MOTHER OF THE SUN, WHERE ARE YOU?

It's been a hard week for the both of them, leads going cold, the frequent and frankly annoying number of ambushes he'd walked into, and escaped, though not unscathed. It's frustrating work, unrewarding at times, when having all the information isn't enough, and punching some bad-guys doesn't yield relevant results or satisfaction.

At least, Dick knows these things take time, he's used to it, and sometimes the only way to get all the pieces together in a way that makes sense, is to take a break.... Even if said break happens to align with needing to nurse a nasty case of whiplash, bloody knuckles and bruised ribs. In any case Alfred's frequent shadow in the door is warning enough to stay in.

The soft drone of late night commercials, mindless television and the consistent hum of centralized air conditioning is quickly proving itself to be a supremely effective sleep aid. Dick's gaze sweeps downwards lazily, eyelids heavy, yet keeping himself up just a little longer. His brother's face is wedged comically between the crook of his elbow and ribcage. He thinks he really does look like a fledgling, hair mussed up like he's only just begun growing feathers... Even the typical stern set of Damian's jaw and furrowed brows has relaxed, sleep finally having eased some of the weight of the world from the little Wayne's shoulders. It's odd to feel bittersweetness in safety, grief in tandem with experience has its own way to make you miss a moment while it occurs.