NIGHTWING

He was dressed impeccably, but it did not wholly disguise his young age. The office carefully constructed not to dwarf his pre-adult height and slim body. The suit expertly tailoured to hide the gangliness of youth. Timothy Drake-Wayne, the seventeen year old Chief Executive Officer.

He rose to greet her, expression a mask of blank professionalism, and shook her hand. A little too firmly for a confident hold. "Ms McVeigh. Please, have a seat."

Calmly, she settled into one of the uncomfortable hard-backed chairs on the guest side of the executive desk. Watching him expertly tuck the tails of his suit as he sat, so it didn't bunch. Every movement meticulous and purposeful.

"I had intended to speak to Mr Bruce Wayne," she answered. "As it isn't precisely a business matter."

Mr Drake-Wayne rose a single eyebrow. A delicate little arch, clearly conveying his lack of intention of allowing her to see Bruce.

It would always be a gulf between them, wouldn't it? The... Wayne Family, and herself. Insurmountable, even before her actions with Luthor, and the article. And believing herself capable of crossing it, that He would catch her on the other side if she leapt, had always been delusional unrealistic.

"Very well - I'll get directly to the point," she began, looking at he young CEO seriously. "Your eldest brother once offered me protective gear, kevlar blend. I am wondering if I can still cash that in."

And yeah- Dick could see where he'd been caught up, balancing on a highwire, blissfully oblivious to the net. Dick knew his emotions ran bright like şofranel blooms, all quick in the spring time. He'd been besotted. He'd been careless.

He'd learned his lesson; his crush's work had not only been so incandescently dangerous to not only him, but his family. He'd been too caught up to recognize the risk to not only dear Alfie, to his stoic batdad, to Jay and Tim and Cass and Damian.

Even people he hadn't thought could be in danger.

As a young boy, Dick had learned viciously fast that not only where his talented, brilliant, daring parents not nearly as invincible as he'd thought, but that even the Bat bled. But Clark. Uncle Clark, surely he was someone who could be invulnerable, someone Dick had allowed himself to think of as safe.

And Dottie had almost sold Clark out to Lex. And Dick couldn't begin to guess what Lex had done to Clark before that. But it was bad. Bad bad.

Dottie's betrayal had initially ached with anger and even hate; she'd exposed a refugee to xenophobia. It was hard not to keenly feel the roots of his family tree, the history that he always alighted to, no matter how far he flew. Hard not to draw the comparison and realize that Dot would have been a person who condemned his grandparents to the bari yag.

Someone willing to put his father in danger, his brothers in danger, his Robin in danger - his boy.

That had been when the hate and fury had dulled to a sick feeling, all hurt and ache and disgust. Mostly with her, but there had been plenty of revulsion for himself too, for getting caught up and- and- twitterpated. Besotted out of his wits.

The entire thought still felt like a hot bar. Something metal and flash-sear that he couldn't touch a thought down on without flinching. So he avoided it altogether- something difficult when his brother called him on that line and asked--

Kori wouldn't need it. Roy had other sources. Wally too. Babs especially. Gordon had gone gray yonks ago.

So yeah, Dick kinda knew who Tim was talking about...

Dottie's brow furrowed into a little frown at that, and she gave a soft sigh. Ready at a word to pick up her bag to go.

"Ah. Hm." Dick paused. "Yeah, she should have some armor. Think she's doing B a favor."

Dottie shifted in the seat as Tim ended the call. Unsettled to not know how the discussion had went. But the CEO simply instructed her to wait and turned back to his email.

"Mmm..." Tim hummed, moving his eyes back to his monitors. "He'll check out the gear for you here."

Impossible to focus with an antsy civilian in his office. He needed peace and quiet.

And after all those years, even with the arguments he and Bruce had had, others they had never had but should have, and more countless nights returning with bruises and breaks… even then, this was Dick's home. For better, for worse.

He had perfected half a dozen aerial stunts from that chandelier. He had used the stairs as a slide. He knew exactly which high shelf Alfred kept the snacks at. This was Dick's home, just as much as Haly's had been.

And being here filled Dick with a calm he rarely enjoyed at the public event galas. Not least because the last time the family had hosted, Bruce had been shot. Something that remained Dick's fault, regardless of what anyone had to say about it.

Even recalling that, even instinctively searching out his father in the crowd to confirm that Bruce was not bleeding out on the polished floor, Dick still felt calm. At ease, as he instead picked out the silver of Hunter's outfit, and slipped through the crowd to press into Hunter's side with a content grin.

"Aren't you supposed to be circling me…?" Dick purred.

[TEXT]: u up? look how cute my puppy is!! xo

I'm a vigilante! ofc I've had sex with men?

[TEXT}: Miss you ( っ˶´ ˘ `)っ

Text from Hunter: Of course, looking forward to seeing you. Text from Hunter: Let yourself in, but use the key I've hidden outside, please.

"Hidden...?" Dick mouthed.

Had Hunter forgotten to show him the hidden key? Well, he could text back, ask about it, or...

Dick leapt out into the dark air, suspended over the glitter and howl of Gotham, weightless for that single, stunning moment. Aimed his escrima, and angled the grapple- the line caught, turned from slack to taut as it took up Dick's weight. There were faster routes through Gotham, but there was a joy in Dick's journey, an unnecessary flip here and there, a trick twist for the sheer delight of it.

A brief stop in a safehouse to switch to civs, a message to Damian to ask if he could mind Haley for the night and then Dick was back on his way to Hunter's place.

You could always tell a good suburb of Gotham by how quiet it could be at night. No occasional gunshots, no screech of brakes, no shouting voices, just sleeping residents and a round of dog barks as Dick's bike came to a stop.

And instead of texting Hunter to ask exactly where the spare key was, Dick began the enjoyable game of finding it himself. He'd initially not even attempted the doormat and around the door frame, though he did think about doubling back after-all, but even a civilian would know better in Gotham. Instead, Dick had found a false rock in amongst the others, and mentally reminded himself to get Hunter some decent security when it turned in the lock.

"Aw, you didn't wait for me to join you," Dick tugged a little more surely at the towel, threading his leg between Slade's as he pressed in close. Damp spots bloomed in Dick's shirt, a pleasant friction as Dick tipped his head up.

Which was why, still making gentle, wanting noises, Dick looked so dazed when Slade pulled away. "Hmm..." He looked towards the sign, and then chuckled. "Yeah I'm getting luckier by the second."

Half-leaning in to reignite the kiss, Dick laughed when he was easily taken up and walked towards the shower. "I'm not injured," Dick made a point of murmuring in his ear, all teasing, "I'm not even sore."

[TEXT}: Miss you ( っ˶´ ˘ `)っ

Text from Hunter: Of course, looking forward to seeing you. Text from Hunter: Let yourself in, but use the key I've hidden outside, please.

"Hidden...?" Dick mouthed.

Had Hunter forgotten to show him the hidden key? Well, he could text back, ask about it, or...

Dick leapt out into the dark air, suspended over the glitter and howl of Gotham, weightless for that single, stunning moment. Aimed his escrima, and angled the grapple- the line caught, turned from slack to taut as it took up Dick's weight. There were faster routes through Gotham, but there was a joy in Dick's journey, an unnecessary flip here and there, a trick twist for the sheer delight of it.

A brief stop in a safehouse to switch to civs, a message to Damian to ask if he could mind Haley for the night and then Dick was back on his way to Hunter's place.

You could always tell a good suburb of Gotham by how quiet it could be at night. No occasional gunshots, no screech of brakes, no shouting voices, just sleeping residents and a round of dog barks as Dick's bike came to a stop.

And instead of texting Hunter to ask exactly where the spare key was, Dick began the enjoyable game of finding it himself. He'd initially not even attempted the doormat and around the door frame, though he did think about doubling back after-all, but even a civilian would know better in Gotham. Instead, Dick had found a false rock in amongst the others, and mentally reminded himself to get Hunter some decent security when it turned in the lock.

"Aw, you didn't wait for me to join you," Dick tugged a little more surely at the towel, threading his leg between Slade's as he pressed in close. Damp spots bloomed in Dick's shirt, a pleasant friction as Dick tipped his head up.

[TEXT}: Miss you ( っ˶´ ˘ `)っ

Text from Hunter: Of course, looking forward to seeing you. Text from Hunter: Let yourself in, but use the key I've hidden outside, please.

"Hidden...?" Dick mouthed.

Had Hunter forgotten to show him the hidden key? Well, he could text back, ask about it, or...

Dick leapt out into the dark air, suspended over the glitter and howl of Gotham, weightless for that single, stunning moment. Aimed his escrima, and angled the grapple- the line caught, turned from slack to taut as it took up Dick's weight. There were faster routes through Gotham, but there was a joy in Dick's journey, an unnecessary flip here and there, a trick twist for the sheer delight of it.

A brief stop in a safehouse to switch to civs, a message to Damian to ask if he could mind Haley for the night and then Dick was back on his way to Hunter's place.

You could always tell a good suburb of Gotham by how quiet it could be at night. No occasional gunshots, no screech of brakes, no shouting voices, just sleeping residents and a round of dog barks as Dick's bike came to a stop.

And instead of texting Hunter to ask exactly where the spare key was, Dick began the enjoyable game of finding it himself. He'd initially not even attempted the doormat and around the door frame, though he did think about doubling back after-all, but even a civilian would know better in Gotham. Instead, Dick had found a false rock in amongst the others, and mentally reminded himself to get Hunter some decent security when it turned in the lock.

Know anything about that? Beau McEwan? No?

"If it's meant to be a warning, I dunno who's gonna care," he remarked bluntly. "I can't find a single connection to anyone in your price range."

He hesitated, then asked because the worst that would happen is he'd get no answer. Slade wasn't given to lying to him. Misleading, sure, but outright lie? No.

"Figured, not your usual job," Dick swung his leg idly, contemplating throwing himself out into the night. The electrifying pleasure of it.

Dick's heart slammed into his ribcage; an awful reel of everybody in his life he couldn't bear to lose. The flash thought of his parents, broken on the floor beside him. Of Jay, bleeding into the Robin uniform. Damian run through. When he'd thought Bruce dead. Tim. Alfred.

Not just his family, his friends too. The Titans, everyone of them his responsibility.

His boyfriend. Just a civilian. Hunter. Hunted down by Deathstroke.

Dick had meant to prod at Slade, tease him for leaving cash behind and having a soft spot, but the warning ran a chill through Dick instead. He inhaled sharply, sucking his breath in with that same tight feeling of guilt, fear and the desperation to reach out and catch someone.

Know anything about that? Beau McEwan? No?

"If it's meant to be a warning, I dunno who's gonna care," he remarked bluntly. "I can't find a single connection to anyone in your price range."

He hesitated, then asked because the worst that would happen is he'd get no answer. Slade wasn't given to lying to him. Misleading, sure, but outright lie? No.

"Figured, not your usual job," Dick swung his leg idly, contemplating throwing himself out into the night. The electrifying pleasure of it.

He was dressed impeccably, but it did not wholly disguise his young age. The office carefully constructed not to dwarf his pre-adult height and slim body. The suit expertly tailoured to hide the gangliness of youth. Timothy Drake-Wayne, the seventeen year old Chief Executive Officer.

He rose to greet her, expression a mask of blank professionalism, and shook her hand. A little too firmly for a confident hold. "Ms McVeigh. Please, have a seat."

Calmly, she settled into one of the uncomfortable hard-backed chairs on the guest side of the executive desk. Watching him expertly tuck the tails of his suit as he sat, so it didn't bunch. Every movement meticulous and purposeful.

"I had intended to speak to Mr Bruce Wayne," she answered. "As it isn't precisely a business matter."

Mr Drake-Wayne rose a single eyebrow. A delicate little arch, clearly conveying his lack of intention of allowing her to see Bruce.

It would always be a gulf between them, wouldn't it? The... Wayne Family, and herself. Insurmountable, even before her actions with Luthor, and the article. And believing herself capable of crossing it, that He would catch her on the other side if she leapt, had always been delusional unrealistic.

"Very well - I'll get directly to the point," she began, looking at he young CEO seriously. "Your eldest brother once offered me protective gear, kevlar blend. I am wondering if I can still cash that in."

And yeah- Dick could see where he'd been caught up, balancing on a highwire, blissfully oblivious to the net. Dick knew his emotions ran bright like şofranel blooms, all quick in the spring time. He'd been besotted. He'd been careless.

He'd learned his lesson; his crush's work had not only been so incandescently dangerous to not only him, but his family. He'd been too caught up to recognize the risk to not only dear Alfie, to his stoic batdad, to Jay and Tim and Cass and Damian.

Even people he hadn't thought could be in danger.

As a young boy, Dick had learned viciously fast that not only where his talented, brilliant, daring parents not nearly as invincible as he'd thought, but that even the Bat bled. But Clark. Uncle Clark, surely he was someone who could be invulnerable, someone Dick had allowed himself to think of as safe.

And Dottie had almost sold Clark out to Lex. And Dick couldn't begin to guess what Lex had done to Clark before that. But it was bad. Bad bad.

Dottie's betrayal had initially ached with anger and even hate; she'd exposed a refugee to xenophobia. It was hard not to keenly feel the roots of his family tree, the history that he always alighted to, no matter how far he flew. Hard not to draw the comparison and realize that Dot would have been a person who condemned his grandparents to the bari yag.

Someone willing to put his father in danger, his brothers in danger, his Robin in danger - his boy.

That had been when the hate and fury had dulled to a sick feeling, all hurt and ache and disgust. Mostly with her, but there had been plenty of revulsion for himself too, for getting caught up and- and- twitterpated. Besotted out of his wits.

The entire thought still felt like a hot bar. Something metal and flash-sear that he couldn't touch a thought down on without flinching. So he avoided it altogether- something difficult when his brother called him on that line and asked--

Kori wouldn't need it. Roy had other sources. Wally too. Babs especially. Gordon had gone gray yonks ago.

So yeah, Dick kinda knew who Tim was talking about...

Dottie's brow furrowed into a little frown at that, and she gave a soft sigh. Ready at a word to pick up her bag to go.

"Ah. Hm." Dick paused. "Yeah, she should have some armor. Think she's doing B a favor."

Know anything about that? Beau McEwan? No?

"If it's meant to be a warning, I dunno who's gonna care," he remarked bluntly. "I can't find a single connection to anyone in your price range."

He hesitated, then asked because the worst that would happen is he'd get no answer. Slade wasn't given to lying to him. Misleading, sure, but outright lie? No.

Then they were taking Bruce, Tim, and Dick away leaving Alfred and Damian behind. Some how through the grace of higher forces Alfred had been able to get Damian back to the manor.

"We need to change. He wouldn't want to see us in such a state." Alfred moved about grabbing the boys civilian go bags. Alfred presenting Damian with a set of clothes from the boys room as well. Bruce wouldn't want to see his kids covered in blood or still in their Gala clothes. He'd want them comfortable. Clean. So Alfred changed and washed the blood from his hands... not that it felt gone. Not clean.

He picked up the landline as if to call someone and then hung up. It was all over the news. He picked up the phone again feeling this huge need to call someone as if that would make it right. As if it would fix things. Again his mind blanked on who to call so he hung the phone up again. As the phone rattled back into place he noticed he was still shaking despite trying to be strong. His son had been injured. His grand kids had nearly met the same safe. One was missing. It was his fault. He'd been in change of security like always. He'd background checked everyone on that detail over 3 times using the batcomputer one of the best systems with the most access in the world and still he failed. He'd failed to keep his family safe. Again.

His mind shifted again. Bruce would want some comfort. Bruce would never ask for such a thing but Alfred... maybe Alfred wanted the comfort this object would bring as well. He disappeared deep into the house to a hiding spot where a small chest sat. It was full of letters and old important but not decorative Wayne artifacts. Among them included an off white baby blanket. Hand crocheted and stitched together.

As he thumbed over the precious squares he remembered their creation. Each square was made with love crocheted stitch by stitch by either Alfred's hand or more importantly Martha's. The pregnancy had been long and boring for her. She struggled with the process so she couldn't do much without risking hurting the unborn Bruce. Alfred cared for her during most of the day and parts of the night while Thomas labored to make a better world for his son and wife to live in.

She'd begged Alfred for company 'You can't expect me to lounge around the bedroom lonely and bored. Come crochet with me. I need to have this done by the time her arrives.' Not that she wouldn't have had it done at the pace she was going. So Alfred obliged her request sitting for hours by her side slowly crocheting different styles of squares for the to be born master or mistress. They'd talk. She'd nap. Alfred only working while she was conscious. When Thomas would get home no matter how late she chitter at him and show off their progress on the squares from the day. Until one day it was done. There were no squares to be made. She was showing them like usual to him when she put on a begging face. 'But now I'm so tired love and it's nearly time. Would you stitch them all together?'

And Thomas pushed back a little against this idea. Not that he meant it. 'But you and Alfred have worked so hard don't you want to finish it?'

Martha day as ever but nobody was fooled 'Alfred can't labor any more he's already done more than his fair share and I'm tired. You told me not to work too hard. Please? You have nicer stitching anyway.' And with gentle laugher the doctor agreed and stitched all the squares together under Martha's instruction and gaze. Bruce's baby blanket. It was big enough to comfortably fit over a twin bed with how many squares they'd made but it was for their baby so it was still a baby blanket. Alfred thumbed over it again.

Still, he couldn't quite stop himself from throwing glances towards Tim's door. Then back to the empty room set up for Bruce. And finally back down at the surgical suites, hidden behind doors at the back of the corridor.

Dick took a lap of the hallway, up and down, listening and looking and checking, before circling back to sit down. He checked his phone, put it away, checked it again, opened his social media. Scrolled blindly. Put it away.

Another lap. Another heavy return to sitting. Dick all but jumped out of the seat towards Alfred's voice, rushing in to impulsively embrace Alfred. He'd meant it to reassure Alfie, but instead, there had been a pull of need in it; still a child, clinging for comfort from the old butler.

"Tim's..." Dick's voice creaked, and he cleared it. "Tim's resting. He's... he's uh, he's doing good. Sleeping off a concussion." He let go, long enough to take the civilian go bag, blankly looking at it. "Bruce is in PACU."

Dick's eyes flicked to the end of the corridor, swinging the go-bag to his shoulder. "I haven't heard anything much. They said surgery went well." He swallowed. "Stable."

He looked down at Damian, a cavernous feeling of grief and fear nearly making Dick's insides crumple. Damian looked so small, in his hoodie, and this was one was so young, and instinctive, Dick opened himself towards Damian.

He didn't regret it, precisely. If Bruce had died, it would have been his dying wish that Damian not kneel in his blood, and as it was, the EMTs had needed access. But he also couldn't bring himself to question Damian's rejection. Dick probably would have done the same.

Fighting to keep hurt off his face, and in his chest where it deserved to be, Dick looked back at Alfred and bit his lip.

In Dick's head, he ran through their numbers- and it was like missing a step on a staircase. A gap where there was none that left you fumbling for balance.

Alfred- Jay, Jay, Jay? -Tim, Cass, Damian.

"Where's Jay?" Dick asked urgently. "I haven't seen him."

Little Wing. Little Wing. Little Wing.

So much had happened so quickly, so much had needed to happen so quickly in the aftermath, but Dick had let something slip. Failed to juggle all the variables, and now Little Wing was lost in the aftermath.

Dick had been texting another message to the only contact he had for Jay, unsure if he even still had this burner on him, if he used it at all, or if- if Jay could reach a phone. What if Jay had been shot, somehow, but no- no there had been two shots, the one that missed Timmy and the one that had-

Dick's gaze snapped up to Dami, blue eyes widening, dilating with an uncontrolled flail of feeling. Rage, guilt, rebellion; but no regret, only shame in its sharp scouring down his spine.

"He's my brother," Dick's voice rose, far too much for a conversation with Dami, and yet, there it was, loud and defensive. Still reeling from Tim's exact same accusation. "Our brother. I did exactly what B trained me to do." Blue eyes blazing. Don't you dare judge me. Even as guilt began raking claws through Dick's stomach. His jaw set in a tight line.

The memory of the legacy; a mantle like Atlas shuddering under the weight. The memory of Tim; angry for Dick doing triage between his brothers, and then losing himself in his certainty that their father lived; wondering if his brother had gone mad wishing they weren't orphans once more. The memory of Damian; fierce and flightful and snarling at him; refusing the bond that was set between them; the blood of the covenant.

The memory of raising his father's son as his own; of failing to be a father; of understanding for the first time in his life the fragility of Bruce taking him in, recognizing it in every time Damian denied him, every time he disobeyed, every time he hated Dick for who and what he was not.

And here was Damian again; telling him they were not part of each other. That the brother injured in the bed before them wasn't Dick's to care for. That Little Wing was missing but it was not his concern. That Damian was not his.

That they came from another world and so they meant nothing to each other. That they were not really kin. That they weren't family.

The blood of the covenant. Spilt.

Breath heaving, standing before Damian, Dick's voice was strangled and sharp- as if a scream could be spoken, "It doesn't matter where we come from!"

"I don't care about that; about which universe we come from; about where we were born, about who's related to who- you're my brother. In every universe." Blue eyes steadied over Tim, then back to Damian again. "Tim and Jay; they're my brothers, and Alfred's my dakó. I don't care how, where or when- no matter what happens, you're mine."

Dick's throat throbbed. A choking sensation. Like something had caught there.

"And B- he's mine too."

Fuck. Tears. Dick blinked at them, gritting his teeth and wishing he had a damned domino to hide it behind.

"We don't share one drop of blood, but he's my dad. He'll always be my dad. The way he'll always be yours."

No matter how much Damian denied it, how much he said they weren't brothers, he had called Bruce his father and the first sound that had broken after the gunshot, an even more devastating sound was Damian calling for his baba.

"And nobody dying," Dick growled, finally swiping tears out of his eyes and forcing his breath to stop skipping a step. "Not now, not ever."

By the time Dick had the sense to go back to his apartment, not only were the roses looking a little droopy, but Haley was whining past Dick's doorway. He barely had time to grab the card, put the roses in the entrance and take Haley for a well-needed walk.

He'd expected to be back home that evening when Haley had curled up asleep in her crate. Well in time for her early morning walkies.

Frazzled, shifting Haley's leash in hand, Dick looked at the card- and couldn't help the mixture of affection under his own harsh guilt and still prickling worry.

"Rae," Dick smiled quietly. He tilted his head up, unsure if she really used a mobile, so he defaulted to pinging her communicator instead. Hooking his phone between shoulder and ear, as Haley practically tumbled down the walk-up.

The instinct flailed, a hand reaching for a line to catch and not finding it; instead scrabbling in the air, fragile and ill-feathered.

Dick's voice opened up, his civilian tones, leaking upset and hurt over the call, "Tim's pissed at me for keeping him from being shot instead of our Dad. He's being a tool about it too. Literally."

A soft grunt. Tim was a kid, and that- wasn't-

Bitterness burnt at Dick's tongue. "It was- like I could hear him give the order in my head, all the way in my brain."

B. Batman. The one that apparently gave commands at the back of his head.

Pretty rich of me to complain about MY daddy issues to Rae, Dick thought. Sardonic and a bit vicious. He deliberately bit his tongue on that comment.

"I know we briefly talked about it. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to also order you. I thought my team here needed my help." She gently explained moving to sit on her bed. The communicator hovering near by now.

"Im glad he's out of critical care." She was there for him at least as much as she could with the distance trying to reach for him. He'd requested no support but they both knew she could be beside him in an instant if he asked. To catch him like he so often caught her.

"Tim is your little brother. I'm sorry for the conflict. Maybe he's scared in his own way and can't express it just yet." Raven offered having not been presence for the conversation where it came to light Tim saw himself as a living tool.

"Im not mad at Jay either but yeah that will be real messy whenever that comes out. He can handle himself with that though." She rubbed her arm. "As for B. You two worked together solo for so long at a young age that those habits are hard to break and over ride. You told me yourself during the early days of the Titans it was hard to work with us because you were so used to Batman just 'knowing' what was expected at every move. Obviously, we all got really good at communication as time went by to the point we only needed 1 or 2 words or a few hand motions to guide the team but that took time and a lot of practice." Raven offered him grace for listening to orders and instinct. Instinct that had kept him alive and had saved countless people over the years.

Raven's direct, easy to understand instruction had cleared some of the haze from Dick's thoughts. The way an order in the middle of a fade into shock was sometimes what a leader did.

"...yeah," Dick breathed out. Once. Twice. Steady breaths. "It'll take more than a bullet to keep B down," the childish confidence was superficial, something Dick had stopped believing before he was fourteen and at twenty-five had been sharply disillusioned to. Even older now, it was something he'd been telling his siblings.

Unspoken, whisper thin below the words, was Dick's confession: this time was too close for comfort.

"Hmm..." Dick hummed in consensus, waiting as Haley sniffed at a seemingly innocuous spot on the pavement. "I think fear is part of it, but... I think it's more than that." He hesitated. "He really doesn't think he's worth saving." This hesitation was longer, Dick's heart sore in the cradle of his ribcage. "We're in a line of work that's built on self-sacrifice; it's been hard enough convincing Dami that he's a person, and he's- less stubborn than Tim."

Dick couldn't help but smile, imagining his brothers hearing that particular assessment. It was true, though; Tim was more independent than Damian, more set in his thoughts, less likely to listen to Dick or even Bruce.

"Right now... you know how bad it hurts when people treat you like a person when you don't want to be a person," Dick concluded. "And there's no easy way to get past it."

Scrunching his nose as Haley selected her toilet for the night, Dick began rifling in his pocket for a doggy bag. Still cleaning up other people's shit, Dick supposed.

"Mmm..." Dick's earlier hum had sounded agreeable, but here he sounded like he didn't agree at all. He didn't voice it, but it was still clear enough that Dick still felt he should handle things for Jay.

"...yeah," Dick exhaled, and the tension cut from his body, shoulders going loose. He had said that; that your reflexes didn't just contain yourself, that the Titans had had to learn to do that in their own way...

...and Raven was right. Voicing things Dick knew to be true. Said so with clarity and grace. Gave Dick enough space to admit to the truth, "...I would have picked Tim."

A sharp swallow. "I would have still picked Tim. But if I'd had to think about it, I'd..." It would have crushed Dick's heart in a fist. It would have taken too long. His brother and his dad would both have been shot. He had trusted the training and history he had with Batman, and he had saved someone.

Dick's eyes closed. His own heartbeat thumping to a steadier point. Despite that, Haley still cocked her head at him before tentatively alerting; "Yes," he murmured, then cleared his throat. "I mean," Dick shook himself out of his daze. "I will." Then said with a heartwrenching not-laugh, "I don't think Tim's really been chosen once in his life. Not even as Robin."

The circumstances of Tim taking that mantle had been... not necessarily complex, but- another link in the pattern Tim had apparently been making his entire life.

Dick was still percolating on that, on the little signs and hints of Tim's wicked low self-esteem when Rae called him out. Effortlessly, even.