#tale feathers

"Every single time, what?" Steph chirped, wrestling the heavy plush comforter from her bed through the doorway. She couldn't see him over the mountain of material, but his disgust was clearly audible.

"Every single time that I concede to working with you," Damian answered, "I end up frozen solid."

"That's not true," Steph protested, dumping her latest contribution atop the growing pile of blankets and boy wonder. "What about that field-trip to the science museum?  The one with Nell?"

"We never made it to the exhibit on liquid nitrogen," Damian informed her; his voice stiff and disapproving of an outlier in his data. "Given another fifteen minutes in the museum, I am confident the status quo would have held."

"But it didn't," Steph shot back as she slung a throw pillow at her temporary partner. It bounced off his well-padded shoulder. "So the museum is still a point in my favor, Boy Wonder.  Now quit your whining."

"Steph-a-nie Brown."

Steph cringed as her mother entered the living room with Damian's tea.

Crystal Brown had a certain look--as most mothers do--capable of stopping their misbehaving offspring cold. This look was firmly fixed on her daughter as she held Steph's classic Batgirl mug out to their temporary houseguest.

Steph dropped into the seat beside Damian and mumbled something that sounded appropriately apologetic to appease her mother.

"Ignore her," Mom addressed Damian warmly.  "She was worried."

Steph produced a garbled sound of high pitch, but Damian just turned an impressive shade of pink under his domino, staring steadfastly into his steaming beverage.

"We both were," Mom continued, absently pressing one hand to the boy's forehead. "How often do you go up against freeze rays in your line of work, Robin?"

"It's nothing really," Damian mumbled, "but I do . . . appreciate . . . your hospitality, Mrs. Brown. And the tea. Thank you."

Steph felt her mouth drop open--if she had brought Damian Wayne store-brand tea in a novelty mug, the Brat Wonder probably would have dumped it out over her head.

"Of course, dear," the older woman hummed, ducking to press a kiss to the top of his head. "Feel better soon."

Given the current flush of Damian's cheeks and surprise demonstration of basic etiquette, Steph was sorely tempted to check for a fever herself, but she managed to refrain. Her mother would not approve of teasing the downed boy hero.

As if reading her mind, Mom sent her another unimpressed look over the top of Damian's head. "I have to head out now for my shift," she said aloud, "but if you need anything else, Robin, just ask Stephanie."

That would be the day, Stephanie thought in bemusement as she tilted her cheek to accept a kiss of her own. "Have a good night, Mom."

"You too," her mother returned as she headed for the door, checking her purse for both keys and badge. "Both of you behave," she called over her shoulder at the last moment. "Do not make me call Batman!"

There was a stunned moment of silence as both vigilante stared at the door, and then Damian seemed to find his voice again:

"She wouldn't really . . ." he stumbled over the words. "I mean, she can't actually . . ."

"She would," Steph sighed. "And probably could. It's a grown-up thing, Boy Wonder."

Already resigned to the inevitable, she flopped back more comfortably against her end of the sofa. It took a little patience on her part and more than a little forgiveness, but the couch gave in to Steph's demands with an agonized groan at last. Humming in contentment, she reached for the remote with one hand and Damian with the other.

"C'mere, demon," she commanded in a sing-song voice.

"No."

Never one to accept defeat, Steph made herself even more comfortable and waited for the perfect moment of compromised balance.

The moment Damian leaned forward to discard his 'peasant' beverage, Steph gave a mighty tug on his nest and toppled the Boy Wonder. While he was still off-kilter, she pinned the kid against her side and swiftly tucked the blankets back around him.

This measure conveniently kept him in a manageable ball-like shape for emergency cuddling.

Damian was growling, but Steph had long since accepted that as the younger boy's natural state and turned on the television.

"Now," she informed him matter-of-factly, "you have three options at this time of night, D--infomercials, bad sci-fi movies, or whatever I left in the DVD player last."

She thought it might have been a musical or a western. A musical western was not beyond the realm of possibility.

Tim considered the climb once more.  It wasn't the height or the effort that concerned him, but rather the sheer expanse of open space between him and the well-stocked, completely defensible perch.

"And you can't get him down, because . . ."

Steph fixed him with her best unimpressed look.  "Excuse you, I am cuddling Dick Grayson.  Baby Dick Grayson!  It is an opportunity not to be missed."

Tim cast a skeptical glance at the tiny head pillowed against Steph's shoulder.  "I could . . ."

"Wait your turn."

Tim took a step backward.  If it came down to turns, he was reasonably sure every single one had been spoken for.

The little boy shifted in Steph's arms to turn big, watery blue eyes on Tim.  Then Dick's bottom lip wobbled as if he might start crying all over again if the older boy refused.

They had been conditioned.  That was the only explanation for why Tim automatically grasped that first handhold and hoisted himself upward.

"If he kills me and hides my body in the ceiling," he called back over his shoulder to save face, "you have to explain the eventual smell to Alfred."

"I think you're seriously underestimating the power of guano," Steph returned cheerfully, before abandoning Tim to his fate in favor of reassuring Dick that Tim would eventually return to him in one piece.

Tim wouldn't take that bet if he was the toddler in question, but Dick and Steph had this whole optimism thing going on.  And Tim wasn't going to touch that with a twenty foot pole.

He wasn't sure if the pair honestly believed they could persuade the universe to accommodate them through sheer stubbornness, or if their beatific smiles were some desperate form of denial.  Either way, Tim wasn't cruel enough to deprive them of an obvious coping mechanism.

They lived in close proximity to Damian Wayne.

Tim, at least, could leave from time to time.

He had actually been in the process thereof when the call came over the comms, and if Tim had been smart, he would have run while the running was good.

Babs and Steph could handle a little de-aging spell in their sleep.  The baby acrobat might keep them on their toes, but Tim had faith in Team Batgirl.

He should have run.

As if to punctuate this sentiment, a butterfly knife came down precisely between the middle and ring fingers of Tim's right hand.

He tried not to be relieved by the display of casual-if-skillful violence, but Damian was Damian and if the ten year old former assassin wasn't in the mood to defend his privacy . . . well, then they all had much, much bigger problems than three year old Dick Grayson.

Tim waited to see if any other sharp objects were forthcoming, decided they were not, and shifted for better leverage to haul himself inside.

This put him immediately nose-to-nose with an unimpressed Robin.

"I am not coming down."

Tim poked the younger boy in the chest, prompting Damian to retreat a few inches.  "Okay," he said, taking what little space he was given.

Damian frowned more intensely.  "Did you hear me, Drake?  I am not coming down."

"Got it," Tim flapped his hand as much as he could within the tight confines of the small space.  Security and survival were the primary function of the small perches located in the Cave's upper levels--not comfort.  "Now scoot over and make some room."

"You can't make me," Damian insisted suspiciously, "because I'm not.  I am not coming down."

"I noticed," Tim returned, "but I can't go down without you.  So here I am.  Stuck up here with you.  Scoot."

With some judicious pushing and shoving and not-a-little illegal use of elbows, they found just enough room to sit side-by-side without actually touching.

Probably as good as it was going to get.

"You can't actually mean to stay up here," Damian protested before any kind of companionable silence could settle.  "There isn't room."

"Not so much," Tim agreed wryly.  "Guess it depends on how long you're not coming down for.  I mean is this a not-right-now kind of a thing?  Not until dinner?  Patrol?  Or is this a never-ever-ever coming down again?  In which case," Tim teased, looking at the small stockpile, "you're going to need more supplies."

"Don't be ridiculous, Drake."

Tim hummed, and Damian visibly struggled for a moment before the next bit came out:

"I'm not coming down until they fix Grayson."

Interesting.

"That could be a while," Tim offered cautiously.

"Then I'll wait!" Damian snapped.

Tim bit his lip.  "Saying you could," he bartered, ignoring the immediate return jab of trained by the League of Assassins.  "Saying you could and would and did," Tim continued.  "Why bother?"

Damian didn't answer.

"You don't have to befriend him or anything," Tim argued swiftly--just in case.  "But can't you just . . . I dunno . . . ignore him for a bit?  Nicely, I mean, but just pretend--"

Tim hadn't expected the interruption which was what made Damian's small confession so shocking.

"I'm not nice."

The boy's head jerked up as if he'd surprised himself, and Tim found himself on the receiving end of a very Wayne-like glower.

"Grayson knows that," Damian added pointedly.  And then:  "I made him cry."

Tim was still struggling with the appropriate response, because obviously Damian made Dick cry.  That's why Tim was up here in the first place.

Damian made Dick cry.  Damian promptly hid in the ceiling . . . which of course made Dick cry harder.

Tim decided on the mostly-neutral response of "So what?"

Damian looked at him as if questioning Tim's sanity--which was nothing new.  Then the kid looked away.

"We can't be partners when he's like this."

Tim was not qualified to deal with Damian.  He just wasn't.  If the situation was anything but what it was, Tim would be climbing down right now and sending Dick up to take his place.  Dick was the demon-whisperer--not Tim.  Tim was the rival and everyone liked it that way--including Tim.

And Damian knew it, because the ten year old turned back to him with flashing eyes and vicious triumph in his voice.  "So you can just go away, Drake.  Go away.  Go down and play house with Brown and . . . and him!  I'm.  Not.  Moving."

Tim considered this.  He considered the sulking preteen next to him, and Tim considered what awaited them both below.

And then he dug into his utility belt for a pack of cards.

Jason released the weapon and let out his breath slowly; he hadn't realized he was holding it.

"You," he directed at his older brother, crushing his abandoned cigarette before Nightwing did something stupid like roll over onto it.  "You are going to pull that crap on the wrong person someday, and it's going to get you killed."

Dick shrugged without getting up.

"A hug, 'Wing," Jason insisted with all the appropriate disgust.  "You are going to die for a hug."

The man seemed unrepentant.

"Jerk," Jason added without heat as he settled himself on the roof next to his older brother's sprawled form.  He lit a fresh cigarette--because he deserved one for lack of bloodshed and aggravating family members all in one night--and inhaled meditatively.  "I hope the kid stabs you.  It isn't nice to surprise assassins like that."

"You're not an assassin," Dick mumbled, moving at last even if it was only to bury his face in Jason's thigh.

The Red Hood allowed it if only to watch Nightwing's face when he promptly recoiled.  Mucking through Gotham sewers was no one's idea of a good time.

"I'm a bad man," Jason said once Dick gave in and sat up properly.  "Not nice surprising us either."

"I thought you heard me coming," Dick remonstrated softly without looking at Jason.

Now Jason had to look away.  Silicone soled boots or no, it was embarrassing to be caught off guard by another Bat, but Jason had been a little less hero and a little more man as he gave in to the rare urge for a nice long chain-smoking binge.

Preoccupied was the word.  Preoccupied with Robins (not-Robins) and scoreboards and stupid kids holding onto both . . .

"Been a rough night," Jason muttered, returning to the comfort of his cigarette.  He'd tried quitting, but it was the meditative process that pulled him back--not the nicotine.  "The kind that makes a guy wonder whether it's worth the bother."

Responsibility for the misbehaving masses chafed.  The rules were ironclad whether Jason was keeping them or not, but the villains, civillians, heroes . . . well, those lines kept shifting.

And sidekicks never stayed where they were put.

"Been there before," Dick acknowledged, staring out over the city.  "Revisit frequently."

Still here went unspoken, and Jason let that silence settle.

It was rare, the original Boy Wonder being in a less-than-chatty mood.  It was also pretty rare to see Nightwing flying solo these days with an ever-expanding flock of bats and birds vying for his attention.

"Scarecrow released a new form of fear gas in the Narrows," Dick provided as if reading Jason's mind.  "Red Robin's on it," he added before Jason could respond.  "Batman and Robin on the way."  The corners of Dick's mouth twisted in a smile that was more of a grimace.  "They gave me Batgirl's patrol.  Finals week, you know?"

And Dick had a certain hyper-sensitivity to fear gas after his stint as Batman.  Mature, grown-up Jason would have benched him too.

Keep the best of them safe and out of harm's way.

And the part of him that was still fifteen and Robin--the part that he kept buried way down deep--that part would have ignored orders and gone anyway just like Sasha had earlier.  So long as the baby birds made it back to the nest, they could laugh about it.  No one ever let themselves think about not making it back until it was too late.

They all had that in common--even Dick.

Yet, here the man sat all on his lonesome.

And it could have been a very responsible, adult Batman-like decision . . . if Dick didn't reek of his usual self-blame.

People said the Red Hood was crazy, but they should take a look inside the golden child's head.  It was a real trip.

Jason gave up on solitude, stubbed out his cigarette and scooted closer.  Dick didn't so much as twitch when Jason wrapped both arms around his brother's shoulders, resting his chin on the top of Dick's head.

"Kids are gonna make it back.  Always do."

Even if they came back more like him and less like what they were, Gotham would never let her favorites go.  Dick had run, and look where that got him?  Right back to the city of nightmares.

Might as well make the most of what they could, Jason reasoned as he rested his chin against Dick's dark head.

"We just gotta wait," he said aloud.  "Couple o' spoiled, pain in the ass, inconsiderate kids is all.  We can wait 'em out, no sweat."

“Two o’clock!”

“Jason’s got it,” Dick breathed softly, as he rocked the controls gently.  The ship curved gracefully away from the ensuing explosion as his brother put an end to the Alliance’s ground pursuit.  “Steph?”

“Let’s get crazy, Batmen,” the pretty blonde mechanic chirped over the comm.

Dick let a smile slide across his face.  “You might want to hold onto something.”  Years of experience had his former-guardian diving for the co-pilot’s seat and restraints.  “Time to fly,” Dick murmured, pulling the ship into a sharp ascent.  The Alliance’s short-range vessel followed.

Higher.  Higher.  Higher.

The Alliance couldn’t follow outside the atmosphere, but the smugglers weren’t going anywhere—not with one of their own on the ground.  However, if the Alliance chose to think poorly of the crew . . . Dick Grayson could work with that.

As expected, the scout peeled off before they hit the threshold.  The highly-trained military pilot began a controlled descent, but Dick Grayson worked without a net.

“Here we go!”

Amid scattered curses, Dick flipped the entire ship into a looping dive that would guarantee at least a four minute lead if not scatter any remaining vehicles in wreckage and parachutes.

Bruce let him have at it for a minute, but was decidedly green by the time the older man grabbed the comm.  “Thrusters!  Thrusters!”

Dick and Steph had this move down to an exact science, but the rest of the crew got a little antsy with the rapidly approaching ground.  Especially the Captain.

Sighing, Dick flipped a switch, and counted down from three.  An answering roar from the engine room and the brilliantly gleaming reflection of the Firefly’s engines in the water below announced the joint-exercise’s complete success.

Dick brought the ship into a lazy hover just over the beach where a lovely redhead surely waited.  “I’m an acrobat,” he announced in quiet triumph, settling back in his seat with a light touch on the controls.

“What-you-are is late, Boy Wonder,” Barbara announced over the comm.

“I stopped for directions,” Dick teased, waving even though she couldn’t see him from across the beach.  Judging by the pile of unconscious bodies surrounding her, Barbara had already dealt with her escort.  “I thought you liked that in a spouse.”

“It is one of your more redeeming qualities,” Barbara hummed.

Dick made a wounded noise as he lowered the hatch, but Babs ignored it to finish reprogramming the skid.

Jason loped across the sand after her with Vera casually balanced over one shoulder and a self-satisfied smirk on his face.  “You see that shot, Red?”

“Do you see me reinventing the Cortex here?” Barbara shot back, but it was a playful jibe.

It had been a good day, Dick decided as he sat back in his chair.  His wife got shiny new toys.  Jason got to shoot things.  Steph got to taunt people, and Dick got to fly like the devil himself was after them.

“Good mission,” he announced, ignoring his cranky boss and preparing to make their swift--and clean--getaway.

Bruce only grunted at him.

On strict orders from Alfred, Bruce casually slipped a hand into the carry-all and felt around its confines discreetly.

"Don't even think about it, Father."

Foiled, Bruce withdrew his hand sans camera.  Damian didn't even look up from his self-appointed task.

"It's an excellent build," Bruce tried gamely.  "We should at least document it for Alfred's scrapbook."

"Tt," Damian scoffed.  "I fully intend to do so before we leave, but I see no reason for my presence in the photographs."  He gestured irritably at his brightly-coloured swimtrunks.  "This is hardly a dignified ensemble befitting a Wayne."

Bruce snorted.  "You haven't seen some of the suits that Dick insisted upon over the years."

"Grayson is clearly colourblind," Damian sniffed imperiously.  "I have told him so, Father, so if you have been ignoring it out of concern for his feelings all these years, you need not worry any longer."  Damian corrected a wayward twig.   "I think he took it rather well."

Bruce kept his expression suitably grave as he recovered the camera at last.  "Well, that's a relief, I must say."

Damian nodded absently, still studying their handiwork with a critical eye.

Bruce crouched swiftly, turning off the flash and snapping a few quick shots in a matter of seconds.  He didn't have Tim's eye for photography, but at least one should be of satisfactory quality . . . providing he had kept his fingers well away from the lens.

"Fath-er," Damian complained, stepping away from the castle.

"Sorry," Bruce offered with very little regret, "Alfred said so."

Damian grumbled under his breath, but came when Bruce held out his arm and leaned into his father's side.

"It's a wonderful castle," Bruce told Damian, taking another picture of the creation to appease his son.  "Very detailed.  The Functioning Drawbridge of '99 has some stiff competition at last."

This time, the "tt" sound was distinctly pleased.

Bruce squeezed his son's small shoulders and enjoyed the way Damian relaxed into the embrace.

"What do you say, Son?" Bruce murmured, flipping the camera in his hands.  "Just one more for the scrapbook?"

"Well, not at that angle," Damian huffed, rescuing the device.  "You'll lop off both our heads like that.  Reypenaer."

Bruce barely processed the non sequitur in time to flash his pearly white teeth at the camera.  He hoped Damian had done the same, but honestly, there were too few pictures of the boy to quibble over what expression he chose to wear in them.

"You owe me," Damian informed him as the boy looped the camera around his own neck for safekeeping.  At Bruce's confusion, his son elaborated:  "I just saved you from both Pennyworth's ire and Drake's disdain."  The corners of Damian's mouth twitched upwards--five.  "I shall take my compensation in ice cream, Father."

"I suppose that could be arranged," Bruce agreed bemusedly.  "I take it you want to try the ice cream we told you about?"

"Cassandra said it was quite good," Damian protested, hopping around him as Bruce dug their shirts out from under everything else.  "And Drake waxed poetic all night long."  Damian skipped the buttons in favor of stuffing his feet into their discarded sandals, but he was young enough that no one on the boardwalk would care.  "And you . . . you said that it was your favorite, Father."

"So I did," Bruce agreed, holding out his hand.

Damian was just at the age when the others had started to refuse it, but he still seized his father's hand readily enough.  Of course, Bruce was also distracting him with the promise of junk food not normally allowed in the Manor.

The resort was quiet in the off-season despite the perfect weather.  Bruce recognized a handful of the other patrons, but he kept his focus on Damian's hesitant chatter.

He had heard the story before--some unfortunate surfing expedition undertaken by the Titans--but had not previously realized that Damian bad behaviour had actually been a crafty plot to avoid having to get on a surfboard himself.

"I can teach you," he offered, when Damian ran out of words.  "Not today, I'm afraid," Bruce frowned, glancing up at the sky, "but soon . . . definitely before your next visit to the Tower, I pro--"

Damian looked up instantly at Bruce's slip with Robin already sliding into place.

Bruce barely resisted the urge to block the boy's view.

It was already too late; Damian had closed himself off so completely that Bruce could almost hear the slam of a steel door coming down behind his son's normally expressive eyes.

It had been such a good day, he lamented as Talia approached them purposefully.

Talia smoothly slipped her arm through Bruce's free one.  "And where are you two heading now?" she greeted them with cheerful mock-suspicion.

Bruce cleared his throat.  "Damian wanted to try the soft-serve ice cream."

"That sounds lovely," Talia murmured, turning to include Damian although she thankfully stayed on her side of Bruce.  "Chocolate or vanilla, darling?"

Damian had to work at the response, but his voice was almost normal by the time he ventured: "Father said that it was possible to sample both on the same cone."

Talia gave a little laugh.  "What a novelty . . . I should like to try the same, Beloved," she teased, perching on tiptoe to press a kiss to Bruce's cheek.

"I suppose that could be arranged," Bruce allowed, unintentionally echoing his words to Damian.  His son's small hand was clutching at his own with almost bruising strength, and Bruce squeezed back as they proceeded down the boardwalk.

They must have made quite the family picture, Bruce speculated as they approached the striped awning.  In another universe, it could have even been real--Damian's childish dream come true.

Bruce wondered if Damian missed the days when it still seemed a possibility in this one.

He barely heard Talia's banter with the girl behind the counter or the teasing suggestion that the adults would share a cone.  He simply kept the smile on his face as he made agreeable noises, paid for the treats and began calculating possible extraction points.

Damian accepted his cone and swiftly moved a few feet ahead of them to settle on a cement stand for the coin-operated binoculars that dotted the rails.

Bruce almost reminded the boy to keep close, but he doubted the wisdom of allowing Damian to hear whatever Talia had to say.

With that thought in mind, Bruce escorted Talia to portion of the railing just out of earshot and leaned against the worn wood.  They stood in silence, both pretending to look at the ocean when they were really watching their son struggle to keep ahead of his treat.

Bruce wondered if the boy even tasted his prize.

"I'm impressed," Talia remarked, managing her cone neatly.  "You can barely make out the scarring."

"I'll thank you to keep such thoughts to yourself," Bruce managed levelly.  "Unless you'd like Damian to hear the story behind your own."

Talia touched the fine line across her cheek.  "I'm suprirsed it hasn't become a favourite bedtime story," she returned.  "Miss Brown has so few tales of glory to call her own."

"I wouldn't say that," Bruce censured mildly.  He couldn't help the proud smile.  "She did bring St. Hadrian's down from the inside after all."

"Touche."

They looked up almost as one to find Damian watching them.  He dropped his gaze, but he was successfully staying ahead of the would-be drips now by employing his mother's technique.

"He has always been the most beautiful little boy," Talia mused fondly.

Bruce thought so, but he was a parent and biased.  "He looks too much like me at that age," he argued instead, "but I suppose he'll grow into those ears someday."  He chuckled.  "I did."

"They're lovely," Talia protested.

"Not when you're eleven," Bruce countered.

Was this what they were doing now?  Making small talk about their child and pretending that the last year had never happened?

Bruce suddenly felt both his age and the exhaustion that followed.  "What do you want, Talia?"

The dark-haired woman polished off the last of her cone and dabbed delicately at her lips with the paper napkin. It was a strange effect; the Talia that he had known was meant for gelato and actual silver, ancient cities and dedicated wooing.

They had not been those people in some time.

Crisp and professional now, Talia was blunt: "I am here to renegotiate our current custody arrangement."

"No."

It was cold, seething, and final.

Talia pushed anyway.  "He is my child, Bruce, and I miss him.  Hard as it may be for you to believe, I love Damian dearly."

Bruce couldn't even get the words out through his sheer rage.

"I made a mistake, Beloved.  I only ask for the chance to rectify it."  She laid her slim hand over his own white knuckles.  "Please, Bruce, he is my son."

"You lost any right to call yourself his mother when you put a bounty on his head," Bruce managed quietly.  "If there was ever any real affection between the two of us, it was destroyed when you had my son killed to make a point."

"I know you're both angry at me," Talia insisted.  "You have every right to be, and I will do whatever it takes to make it up to him . . ."

"You can't make something like this up, Talia!" Bruce whispered harshly, leaning in only to keep his words between them.

He had to be ever mindful of the too-inquisitive child that was perfectly capable of reading their lips at this distance.  Talia did not seem to share the same burden. 

"Damian is not angry.  This is not a snit.  He is not punishing you.  He is hurt and confused and . . . and your son is afraid of you, Talia."  Bruce took a deep breath.  "Angry doesn't even begin to cover what I feel let alone Damian's feelings on the matter."

Talia was silent, but Bruce could see the argument formulating in her expressive eyes.  Bruce looked away; he didn't care to hear it.

"Damian is staying in Gotham with Dick.  It's his home now.  It's where Damian wants to be.  And," Bruce exhaled slowly, "it's where he's safest . . . from the both of us."

"That isn't fair."

"I don't care."  Bruce forced himself to meet Talia's eyes again, and Damian might look like him in miniature, but the expressions . . . the expressions were all Talia.  "I will not renegotiate."  Bruce steeled himself against the pain in her eyes by remembering the pain in blue ones.  "You have until the end of the boardwalk, Talia, and then I need you to leave."

"You have no right," Talia swore softly, "no right at all, Bruce, to stand between a mother and her child.  Damian needs me."

"Damian needs you to stay out of his life," Bruce corrected, "until such a time when he is willing to invite you back in."

He pushed away from the railing and signaled for Damian to rejoin him.  If Talia had a hand to play, he wanted Damian in reach.  The woman's eyes flashed, but for now she seemed to followed his lead, linking their arms once more as Damian approached, scrambling up the rails to put himself at their level.

"Did you see anything interesting?" Bruce asked, forcing a jovial tone.

"Just some boats," Damian shrugged, camera catching on the now-closed buttons of his shirt.  With the scar hidden away, Damian seemed to have regained some of his equilibrium although the boy was careful to keep Bruce between mother and son.  "The beach, if you angle the scope just right.  Our castle is still standing."

"High tide is a ways off yet," Bruce agreed. "We could come back later if you want to watch it come in."

Damian considered it, but shook his head.  "I'm tired."

"Too much sun," Talia chided gently, peering around Bruce.  "And you have ice cream . . ."

Damian flinched from her touch and would have fallen from his perch if not for the woman's quick reflexes.  For a long moment, they remained locked together in some kind of frozen tableau.

"Enough, Talia."

It was too harsh, he realized, for Damian's hearing, but Talia obeyed.  Her serene expression did not waver as she retreated and tucked both hands back into the safety of Bruce's elbow.

"Your cheek, Dear One," she murmured.  "Yes, there."

Damian didn't look at either of them as he rubbed self-consciously at the smear.

"Damian," Bruce murmured, gentling his voice and waiting permission to lift his son--down from the fence or up into Bruce's arms proper, the choice was Damian's.

He didn't receive it.  Damian slid from the rail under his own power, landing solidly on both feet with the sharp slap of his sandals meeting the wooden surface.  "Yes, Father?"

Bruce studied his son.  "Do you want to keep going?  There's a souvenir shop at the end where you can personalize keychains or bracelets.  It might make a nice souvenir."

Damian considered it, but shook his head.  "Maybe next time," he murmured.  "I'm tired."  His hands fluttered over the camera, and Bruce regretted making the boy leave his mobile in the car.

"We should collect our things and get going then," he agreed.  "We can stop for dinner on the way."

"No, I shall go," Talia offered.  Her voice was soft, and her expression contemplative.  "You still have much left to do in this place."

Damian shook his head again.  "I'm tired," he repeated, with a plaintive note.  His arms twitched at his side, but did not raise in mute appeal.

Bruce wasn't the World's Greatest Detective for nothing.

"It's a long drive back to Gotham," he defended, releasing Talia to crouch beside his son.  Damian accepted the offer this time, curling into Bruce' hold.  "He might sleep in the car."

It was a thin excuse, but Talia accepted it.  "Yes, that would be good for him, I think."  She raised one hand tentatively.  "May I?"

Damian turned away and buried his face in Bruce's neck.

Talia cupped her hand around Bruce's jaw instead and leaned in to press two kisses there.  "One for you," she explained, "and one for Damian . . . until we meet again."

Bruce watched her go--still the beautiful woman that he had once known, still the powerhouse hidden under the pretty trappings, and still the woman who had given him the child in his arms.

She meant something to him once and probably always would.

Damian meant more.

His son was quivering in his arms, but before Bruce could make any attempt at comfort, Damian twisted suddenly.  "Mother!"

Talia paused.

One arm remained tightly locked around Bruce's neck, but Damian cautiously extended the other one, pointing towards the binoculars.

"If you stay," the boy called out haltingly.  "If you stay, you could see my castle from there."

Bruce waited to see if Talia would see the childish request for what it was.

You said you'd do anything, he urged silently.  Anything to make it up to him.  It's not possible, but I want to see you try, Talia.  You have to try.

"But of course," Talia agreed and Bruce could breathe again.

It was not an old fight, but it was rehashed about once a year with no less fervor than their initial argument and loss adding a strange bite to familiar words.

For the first time, however, the fight seemed to come to a swift standstill as Tim gaped at the younger hero over the locked wooden staves.

Damian was more than capable of holding his gaze now; his legal brother was and would always be younger, but at seventeen, the most recent graduate of Robin red was no smaller than his predecessor.

"You hold me accountable for decisions that I do not regret," Damian bit off, the steel in his voice ringing as if they were crossing blades rather than the handier wooden training weapons.  "Therefore, I do not require your forgiveness."

"You tried to kill me!"

So what, the tired accusation seemed to wither in mid-air, trauma and nosebleeds, broken cases and stolen jackets were all par for the course in Gotham . . . *I was here first, stink-face.*

"If I had been serious about finishing you off, I would have done so while you lay unconscious in the wreckage."

Empty promises and the could-have, should-have, would-haves held even less weight than the seven year old accusation, no matter how true the words might ring.  *I could beat you up.  I could . . . if I wanted to.*

"You really are a sociopath," Tim grunted, putting more of his weight into the staff.

"Inaccurate," Damian corrected, the pressure of his stance not letting up in the slightest.  "I have both empathy and a moral code, Drake.  Do you?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Tim returned coldly, folding abruptly under their combined weight and rolling as Damian stumbled over him.

"You uphold Father's code, because you have none of your own," Damian challenged, using the safety railing as a springboard back into the fight.  "Every display of heroism is only a grain of sand meant to balance the scales of your own selfish intent."

Damian made the mistake of swinging his weapon wide, and Tim spun his own, stabbing upward into Damian's gut.  The younger fighter stumbled backwards, but stolen wind could be regained . . . and swiftly too.

"It is another whisper of doubt in our ears," Damian continued, falling back to recalculate.  His voice rose slightly, affecting Dick's more lyrical cadence:  "Oh no, not him.  Not Tim."

Tim aimed a high kick at Damian's skull, but the younger man ducked neatly without pressing a physical advantage.  He didn't need to when the rapid-fire wordplay was already in his favor.

"Not Tim," Damian countered in Steph's bemused tones, because Bruce was still off-limits to the both of them.  "Not my Tim, not my prince charming, not my hero."

"One of these days," Tim exhaled a word on every measured breath, "I really will rip your vocal chords out."

"If only you could divest yourself of that lying tongue so easily," Damian bared his teeth in what might have been a grin.

How cute; the Batman thought that he had actually won.

"How slippery the truth becomes when it stands in the way of your random crusades . . ."

Tim pitched his staff across the floor at just the right speed and angle to catch in the younger man's gait and send Damian crashing to the floor.

Tim had his boot planted in the center of his brother's chest before Damian could roll, much less shove himself upright.  "Are they really that random?" Tim challenged softly.

Damian snarled, but didn't try to lift the boot.  He knew the kind of surprises secreted away in every inch of their armor.  "I have been over every file," Damian seethed.  "I have read every report, and I see no pattern."

Tim clucked softly, finding something of his mother in the sound and perhaps something of Alfred in the mercy he showed his wayward charge.

"I do what is needed," the new (the last, the eternal) Robin whispered, "for those who have need of me . . . as long as they need me."

He released Damian.

"Who would need you, Drake?" the younger man demanded resentfully, rubbing at the tone-on-tone Bat newly emblazoned across his chest.