, but then the next step sent a red wave across his vision and he nearly toppled.

At the water’s edge, a shadow dropped from the sky—Batman, flanked by Red Robin, both landing with the kind of precision that made even Damian’s spine straighten. Bruce’s voice was barely human.

“What happened?”

Damian shifted his body between Bruce and Dick, setting his stance.

“He’s shot. Scarecrow’s down. Six others. They’re in the warehouse.”

Tim stepped in, scanning Dick’s wound.

“Through-and-through?”

Damian nodded.

“No arterial. I packed it. He needs a hospital though, or at least a stitch kit.”

Bruce looked at Dick, then at Damian, then back.

“You did this alone?”

Damian bristled.

“I did my job. He was supposed to back me up, not get shot.”

Dick coughed, a little blood in it.

“Takes after you, old man.”

Tim popped the latch on his med kit.

“Let’s stabilise him here, then move.”

Damian took the kit, hands steady, and started working on Dick’s side. He didn’t look at Bruce, not once. Bruce hovered, unsure, as if waiting for a chance to fix things by just being there. Tim saw the tension and gave Bruce a look—wait, don’t. He knelt beside Damian and started prepping the suture.

“You want me to do it?”

Damian shook his head.

“He trusts me. I’ll do it.”

Tim nodded, and together they patched Dick up, field-style. Damian’s hands didn’t shake, even when Dick bit back a scream as the needle went through. When it was done, Dick slumped into the ground, drained. Damian pressed his hand over the bandage, not letting go.

Bruce finally stepped closer, voice lower.

“You did well, Damian. Both of you.”

Damian glared.

“Don’t say that like it fixes anything.”

“It doesn’t,” Bruce said. “But it’s the truth.”

Dick looked up, bleary but smiling.

“He was perfect, Bruce. I couldn’t have done it without him.”

Something flickered behind the cowl. Maybe pride. Maybe regret. Tim closed the kit, then looked at Damian.

“Want help getting him to the car?”

Damian hesitated, then nodded. Together, they levered Dick up and started walking. At the Batmobile, Bruce opened the back and set up the gurney. Damian didn’t let go of Dick’s hand, not even when Tim tried to take some of the weight. 

Bruce stood there, watching, uncertain. He reached out to help, but Damian flinched, shielded Dick with his body.

“Don’t,” Damian said, voice quiet but final. “You weren’t there. And I don't want you near him right now.”

Bruce froze, hand suspended in the cold air. For a second, the only sound was the click of police scanners and the distant hum of helicopters. Then Tim touched Bruce’s wrist, gently, and steered him aside.

“Let him have this,” Tim said, soft enough for only Bruce to hear. “They need each other.2

Bruce stepped back, watched as Tim and Damian got Dick into the Batmobile, settled him in, and closed the hatch. He saw the way Damian bent to check Dick’s pulse, the way Dick managed a smile just for him.

It was a new shape to the family, one Bruce hadn’t built or planned for. And it was right, even though he hated it. They drove back in silence, the city behind them slowly stitching itself together—flashing lights fading, emergency crews washing the last of the gas from the streets, reporters breathless with stories of heroism and horror.

At the Cave, Tim handled the medical kit while Damian hovered, arms folded but eyes never leaving Dick’s face. Bruce watched from the edge of the room, not ready to leave, not ready to speak. After a while, Dick woke. His voice was rough, but clear.

“You can go now, D. I’m not dying.”

Damian’s face twisted, caught between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re sure?”

“Promise,” Dick said. He reached for Damian’s hand, squeezed it. “Thank you.”

Damian held on, just a second longer, then let go. He didn’t look at Bruce when he left the room. Tim patched up Dick, then turned to Bruce.

“You want to talk to him?”

Bruce shook his head.

“Not now.”

Tim studied him.

“You know they’re good together. You don’t have to like it. Just… let it be.”

Bruce watched through the window as Damian sat outside the med bay, knees pulled to his chest, eyes red but dry.

“I do,” Bruce said. “I just… it’s not what I planned.”

Tim smiled, a little sad. Thinking of Stephanie, and how he missed the casual way Dick used to be around him.

“Nothing ever is.”

For a long time, the house was quiet. Then, slowly, life crept back in—the shuffle of Alfred’s slippers, the aroma of coffee and fresh bread, the sound of Steph and Cass arguing over who would get the first shower. In the med bay, Dick slept, breathing slow and even.

Outside, Damian stayed at the door, watching. Waiting. When Dick woke again, the first thing he saw was the kid, face pale, but smiling.

“Still here?” Dick asked.

“Always,” Damian said.

And for the first time, Bruce actually understood. He really did.

Family wasn’t about who was in charge. It was about who showed up, who stayed, who kept the promise to never leave you behind. Something he never really cared to make sure. Something he never thought was important.

He stepped away from the window, walked the halls, and let the silence hold him. Tomorrow, the city would burn again. There would be new fights, new wounds, new mistakes. But tonight, the world was whole.

For a while, that was enough. And he wasn't the only one watching.

The med bay in the Batcave was quiet, except for the gentle whine of the wound cauteriser and the distant hum of city power echoing through bedrock. Dick lay on the main gurney, chest bandaged and shirtless under a silver thermal blanket, a fine sheen of fever on his brow that even Alfred’s best meds couldn’t quite dry. He had been out for barely an hour before he started heating up. When they had to wake him, to take more medication. Damian sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed, knees up, hoodie strings hanging like limp antennae. He looked at nothing, but his body radiated a kind of kinetic anxiety—as if the second Dick fell asleep, he’d spring up and punch the nearest threat through the wall. Tim hovered in the doorway, arms folded, eyes flicking between the blinking wall monitor and the kid on the bed. He waited until Damian shot him a warning glance before stepping forward, careful to stop a good two meters shy of the bed’s edge.

“I, uh, wanted to see if you needed anything,” Tim said, like he was making an offering to a skittish cat. “Water, maybe. Or—” He noticed the untouched glass already on the tray and bit back the rest of the sentence. “Never mind.”

Dick cracked one eye, then the other. His face was gaunt, but the lines around his mouth creased into something like a smile.

“Hey, Tim. It’s okay. I’m not contagious.”

Tim smiled, weak.

“You don’t look great. But I guess that’s the brand.”

Damian didn’t laugh, but the right corner of his mouth jerked up before settling flat again. He eyed Tim, then peeled his legs off the gurney, feet light on the rubberised floor.

“You want to talk?” Dick asked. “Or just keep doing the awkward dance?”

Tim glanced at Damian, who stared right back—his gaze bright, unblinking, and sharp as a needle. Tim cleared his throat and looked back to Dick.

“If you’re up for it. Alone.”

Damian’s head whipped around, suspicion instantly dialled to max. Dick ruffled the kid’s hair, gently, like stroking the edge of a blade.

“It’s okay, baby” he said, soft enough that Tim could pretend not to hear. “We’ll just be here, two feet away, just talking, nothing else. Promise.”

The kid's jaw worked, but then he stood, leaned over, and—without warning—wrapped Dick in a quick, fierce hug. It lasted just long enough to count, then he let go and padded to the door.

Before he left, he turned to Tim, measured him up, then said, “If you make him sad, I’ll know.”

The threat wasn’t empty. Tim blinked, then nodded, solemn.

“Understood.”

The kid vanished into the corridor, footsteps silent. For a moment, neither brother spoke. The Batcave’s ambient noise was all that filled the gap.

Tim started, “I know it’s late, and probably pointless, but I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, sceptical.

“For what, specifically?”

Tim shuffled closer, but stopped a meter short, hands tucked into the sleeves of his shirt.

“For how I left. For how I just… dropped out. For the way I let you handle all of this, all of him, and the city, and Bruce‘s absence, and everything, while I went and did the ‘find myself while looking for a ghost’ thing.”

Dick exhaled, a wheeze that could have been a laugh or just a leak in his lungs.

“You make it sound like you went to Europe and started a band.”

Tim smiled, genuinely this time, and for the first time in ages he looked like the old Tim—the one who rigged Dick’s motorcycle to play disco when it hit 40mph, the one who never missed a code red, the one who called even when he had nothing to say.

“It wasn’t like that,” Tim said. “At first, I wanted to help. And it seemed the main thing, to find Bruce. I thought—I really thought—I was doing the right thing, for all of us. But once I was gone, I couldn’t… I couldn’t come back. Not after everything. I couldn’t be Robin again. I couldn’t be your Robin, especially.” Dick didn’t reply, and Tim felt his own words echo in the cave, bouncing around until they found a crack to wedge into. “I thought,” Tim continued, “that you’d be better at it. That you wouldn’t even notice, with Damian around, with Steph, with the whole situation. But it wasn’t fair. I left you with all of it. I’m sorry for that.”

Dick looked at the ceiling, eyes glazed with pain but clear.

“I did notice,” he said. “It wasn’t easier. It was worse. But I also get it. You went to find Bruce. You found him, in the end.”

Tim nodded.

“Yeah.”

Dick let the silence hang, then said, “I would’ve done the same thing. For Bruce. Or for you.”

“I know,” Tim said, voice small. “You always did. That’s the difference. The point. You were always the one to be there, for everyone. And when you needed us the most, we just... Left.” The conversation was slow, thick with a kind of weary gentleness. Tim watched Dick, watched the way his breathing hitched every third beat, the way his right hand kept twitching toward the bandage like he was checking the pulse of his own pain. “You changed,” Tim said, sudden.

Dick smiled, but didn’t argue.

“I had to.”

“No, I mean,” Tim said, “you always mother-henned us, but with Damian it’s… I don’t know. You’re his dad.”

Tim frowned at that, as if the word left a weird taste in his mouth. Dick shrugged, careful not to pull the stitches.

“He needed someone. I stepped up. I’d do it again.”

Tim looked away, then back.

“Is it weird? Being a parent?”

Dick considered.

“Weirder than being Robin, weirder than leading a squad of suicidal orphans, weirder than fighting a guy in a green question-mark suit. Weird enough that I would have stuck with But it’s good. It feels like something worth staying alive for.”

Tim nodded, silent. 

A moment later, Dick added, “You never reached out. You or Cass.”

Tim’s cheeks coloured, but he didn’t look away.

“She was busy with the Titans. I was… I didn’t know what to say, after all that. After you took over the cowl, after you brought Damian back. It felt like we weren’t needed.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s not how it works, Tim. You know that.”

“I do now,” Tim said. “I really do. But back then, it was easier to disappear. Cass and I talked about it, sometimes. We thought you’d be okay. Steph was still here, and Alfred, and—”

Dick’s expression softened.

“Yeah. Steph’s the reason I didn’t burn out. She kept me from losing it, more times than you know.”

Tim smiled, a little.

“She’s something else.”

“She’s family,” Dick said, like it was the whole answer.

Tim nodded.

“So is Damian. We were, maybe. But currently, we're not. Not really. I see that now.”

They let it rest, neither of them quite ready to patch the gap, but at least neither picking at the scab. The only sound was the slow, constant beep from the med bay monitors.

“I missed you,” Tim said, finally. “Not just the mission, not just the city. You.”

Dick reached out, one-handed, and Tim took it. The handshake was more an awkward mash of hands than anything, but it lasted. It was real.

“I missed you too, Timmy,” Dick said. “But you don’t get to just walk away again. Not unless you want me to hunt you down.”

Tim tried to laugh, but it broke off into a cough.

“Yeah, okay. Deal.”

They released hands, and for a long minute just stood there, breathing the same air, letting the old injuries air out in the filtered cave light. Dick’s voice, hoarse but warm:

“Can you go find Dames? He gets anxious when I’m not in his line of sight.”

Tim almost made a joke, but the request was too honest.

“Yeah. I’ll bring him back.”

Dick nodded, and let his eyes drift closed.

“Thanks, Tim.”

Tim watched him for a beat, then turned to the hall. He found Damian exactly where he’d expected—sitting on the lowest rung of the training mezzanine, staring down at the gym floor below, feet swinging half a meter above the mats. The kid clocked Tim before he reached the stairs, but didn’t move.

“Hey,” Tim said, sitting one step up and leaving a respectful three-step gap between them. “He’s okay. Just tired.”

Damian didn’t answer, but his feet stopped moving.

Tim waited, then said, “You’re really good at this. The saving people thing. And the, uh, looking out for Dick thing.”

Damian flicked a glance at him, razor-sharp.

“That’s not a compliment.”

Tim smiled, small.

“Wasn’t supposed to be.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Tim let it stretch, then said, “You want to go back down?”

Damian stared at the gym wall, then shrugged.

“He needs rest.”

“He needs you, too,” Tim said, standing.

Damian didn’t respond, but after a minute, he got up and followed. Together, they descended the steps, shadows twin and long in the cave’s blue-white light. They walked the last twenty meters in parallel, neither one looking directly at the other, but somehow synced in the rhythm of their footsteps. At the med bay, Tim paused. Damian entered first, slipped onto the bed, and curled up beside Dick’s hip, careful not to jostle the stitches. Dick, not quite awake, not quite asleep, reached out and rested a hand on the kid’s head. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know he was there.

Tim watched them for a while, then quietly left, the echo of old family rituals trailing behind him like the scent of ozone after a storm. He had work to do—repairs to make, schedules to rewrite, maybe even a call or two to people he hadn’t spoken to in years. But for now, it was enough to know that he hadn’t lost everything. Not yet. He wondered what Steph would say when she saw the three of them together. He hoped, for once, that she’d just let it go. Even if he knew neither he nor Cass deserved easy forgiveness.

In the Cave, the heartbeat of the house was strong and steady, and the family that lived in it was doing the best they could. For now, that was all any of them could ask. But above, in the cold glow of the morning, someone else was watching. Waiting for the right time to step in, to say the thing no one else dared to say. And when she did, it would crack the whole world open again.

But that was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, the family was together. And that had to be enough.

They were just never good at holding it together, any of them. The quiet of the med bay lasted just long enough for Dick to think he might actually fall asleep. He didn’t. He caught the sharp note of perfume and the hard clatter of boots a full three seconds before Steph burst in, trailed by Cass, who moved like she’d been reluctantly towed by the gravity of the scene. Tim was still standing on the consoles, arms folded, one sneaker braced against the baseboard as if anchoring himself for impact. Steph swept the room in a glance, then locked on Dick.

“I brought reinforcements,” she announced, as if this were a party and not a war council for the chronically wounded.

She dropped her duffel by the nearest bench and planted herself at the foot of the gurney, arms crossed, blue-lavender hoodie hood up and tight around her jaw. Cass drifted to the back, hands in pockets, and studied the monitors. She said nothing, just watched Dick with a forensic sadness. Tim tried for a joke.

“Careful, the patient is barely stable.”

Steph ignored him. She flicked a thumb at Cass.

“I ran into her in the hall. Figured if we’re all going to have feelings, we should do it at once. Cut down on recovery time.”

Damian, who had gone silent since returning to Dick’s side, perched on the gurney like a gargoyle. He glared at Steph with open challenge, but she just grinned at him.

“Relax, tiny. I’m not here to hurt him. You should know I never am ”

“I’m not worried about you,” Damian replied. “But I will break Tim’s arm if he tries something.”

Tim rolled his eyes.

“Solid threat, but I’m on a two-arm maximum for violence this week.”

Cass smiled, just barely, and took a seat on a low stool near the IV cart. Steph shifted her gaze to Dick.

“You awake enough for another conversation, or do we need to dose you up first?”

Dick gave her a tired salute.

“If I pass out, it’s not from boredom. Let's get this over with, I'm tired of the awkwardness.”

She nodded, satisfied, and turned to Tim.

“So. You wanted to talk. You got your time. But you know what? I have some things to say, too.” Tim started to protest, but Steph steamrolled him. “Because even before you became my legal guardian, Dick, you were the one always there for me. For all of us, really. I know you hate hearing it, but it’s true.” Dick winced, then nodded. Steph’s eyes flickered. “When Bruce got declared dead, guess who became responsible for all the ‘minor’ kids? That’s right. Not the courts, not Alfred. It was you.” She pointed at Dick, then at the others. “And if you think that didn’t cover you, think again. Cass was eighteen, but I was seventeen, and you, Tim, were—what—sixteen? Guess what else? None of us were ready. Least of all Dick.”

Tim blinked.

“Wait. You were my—?”

“Legal guardian,” Steph said, triumphant. “Even if it was just on paper. Gotham likes paperwork. They need it for taxes, lawsuits, and funeral arrangements.” Dick snorted, then regretted it. The wound sent a hot spike up his side. He gasped, but Steph reached over and steadied his shoulder, careful not to touch skin. “Don’t play tough. Not today.”

Tim absorbed this, then frowned.

“Why’d you even take that on? We were a disaster. Hell, I bailed. So did Cass, most of the time.”

Steph’s expression sharpened.

“Because Dick always does. That’s the point.” She jabbed a finger at Tim, then at Cass, then at herself. “You left him holding the bag. You left him to clean up the city, to raise Damian, to keep the Manor from falling apart. And then you, what, acted surprised when he needed help. I was the one who stayed, and I am pissed I was the only one.”

Cass finally spoke, voice quiet but certain.

“I was with the Titans. I had to learn to fit into the new team. New… family.”

“Sure,” Steph said, scoffing. “But you could have replied when Dick texted you that Damian woke up. Or when I tried to get you on the phone for my birthday. Or when Tim vanished for years and nobody even checked to see if I was alive.” Her voice, normally pure sarcasm, cracked like a cheap cup. “You didn’t even try.”

Cass flinched, then nodded, slow.

“You’re right.”

Steph turned on Tim.

“And you—Tim, you were my best friend. You just stopped talking. Not even a meme. You used to send me memes when you were hiding in Malaysia, for Christ’s sake.”

Tim looked away.

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

Steph’s eyes went hard.

“Well, you’re right. I don’t, not anymore. Not unless you’re going to actually say something that isn’t a self-pitying apology.”

Cass, in a small voice:

“I’m sorry.”

Steph shrugged, as if that were both expected and unsatisfying.

“Thanks. But it’s too late for sorry. I’m not interested in being the backup plan for the family that couldn’t decide if it even wanted me.” She raised her finger to Dick before he could even take a breath. "Not. You. You were the main support, a fantastic brother, a fabulous guardian and I never doubted you wanting me. So shush."

Dick closed his mouth again, swallowing audibly. The silence was total. Even the IV monitor beeped more quietly, as if afraid to draw attention. 

Damian, who had been watching with the intensity of a trapped ferret, finally said, “It doesn’t matter, anyway. They always leave.”

Dick moved his hand, slow, and placed it on the kid’s knee.

“Not always,” he said. “People can change. Or at least, they can try. And I'm sure this is them trying.”

Steph laughed, sharp.

“See? That’s why he’s the parent. He’ll always believe it can get better. That we can get better, but not in our abilities, but our happiness. Even when it won’t. Puts him miles above Bruce, too, who always read us the riot act when he was unhappy with us. Dick...” Steph took a shaky sigh. "Dick was the first person to ever actually ask me if I liked being in school. If I had friends, if I was happy. He's the one who asked me what I want." 

Cass stood, walked over to the gurney, and knelt until she was eye-level with Steph.

“I messed up,” she said. “But I want to try again.”

Steph’s mouth worked, but no words came. She just shook her head.

“You always want another shot. It’s like a loop. I get it, I really do. But I don’t trust either of you to have my back, not unconditionally. Not anymore. Because no matter what we promised, you still... left me.”

Cass looked gutted.

“Is there… anything we can do?”

Steph shrugged, pulling herself together.

“Maybe. But not today.” She turned to Dick. “You need rest. You need someone to watch your six while you’re down. I’ll bring Damian to bed. Then I’ll keep an eye on the comms.”

Dick squeezed her hand, grateful. His eyes were suspiciously shiny.

“Thanks, Steph.”

She squeezed back, then turned to Damian.

“Come on, kid. Let’s do a lap of the house before bed. Burn off the adrenaline.”

Damian nodded, silent, and slipped off the gurney.

He paused at the doorway, turned back to Dick, and said, “You’ll be okay?”

Dick smiled.

“I always am. No need to worry, baby.”

“Liar,” Damian replied, but there was no heat in it.

He didn't even protest at the nickname, at it being heard by everyone around. They left together, steps perfectly in sync, and the room felt two sizes bigger for their absence.

Cass stood, watching the doorway, then whispered, “Stephanie, please—” and hurried after her, leaving just the brothers in the med bay.

Tim sat on the edge of the next bed, rubbing his hands together.

“So,” he said. “Did I just lose my big brother, too?”

Dick took a long time to answer.

“No,” he said. “But you’re not getting off easy, either. You want me in your life, you put in the work. Same for Cass. Same for all of us. I’m not just going to swallow everything and pretend it didn’t happen. I did that for too long, and I have another responsibility now.”

Tim nodded, hollow.

“I can do that. I want to.”

Dick reached over, placed his hand on Tim’s.

“You’re still my brother. I’ll show up for you, every time. But I’m done being the guy who just absorbs every hit and never says it hurts. I can’t do that, not if I want to teach Dames how to… survive. How to not let people walk all over him.”

Tim didn’t smile, but his shoulders relaxed.

“He’s lucky. Having you.”

Dick looked at the ceiling, then at the dim gleam of cave lights reflecting off the steel.

“We’re all lucky. Even if we’re terrible at showing it. I certainly am lucky he set my priorities straight, and that he accepts me unapologetically.”

They sat together, in silence, until the monitor clicked to the top of the hour. Tim rose to go. He paused at the door, then looked back.

“Rest up, okay? I’ll see you in the morning. But for the record... We all accepted you for who you are. I think we just never... Appreciated it until we came back and realised it was gone. Different.”

Dick nodded, closed his eyes, and let the silence settle. For once, it felt earned. Down the hall, Steph and Damian’s voices echoed, trading sarcasm and barbed encouragement. Cass trailed after, not trying to force her way in, just following, hopeful.

In the dark, Dick thought about all the things he could never say. All the times he’d wanted to break, but didn’t. All the moments he’d survived by the skin of his teeth, for no reason except that the world expected it of him. He thought about the future—about the mess ahead, the fights and betrayals, the promises he’d have to keep even when they hurt. He thought about Damian, about Steph, about every lost kid who’d ever found themselves at the edge of his shadow. 

He thought, for the first time, that maybe it was okay to let some things go. Outside, the city pulsed and howled, but down here, in the battered quiet, the family—such as it was—held its shape. Not perfect, not even close, but enough to carry them into the next day. 

He slept, finally, and dreamed of nothing at all. Which was the best dream of all.