Dick's Gym

"Oh man, I thought you were kidding about the trapeze," Frank laughed.

"Would I lie to you?" Dick asked, an expression of mock hurt on his face.

"Well, you still haven't told me the secret to your cocoa is," he teased.

"It's more or less a family secret."

"More or less? How can something be more or less a family secret?"

"Well, I learned it from Alfred, who was the butler of my adopted father."

"I guess I can see why you say more or less then."

"Alfred's family in all the ways that count. What I meant was, I don't think Bruce knows the secret."

"Bruce?"

"My adoptive father. He's probably living on microwavable food now that Alfred's dead."

"Oh jeez, I'm sorry…"

"It's okay, it was a few years ago." Dick changed the subject quickly. "So, what do you want to try out first?"

"I have no idea," Frank said, taking the hint. "I mean, I've seen gyms that were less well-stocked than this."

"And I don't even have the stuff I use for physical therapy here. But I get your point. I've had most of this stuff for a long time, since I first moved here. I'd get rid of some of it since I don't need it anymore, but sometimes when my friends come over they use it."

"The trapeze too?"

"You'd be surprised. Sometimes I can talk people up on it, if only for my own nostalgia." It wasn't the good kind of nostalgia, but the kind that renewed his hatred of his knee which was too stiff to bend enough to grab a trapeze bar with.

Frank laughed. "I don't think I'll be going up there, so don't even try to convince me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dick grinned. "You aren't trained for it. And you're too out of shape."

"Out of shape?" Frank asked, outraged. "I'll have you know that I am in perfect shape!"

"Oh really?" Dick asked, a gleam in his eye and a wicked smile on his face.

***

"That's it," Frank panted, collapsing onto the floor. "I'm done."

"I thought you were in perfect shape," Dick taunted, looking like he could go on forever even though he'd been pushing himself even harder than he'd been pushing Frank.

"I am," Frank replied. "You're just a freak."

"Like I haven't heard that one before." Dick rolled his eyes.

Late Night Surgery

They were working late, trying to figure out yet another serial murder. Outside, the rain that had started only an hour ago was coming down in torrents.

"Are you all right?" Frank asked, seeing Dick surreptitiously at his knee.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Dick replied, and the fact that he didn't bite Frank's head off was as great an indicator of his pain as anything was.

"No you aren't," Frank insisted, not allowing himself to be deterred by Dick's glare. "And you know it. I get it, you're tough, but you have to take care of yourself."

"Fine, I'm in pain," Dick snapped. "But that doesn't change the fact that there's a serial killer out there."

"And you think we're going to catch him tonight, when you're in pain and we're both sleep deprived?" Frank shot back. "Come on, I'll drop you at your place."

"I don't need a ride," Dick said irritably.

"Like I'm going to let my partner take a motorcycle in this weather," Frank said sarcastically. "Especially since I know what you call driving."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with my driving!" Dick insisted, just as he always did. But then he admitted, "A ride would be good. But I'm not going to let you leave me without transportation so you'll have to stay over. We can work on the case." He tossed the file into his backpack.

***

"This is it," Dick said. "You can park anywhere." Frank parked as close to the door as he could. At the door, Dick entered what must be a 20-digit passcode into a keypad, his fingers moving too quickly for Frank to catch any of the digits. Only then did he put his key into the lock. "Electrified if you don't do it right," he explained with a grin.

Inside the building, Dick stuck their umbrellas in an umbrella holder, and who really had one of those? The downstairs rooms seemed to be mostly unused, which was confirmed when Dick started up the stairs. Frank followed with a mental shrug.

"So what is this place?" he asked. "It looked like an apartment building from the outside, and I can see that a little on the inside too, but it's clear that you're the only one who lives here."

"It was an apartment building," Dick replied. "But I didn't buy it so I could collect rent."

"Wait, so…you're loaded like Tim is?" Frank asked.

"It isn't difficult to collect a bit of money when you pay attention," Dick said enigmatically. For a second Frank wondered if he was dirty, but it was Dick. There wasn't a chance that he was anything other than squeaky clean. "Make yourself at home." He limped into the kitchen and grabbed a pill bottle. "It's true, you know," he said, filling a glass with water. "The rain makes it hurt more. And not just my knee, although that's certainly the worst."

"You have other old injuries?" Frank knew he did; he'd seen Dick's arms, covered with old scars, when they were in Gotham.

"I broke a lot of bones when I was a kid." Dick was more relaxed here, to the point of hopping up to sit on the counter. Frank thought he saw a glimmer of what Dick had been like before the shooting. "I mean, a lot. My X-rays are interesting to look at."

"Why did you break so many bones? I mean, was it abuse or what?"

A private smile appeared on Dick's face. "No way. My parents were great. But we were trapeze artists in Haly's Circus. Then after they died I had a…very physical afterschool job. Like pro sports level of physical."

"You were a trapeze artist?" Frank had heard from the other detectives about how active Dick had been before he got shot, but he didn't think any of them knew how active he'd been before he'd become a cop.

"Like I said, when I was a kid." He smirked. "I'd offer to show you my trapeze, but it's in a warehouse."

"You have a trapeze?" The amusement Frank felt was evident in his voice.

"Doesn't everybody?" Dick tossed back with a grin, but almost immediately the grin was wiped off. "Did you hear that?" Dick asked, and didn't wait for a reply before he hopped down from the counter and began limping through the rooms. Frank trailed behind, although he hadn't heard anything. He hurried to catch up, though, when Dick stopped dead in a doorway and started muttering curses. On the floor of what looked like a den, in front of an open window through which so much rain was coming that the carpet was already soaked, was Batman. The water around him was already turning red.

"Close the window and do what you can," Dick said, and left the room. Frank couldn't figure out why, but he did what Dick asked, but besides closing the window all he could do was turn Batman over and make sure he was breathing. He couldn't figure out how to get the armor off. He was reaching for the mask when he got hit on the back of his hand with Dick's cane. "Don't," Dick warned, and started removing things from the cart he had been pushing.

"I couldn't figure out how to get the costume off," Frank told him.

"Probably a good thing that you didn't try harder," Dick said. "It's booby-trapped."

"Who booby traps their clothes?" Frank asked. "Wait, how do you know?"

Dick didn't reply other than to start cursing under his breath again. He did something to Batman's belt, and then quickly removed the apparently disarmed costume to reveal a body with scars upon scars, and fresh wounds leaking a lot of blood. "Do you know any first aid or am I going to have to do this all myself?" Dick asked, then cut himself off. "Whatever. Just get the gauze out and apply pressure to the wounds and I'll do the rest." He started rummaging through the cart.

"Shouldn't we call an ambulance?" Frank ventured, applying pressure. "He doesn't look like he's in good shape."

"Don't worry," Dick replied. "I can handle a few bullet wounds."

"You do seem rather, um, stocked up on medical supplies," Frank said. His mind was still spinning. How had Dick known how to remove Batman's costume? The only possibility he could think of involved both Dick and Batman being gay, and Dick was too much of a ladies' man for him to believe that. "So do you know Batman?"

"I used to live in Gotham," Dick said as if it explained everything, attaching a bag filled with a clear liquid to Batman's arm with a needle and tubing. It looked like he'd done it before. He was wearing latex gloves now. He shooed Frank away from the wounds and peeked at them, and handed Frank a tray with surgical instruments on it.

"Somehow I don't think every Gothamite knows how to remove Batman's booby-trapped costume," Frank said pointedly.

"You're fishing," Dick growled, using something like pliers to pull a bullet out of Batman. It fell in the metal dish with a rattle, and he switched to a prethreaded needle.

"Do you blame me?"

"No." Dick's stitches were sure, his hands steady. "But the less you know, the less that can be tortured out of you."

"Just tell me one thing and I'll drop it."

Dick switched to the next wound. "What." It wasn't a question, wasn't a guarantee that he'd answer, but it was enough.

"Were you two, you know…"

"In a relationship?" amusement colored Dick's voice. "Not the way you mean it, no. I…helped him with some cases." Again there was the pause to consider phrasing that Dick used a lot when he talked about his past, like he wanted to tell the truth but not in a way that actually told anything.

Frank nodded and never brought it up again. In the morning Batman was gone.

The Lives of Robins

Dick didn't bother to disguise his pain anymore, and that, Barbara thought, was the most telling thing. He plopped down in the chair in front of her desk and dropped a thick file folder on her desk.

"Hard copy?" She asked, mouth quirking. "How…Luddite."

"You of all people should know everything that can be done with computers," Dick said. And she did, and appreciated the care they were taking with whatever this was. She reached out to open the folder.

"Don't." His voice stopped her as effectively as Bruce's ever had, back in the day.

"I was part of it too," she said, but she didn't try to look again.

"You weren't a Robin," he said, and she could see the layers in that, even if she only knew what a few of them actually were.

"You think there's going to be another Robin?"

"It's like Tim always said, Batman needs a Robin," Dick said ruefully. "It's only a matter of time."

"This isn't a game," Barbara told him. "You of all people should know that."

"Neither of our injuries was because we were Bats," he reminded her. "But you're right. And that's part of why we all quit. But it's also part of why we stayed as long as we did." His piercing blue eyes reminded her of what it was like when they fought crime together, reminded her why they did it, and why they did it the way they did.

"Dick-"

"Look, just- whenever there's a new Robin. Give it to him. Or her," he added. "Maybe it'll make their path smoother than ours were."

***

It was so schway that he knew Batman, Matt thought, even if he was Terry. And now he was Robin even if Terry said he wouldn't let him. Terry couldn't stop him; he was only Matt's brother.

"Matt McGinnis?" he heard, but didn't recognize the voice. He turned around and saw a woman at least as old as Mom in a wheelchair.

"How do you know who I am?" he asked.

"I used to be in the same business your brother's in," she said.

"Mr. Wayne's assistant?" Matt asked.

"Not exactly," she replied, and he realized what she meant. "You want to get some coffee?" Without waiting for a reply she headed towards the coffee shop.

"So why are you talking to me?" Matt asked. "I mean, can't you just talk to Terry?"

"I'm doing a favor for some friends," she said, and then they ordered their coffee. "My treat," she said and paid for his.

"What friends?" Matt asked.

"The former Robins." She put something down on the table and slid it over to him. "I know hard copy's a bit dated, but trust me when I say that it's a lot more secure than anything electronic. And I don't know what this is, but whatever it is you do not want it to fall into the wrong hands."

"You don't know what it is?" he asked, interest piqued. "Why not?"

"The person who gave it to me asked me not to. Since that's how he was with me, you might want to read it before you decide to show it to anybody."

"But why me?" he asked.

"You're the new Robin, aren't you?" she asked in a voice that didn't carry any further than it had to. Before he could say anything, she had disappeared, although he didn't know how somebody in a wheelchair could just disappear like that.

***

It was a guide, or more specifically a collection of the experiences and knowledge of the former Robins. The preface was very specific about its purpose: We were Robins under the first Batman. Each of us faced challenges greater than most people face in their entire lives, but none of us quit until we were ready. We would rather nobody else make the same mistakes we made, but we know there's nothing we can do about it. So this isn't to convince you to hang up the suit, although it is in part a warning. Instead, this is meant to let you know what it's like to be Robin, the good, the bad, and the ugly of it. Because Being Robin is like nothing else.

Matt read, sometimes in horror (there were pictures, and not good pictures either; pictures of crime scenes and victims and battered Robins), and sometimes in excitement (the Robins each described swinging on jump lines). And when he was done, he didn't quit as Robin.

Sparring

It still seemed odd for Dick to just sit there. It was just unnatural for him to sit still. But since the shooting, Dick's mobility was reduced to almost nothing. Most of the time, the most motion he made was limping and leaning heavily on a cane as he walked. And when he did, Tim could, through years of familiarity, see the pain written in every line in his body. He doubted many others could see it, but Dick was in agony whenever he walked. But he knew Dick hated being treated like a cripple, so he ignored it.

But Dick was still Dick, and so he fidgeted, played with the pictures on Tim's desk until Tim would almost be driven mad except that this was Dick, and the fidgeting was a sign that he was getting back to normal. And besides, he'd gotten used to Dick's constant motion and complete disregard for personal space. Mostly.

"What are you doing in Gotham?" he asked. Not that he minded seeing Dick, or saw him infrequently, but it was unusual for him to come during the week.

"Ah, there's a serial killer hitting Bludhaven and Gotham. Nothing major, but, you know, we have to share information. Probably going to be here about a week. On loan, you know."

"You here alone?"

"Nah, I'm paired up with a guy who's been on the force a couple of years. He asked to come along on this trip." Dick shrugged. "I guess he knows somebody who lives in Gotham."

"Not much of a surprise," Tim replied, idly correcting a paper. "Half of Gotham went to Bludhaven during No Man's Land."

"I suppose," Tim replied. "Hey, why don't you stay at my house? God knows we've got the room. Your partner can come too, if he doesn't have anywhere else to stay."

"Let me see if he does," Dick replied, and pulled out a cell phone. "Shouldn't you call Bernard?"

"I called him as soon as I knew you were in town," Tim smirked.

Dick dialed, and the phone on the other end rang. A ringing which was echoed in the hall. Dick pulled the phone back from his ear and looked at it oddly. Then he grabbed his cane and got up as awkwardly as he always did these days.

"Hello?" Dick heard on the phone and in person as he wrenched the door to Tim's office open to reveal his partner. They stared at each other for a second, and then hung up. "You know Professor Drake?" Dick's partner asked.

"You do?" Dick asked.

"Frank Nelson?" Tim said, slightly incredulous. "You're partnered with Dick? Talk about a small world."

"Yeah, we got partnered right before we left to come here. Wait. Did you say Dick?"

"Wow, you guys really haven't been partnered for long," Tim said, eyes dancing. "Did you take separate cars or what?"

"I took my bike," Dick said. "Since I knew I'd be stopping by to visit you and Steph."

"You and that bike…that sure brings back memories. Scary, scary memories of riding behind you." Tim grinned. "It's amazing that they still let you drive." Dick swatted at him, and he ducked with the ease of great experience and continued to Frank. "Dick's going to stay at my house. You should come too, if you don't already have someplace else to go."

"I was going to get a hotel," Frank started.

"Then it's settled, you guys are both staying at my place," Tim said decisively. "Frank, you'd better follow me in your car, since I know Dick's going to beat us home."

***

Tim pulled into the driveway, Frank's car close behind him. Dick's bike, of course, was already parked and riderless.

"Nice neighborhood," Frank commented, looking around at the display of wealthy-suburbia-in-the-city that was the neighborhood. "I didn't know the university paid this well though."

"They don't," Tim replied, bemused. "But the books have been selling well, and my investments have paid off, oh, a number of things."

"Do you have any kids, Professor Drake?" Frank asked.

"Tim, please. You aren't in my class any more."

"Tim." Frank corrected himself.

"No, I don't have any children. Though I certainly see Steph's kids enough. Bernard!" He said happily, seeing the blond man as he opened the door and going over to kiss him shortly. "This is Frank Nelson, Dick's partner. He was one of my students a few years back. Frank, Bernard Dowd, my husband." If Frank was surprised to find that Tim was gay, he didn't show it. "Is Dick in the kitchen?"

"Wolfing down food," Bernard confirmed. "He must be cooking for himself again."

"Yeah, he broke up with his girlfriend last week because he thought she was treating him like a cripple."

"Was she?"

"It's Dick," Time replied as if that explained everything, and perhaps it did to Bernard. Frank made a mental note to avoid anything that could even remotely be construed as treating Dick differently because of his leg.

***

"So are you guys brothers or something?" Frank asked, trying to figure it out. "I mean, you act like you are."

"In a sense," Tim replied. "Nothing official or anything, but I sure feel like he's my older brother." He quickly changed the subject before he'd have to elaborate. "Hey Dick, want to see what we've done with the gym?"

"You did something with the gym since the last time I was here?" Dick asked, interested.

"You haven't been here in a while, remember?" Tim reminded him. "There was Steph's last week, and the funeral the week before that, and the restaurant before that."

"Oh yeah," Dick said, sadness passing over his face as he remembered Alfred's funeral. "So what'd you do to the gym?"

"See for yourself," Tim said, opening the door to the largest room in the house. "The ceiling wasn't high enough for a trapeze, and that's always been more your thing, and obviously I don't have as good of equipment as he does, but it's pretty decent if I may say so myself."

"Wow." Dick was impressed. "Are you going to use all of this, though? You aren't in that business anymore."

"I can still keep in shape though," Tim replied. "And even if I didn't, Steph's kids will."

"With supervision, I hope." Dick cast a longing look over the uneven bars but knew he couldn't land without screaming anymore, and that kind of took the fun out of it.

"Are you kidding? They'll be watched like hawks. Do you know how pissed Steph would be if I got one of her kids hurt?"

"That would be a sight to see," Dick said. "Hey, wanna spar? I think the kid needs to be shown how it's done."

"Needs to be shown you getting knocked on your out-of-shape ass, you mean." Tim's eyes gleamed. "You know where your equipment is. I have to get changed." He disappeared into another room. Dick went into what looked like a locker room. A locker room in a house? Frank was learning more about his partner and his former professor than he'd ever imagined.

"Armed or unarmed?" Dick shouted.

"How about unarmed to start with, and then we can switch to armed when we really want to give Frank a show?" Tim shouted back, reentering the gym in a sleeveless shirt and shorts. Bernard tugged Frank over to sit where they could see the mat well as Dick came back into the room, attired similarly to Tim but with a knee brace.

"Fine with me," Dick replied, stretching in a way that made the observers wince. Tim's stretches were only a smidge shallower. Finally they finished, having stretched thoroughly, and Dick actually put his cane down. Frank was surprised; Dick didn't seem like the type to use a cane if he didn't absolutely need one. On the mat, the combatants dropped into what Frank recognized as ready positions. Beside him, Bernard grinned.

"I love it when they do this," he explained. "There's nothing else like it."

Tim and Dick wore identical blank expressions, all traces of their former teasing wiped clean. They circled for a second, and then closed in a flurry of blows too fast to follow which ended with Tim in an upright pin until he threw Dick onto the mat. Dick flipped upright without any delay and they closed again, this time separating by flipping in opposite directions, Dick landing on only his good leg. It seemed to be the only concession he was making to the pain he must be in every time he used his leg. Without speaking a word, they each headed to the edge of the mat and grabbed a weapon, Tim something which lengthened to become a staff and Dick his cane which split into two escrima sticks at a practiced twist from his hands. And then they were at it again, as evenly matched with weapons as they were unarmed. They kept sparring, sweat flying off of them, until Dick forgot and made a landing on his bad leg. Before the cry of agony he couldn't prevent from coming out of his mouth had stopped, Tim had dropped the staff and was catching him as he fell.

"Shit," Dick cursed, involuntary tears in his eyes. "I hate this."

"It isn't your fault," Tim said.

"It's not that," Dick replied. "I could stand it if it had happened in the line of duty, or if it had been personal, or if the bastards had been caught, but it was just a random drive-by shooting and the perps got off scot-free. And I can't do anything, anymore."

"It was the only way they could have ever put you out of commission," Tim teased. "Besides, it just brings you down to the level of the rest of us."

"If that's the level of the rest of us, you must have amazingly high standards," Frank interjected, still stunned by their fight. He wished he could have seen Dick fight before he'd gotten kneecapped.

Dick offered a weak smile. "I don't go that far very often anymore. It takes too long to recover from to be worth it. But I teach some of the officers, so if you want to learn you can join the classes."

"Definitely," Frank said enthusiastically.

The Former Robins Club

This is an AU based on the concept that all of the Robins quit and went into civilian life, and what their lives are like. For the most part it follows the comicverse, with certain obvious exceptions. AU-ish spoilers up to War Games.

Dick Grayson
Dick Grayson, G
Detective's Exam, G
Sparring, PG (language)
Late Night Surgery, G
Dick's Gym, G
Trapeze, G

Jason Todd
Jason Todd, G
Pushing, G
Phone Call, G

Tim Drake
Tim Drake, G
Movie Night, G
Visit to Tim's House, G
Fight Club, G
Mugging, G
Mugging (Tim), G
Sign, PG
Sign (Tim), PG
Good Grades, PG-13
Massage, PG
Love (Bernard), PG
Love (Tim), G

Stephanie Brown
Stephanie Brown, G

Future
Former Robins Club, PG (language)
The Lives of Robins, G
Funeral, G
Mourning Rituals, G

Stephanie Brown

If Steph was honest with herself, she didn't really have a reason to be doing this any more. Her father was dead, and ever since she'd learned that Batman had only allowed her to be Robin as a last-ditch attempt to get Tim to return and had quit, she'd been working alone, which wasn't nearly as fun. If she was honest with herself, when she graduated from high school Spoiler would be no more. Heh. Unless some delusional teenager decided to resurrect a third-string heroine. But Steph was going to be out of the business. Maybe she'd even be able to help out a few kids in situations like hers had been. Anything was possible.

***

Social work was exhausting, and simultaneously discouraging and encouraging. Discouraging, because there were so many children who remained in bad situations, so many people who couldn't or wouldn't be helped. But on the other hand, they were helping some people. Not enough, never enough, but some. And that was enough of a boost to keep her coming in day after day, to keep her spirits high enough to at least pretend to be happy. She was halfway glad she'd had experience in exercises in futility, as she watched her coworkers become discouraged and quit, only to be replaced by fresh, idealistic new faces who were worn down all too soon and did the same.

Some of the kids, though, she could help. And so one by one she picked up the kids nobody else could understand, the children of the costumed villains. And sure, she had her share of trouble. She might have gotten custody easily enough with the contacts she had and the strings she was willing to pull if it meant possible happiness for anybody, but raising children is never a walk in the park, not even when it's taken over by Poison Ivy. And some of them were metas, and even with three other former Robins willing and able to lend a hand, a non-meta raising metas was a precarious proposition at the best of times. But she managed, and soon she had her own family, or rather they had each other. And she raised them as best as she could (which was pretty good, if she could say so herself. Often she did.), and sent them off to college and into the world.

She knew the disguised members of the heroing community who visited weren't there to see a third-string ex-heroine and one time Robin, but her kids never did anything worse than what other kids and teenagers did. Eventually the heroes stopped visiting except when she requested one of them to come and help teach one of the kids about their powers. They continued as they had always done.

Former Robins Club

A/N: This takes place in the future, when Terry becomes Batman. Everything Batman Beyond is canon here except for ROTJ, and the Killing Joke happened so Barbara is in a wheelchair. Not that she appears, but you might like to know.

They never met at the Manor. Not that they wouldn't be welcome, but Bruce didn't know. Alfred did, of course (Alfred knew everything pertaining to their little "family"), and every time they met one of them brought offerings of Alfred's homemade cookies. But not meeting at the Manor meant that they didn't have anywhere permanent to meet, at least at first, when they were scattered and none of them had a house. They tried coffee shops and restaurants, but couldn't talk or move like they really wanted to, surrounded by civilians as they were. Not that they weren't civilians now, but habits of secrecy were deeply ingrained in them. Plus, the establishments didn't appreciate them bringing their own food. So they tried renting part of a gym, and that worked well enough until Dick got shot and none of them wanted to be reminded of what he'd lost. So now they gathered at either Steph's or Tim's house, although at either they had to gently shoo off relatives.

Their meetings were filled with good-natured teasing ("short pants!"), reminiscences about the Robin days ("Who's the most pathetic villain you ever faced?"), and stories about their post-Robin lives ("I think one of your students transferred into the precinct last week, Tim."). Jason pretended he was an art critic and they pretended to believe him. Sometimes they watched movies and mocked the martial arts and detective work in them pitilessly. They never went to see them in the theaters, though; the concentrated popcorn storm they hailed on the screen every time there was a particularly bad bit of fight choreography would have gotten them thrown out of any theater before a movie was halfway through and they knew it. Plus, most people didn't enjoy having their movies MST'd.

Amongst their endless jokes, moments of seriousness poked through. They shared their nightmares and their all-too-wonderful dreams of being Robin again, and it was easier just to know that they weren't alone, that others had gone through, were going through, the same thing they were. Each of them returned from the meetings happier, more relaxed, even if the changes were only noticed by those closest to them.

***

"Did you hear?" Dick asked, leaning heavily on his cane as he entered the private room of the restaurant.

"Yes," Jason said, and it was clear that that was why they were at the restaurant instead of somebody's home. At least at the restaurant, they would try to control their tempers, to keep their voices down. And if things got out of hand noting important to any of them would be broken.

"I can't believe…" Dick sat down heavily, shaking his head. "I mean, after all of us quit…"

"Maybe it'll be different this time." Steph tried to be optimistic, but it was hard. "I mean, it isn't Robin this time, it's Batman."

"Yeah," Jason replied. "And how long will it be before some kid dresses up in a Robin suit and starts following him around?"

"How long will it be before there are five of us?" Tim asked quietly, voicing the concern that all of them had.

"Damn it!" Jason pounded his fist on the table. "I thought this was over."

"Maybe we can stop it somehow," Steph said desperately. "Talk to them or something. Talk to the new Robin when he or she comes along."

"And what would we say?" Tim asked. "We know what's best for you? That never works."

"Would anything anybody said to any of you have made any difference in your decision?" Dick asked. "I know nothing would have stopped me, especially not some complete stranger."

Their meal was more subdued than any they'd had in years.

Tim Drake

"They're loans, Dad," Tim repeated. "Bruce isn't giving me anything."

"I know that," his father replied. "I just wish we could afford to send you someplace more prestigious. I know you could have gotten in anywhere you wanted to."

"And Gotham University is where I want to go," Tim insisted. Their conversation had the comfortable feel of points covered before. "They have some of the best criminology and abnormal psychology programs in the country."

"And you think you'll learn a lot?" Jack asked. "I thought you learned enough of that before." Before you quit being Robin was the thought neither of them expressed. It had stopped being solely Jack's decision a while ago, but he didn't quite believe it.

"I did," Tim said. "But I can't exactly tell anybody where I learned it. And if I get a degree from GU they'll listen to me." "They" was unspecified. Even Tim didn't know who "they" were. "Besides, Bernard's going to GU too."

***

Tim enjoyed college and took to it like a fish to water. Every semester, he had to coax his academic advisor into letting him "overload" his schedule with "killer" criminology and psychology courses, a feat made much easier by the fact that he sailed through them with straight As. On the side (or perhaps most prominently, since he didn't spend much time studying), he hung out with Bernard and tutored him. It wasn't long before they began dating.

They graduated at the same time, Bernard with a bachelor's degree in English and Tim with a doctorate in criminal justice, and they moved in together. Tim got used to Bernard's snoring, and Bernard, in turn, got used to the nightmares that made Tim attack anybody who touched him while he was having them. Tim never talked about them, but after he woke from one of them he clutched Bernard like a dying man, so hard that his hands left bruises. He never talked about his scars either.

Tim joined the university faculty and wrote a couple of books which quickly became the defining texts in criminology. Bernard wrestled with his novel and worked in an office. "They really were right about an English degree not being good for anything!" he would joke, and Tim would smirk back at him.

Tim loved Bernard more than he could remember loving anybody, but secretly he was glad that Gotham didn't allow gay marriage. He didn't know if he could bear to be married to somebody that he had to lie to by omission, and many of the secrets weren't his to tell. And then one day Bernard proposed anyway, and he froze. He wanted it so badly, but he couldn't.

"I- I can't," he said.

"Are you secretly married already?" Bernard asked mockingly. "Darling, I don't care about your secrets, as long as they're about the past."

They got married in the spring, and Bernard never asked about the wedding guests he didn't know, even though some of them looked vaguely familiar.

Jason Todd

A/N: This is, obviously, an AU, as not only is Jason alive, but he's quitting as Robin.

It's the hardest thing Jason's ever done. He gulps, and tries again. This time his voice doesn't crack, but it's quiet enough that Bruce leans in to hear what he has to say.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," he forces out. It's what he wants to do, what he feels he was born to do, but… "I don't think I can go up against any of them again and not kill them."

Bruce nods in understanding and accepts the costume Jason hands back, only holding on a little too long. "This isn't your fault," he says in that awkward Bruce way, understanding but not sounding it. He never knows what to say to people when they aren't working. And of course that makes it worse, because of course Bruce has been through this before, and pulled back from the edge. But Jason knows that if he ever encounters the Joker again he won't be able to stop himself.

But the Manor is just a reminder of what he's given up now. A few days later he takes one of the cars and leaves.

***

Jason travels for a while, seeing the sights he never got to see as either a street kid or as Robin. He doesn't know what he wants to do with his life, and he knows he doesn't have to do anything if he doesn't want to (Bruce would support him if he decided to go that route), but he doesn't know how to just relax and enjoy himself without busting a few heads. He enters a few no-holds-barred underground prizefights, but there's no challenge in it and he quickly loses interest.

One day he sees Selina Kyle and, bored, shadows her when she breaks into a penthouse and steals some very expensive jewelry. He only reveals himself to her once they've left. They become partners in crime whenever she's outside of Gotham. He donates most of his portion of the takes to various inner-city charities.

By the time Tim comes along, he's mostly over not being Robin any more.

Dick Grayson

A/N: Part of the Life After Robin series.

Dick was the first. The first Robin, and the first to leave Bruce's Mission.

When he moved to Bludhaven, he only wanted some space to be his own hero out of Batman's shadow. He only took the job with the police to do a little bit more good, but soon he was running himself ragged trying to do both of his jobs. Eventually he had to make a choice between his day job and his night job, and after a lot of consideration he quit as Nightwing. He could still fight crime, but from within the system and without nearly as much wear and tear on his body. And for a change he could be himself without any pretenses. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted, although he still had dreams of flying through the air, only the jump lines keeping him from becoming nothing more than a stain on the road.

Those dreams were the worst he ever had, worse even than the nightmares of his parents' death or the horrors he had seen in either of his jobs, because he woke up and knew he would never feel that freedom again.

***

It didn't take Dick long to be promoted to detective. Although he was more of an athlete than a thinker, he had been trained by Batman. He didn't want to be a detective, but unfortunately he didn't have any choice. Trained, clean detectives were few and far between in Bludhaven. He bought himself a trapeze and tried not to think about how much he missed being Robin. Jason was Robin now, anyway, trained by Bruce and himself. He couldn't go back no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much his bones ached with the desire to go and do something active. Even if some small part of him insisted that he could go back. The tops of all of the file cabinets at the precinct were now kept clear so that he could sit (crouch, do one-handed handstands) on them. He didn't dodge bullets anymore.

***

When it happened, Dick was coming out of the coffee shop with coffee for himself and some of the other detectives. A car drove by, spewing bullets in a drive-by shooting. One of them hit Dick's kneecap. He would never walk without a cane again. He would never run, wind in his face. His trapeze grew dusty. He stopped drinking coffee.

Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night from dreams of flying through the air. The next day, he would go to work with red eyes.

Slowly, the file cabinets became cluttered again.

Trains

Title: Trains
Author: Darklyndsea
Rating: PG for language
Word Count: 926
A/N: this is an AU of the AU found here, so it may not make too much sense without reading that first.
Summary: Tim takes the Slayers train surfing

They'd learned not to press him, not to ask where and how and why he'd learned what he knew, why he could take demons and vampires down as easily as the slayers could; when they did, he withdrew. If they weren't doing anything more than relaxing, he left. So they pretended they weren't curious, weren't burning with the desire to figure Tim Drake out. He, in turn, pretended he didn't know they wanted to.

Every day for an hour or so he took over the training room and kicked everybody else out. They didn't know what he did in there and they never saw him with his shirt off or in short sleeves. They speculated that he was just really modest, but somehow they knew that wasn't it.

One day, Xander came home and didn't realize Tim was in the training room, so he took the clean workout towels and walked in on Tim doing katas like nothing Xander had seen before. It looked like a dance, the most beautiful dance in the world, lacking only a partner. And his arms…Tim was wearing a sleeveless shirt, and Xander could see the scars of battles past marring his skin. He must have made a noise, because Tim's eyes snapped open (they had been closed while he did that deadly dance?) and an inscrutable expression crossed his face. Then he was across the room, yelling- yelling! Tim never yelled- at Xander to get out in a show of anger he hadn't allowed any of them to see before. None of them saw him for the rest of the day.

Tim returned the next day, shamefaced and quiet, and diffidently offered to take the Slayers out for training at night. It was as close to an apology as Xander was going to get, so he accepted. Tim probably knew a bit more about fighter training than he (and maybe even Joan) did anyway. Tim refused to take Fiona and Lucy anywhere until they changed into combat boots. He wore some sort of strange boot which he called tabi and had a split toe. His eyes gleamed at the thought of whatever training they were going to do, one of the best moods he'd been in for as long as they'd known him.

"What are the blindfolds for?" Fiona demanded. "Are we sparring blindfolded? Why here?"

"No, we aren't sparring," Tim said, a slight laugh in his voice. "And we can't do this many other places."

"But what-"

"Do you hear the train?" Tim asked, not waiting for a reply. "Jump!" He lands, not quite silently, but quieter than the loud thumps as the girls landed badly but not too badly. He grinned at the feel of air rushing against his skin. "Doing okay?" he asked.

"Sure, it's easy," a voice grumbled. "You've done this before?"

"On one foot," Tim laughed, standing on one foot although he knew they couldn't see it. It was just the way train riding was done. "But you don't have good enough balance for that, even if you are Slayers," he half-mocked.

"So why are we doing this?"

"To teach you to pay attention to your senses. What do you hear?"

"Cars, above us. An overpass?"

"So where are we?"

"How should I know?"

"You should know this city like the back of your hand." There was a thump of somebody landing on the train, and Tim almost groaned. There were only a few people who that could be, and he didn't want any of them to be here now. "Go away," he growled.

"Tim…?" Lucy said, and he realized the Slayers hadn't heard the new arrival.

"What did I tell you about paying attention to your senses?" Tim asked.

"You know, Tim, when I heard that somebody was riding the train, I figured it would be you. But I didn't expect you to have company. I thought this was our thing." Nightwing managed to sound hurt.

"Tunnel," Tim said, ducking and allowing himself a small smile when he heard Lucy and Fiona hitting the train too. He wasn't, of course, worried about Nightwing. "I hope you're following the rules, N."

"Of course."

"Good. N., the girls are Lucy and Fiona. Luce, Fi, this is N. He isn't going to stick around long enough for you to actually get a look at him." They exchanged greetings.

They rode the train in silence for a while, not having anything to say in front of strangers, until the train started to tilt a little and they could smell the sea and hear gulls crying. "Feel that?" Tim asked the girls. "We're about to turn." They need more guidance than he'd needed, but then maybe he hadn't been helping as much with their training as he could have. They still fell off, but Tim and Nightwing each snagged one of the girls. Fiona cursed as Nightwing pulled her back onto the train by the ankle.

"This brings back memories, doesn't it?" Nightwing asked.

"Yeah," Tim replied, a slight smile in his voice.

"So what now?" Lucy asked.

"Now we go home," Tim replied. "I hear a northbound train approaching. Don't forget to adjust for the combined speeds!" he tossed over his shoulder as he and Nightwing leaped onto the other train.

***

They returned home, sweaty and exhausted and grinning with adrenaline.

"I'd like to train you more often," Tim said, as quietly as he always spoke. "If that's all right with you."

"Hell yes!" Fiona exclaimed. "That was amazing!" Lucy added her assent.

"Tomorrow then," Tim said.

Alien Species

"You act like this is the first time I've enslaved an alien species!" he burst out angrily.

She raised her brow. "I hardly think your roleplaying games count."

"And what, you writing science fiction that wasn't even good enough to get published is?"

"That was fanfiction, it couldn't be published," she said, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms. "And that wasn't my point anyway."

"Your point was that you think you know better than I do."

"Maybe it was," she admits. "But this species lived in temperatures a lot warmer than this."

"What's our point?"

"My point is that they're getting frostbite because all you've allowed them to wear is bikinis."

"What? They're hot!"

Injured Bat 3

[Oracle]
The phone rang, and for a moment Oracle didn't recognize the sound, so immersed in the virtual world was she. Then it rang again, and she did. What in the world?
"Hello?" she said, picking up the phone. Who would be calling her at this hour? The capes would use the coms and mostly didn't have her number, and nobody else was awake at this time of night.
"Barbara."
"Dad." She was surprised. "What's up?" A twinge of worry ran up her spine.
"Batman's here, and he's lost a lot of blood. I'll do my best, but I'll need some help." A pause. "Do you understand?"
Once again, they pretended he didn't know about Oracle, about her former profession. "I'll see what I can do," she replied. "Keep him stable if you can." She hung up and called the manor.

[Jim Gordon]
His hands were red from the blood now staining the towel he'd added on top of the gauze he'd put on Batman's wound when he heard knocking on his door. "Come in," he called, knowing it was one of Batman's support staff sent over by Barbara (no matter how long he knows, he will never be able to think of her as Oracle). Somehow he isn't surprised when Bruce Wayne's butler enters with medical supplies. A concerned expression is stamped on his face, but he does what has to be done efficiently.
"Good evening, sir," the butler said, setting his armful down. "Has the bleeding stopped yet?" He set up an IV of blood.
"I think so, but he's lost a lot of blood and passed out, which, with the concussion..."
"You'd better try to wake him up, then, while I stitch him up." The butler- Alfred, he now remembered- began threading a wicked-looking curved needle.

[Batman]
"Batman, wake up." It's Gordon's voice. Why is he asleep around Jim Gordon? And why is his cowl gone, he suddenly realized, his face cold. Not that he minded Jim knowing, but what if others were around? He opened his eyes as quickly as he could, which wasn't very. The sight of Alfred beside Gordon at once reassured and alarmed him. Reassured, because he was in good hands and not exposed to the world. Alarmed, because they both looked worried, and Alfred had thought he was in enough danger to come here, to...Gordon's house?
"Do you remember anything before your injury?" Alfred asked, shining a light into his eyes and somehow increasing his pain.
"There was an explosion. The Batmobile." He raised a hand to his aching head. "Com gear destroyed."
"You have a concussion, so don't go to sleep. Mr. Gordon saved your life."
"I guess we have a lot to talk about," Batman started, but Gordon stopped him.
"No, I don't know who Batman is any more than I know who Oracle is," he said, his eyes begging Batman to understand how he was pulled between his job and what he wished to acknowledge. Batman gave a small nod and they sat in silence until Alfred returned with tea.
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Injured Bat 2

[Jim Gordon]
Startled, it was all Jim could do to catch Batman as he fell into the house. His suddenly racing mind quickly found the reason that Batman was there: a trail of blood in the snow and a streak of the same down the door. Thoughts of helping flooded his mind. He pulled Batman further in, shut the door, put the safety on the gun and put it down. Then he lay Batman down on the floor and ran to go get the first aid kit. Even as injured as he was, Batman probably didn't want to go to a hospital.

[Batman]
"Batman." The voice was insistent, familiar. "Batman!" Who was calling, and why? With some difficulty he cracked open an eye, which added stabbing head pain to the rest of the pain he was feeling. A concerned Gordon was...hovering over him. "How do I get this off?" A tugging at his torso, and he whimpered at the pain. "Batman!" He was pulled back to reality. "Mus' have a...concussion," he said, finally recognizing the feeling. He fumbled at the catches of his uniform, his arms heavy. "Haveta...stay awake. Don't wanna...unh!" He opened the last catch with effort. Gordon sucked in a breath at seeing the wound covered with nothing but blood.

[Jim Gordon]
The wound was bad. Really bad. "I need to get you to a hospital," Jim said, half to himself.
"No," Batman said through teeth gritted against the pain. "Don't trust any of them."
"I don't think you have that kind of time anyway," Jim muttered, getting to work. "But I don't think I have the supplies or the training for this."
"O-Oracle," Batman forced out with visible effort.
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Injured Bat 1

[Batman]
Batman growled under his breath. Of all the nights to be injured- his com gear had been destroyed. The batmobile had been blown up. Kent was incommunicado somewhere in space. The Clinic was too far to walk to, and in his condition- Batman reached out a black-gloved hand to steady himself on a nearby building as a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him- the rooftop express was out of the question.
Stumbling slightly, he followed the wall he was leaning heavily on. In the thin layer of snow that already covered the ground, he left behind a wavering line of red.

[Jim Gordon]
He almost didn't hear it. He thought he'd imagined the first faint noise, had half convinced himself that it was just his imagination when he heard it again, every bit as faint as it had been the first time, but all those years of standing on rooftops hadn't taught him nothing. Half-certain he would be embarrassed by branches knocking on the house, Gordon, gun ready, wrenched open the front door.

[Batman]
Leaning heavily on the door, he tried to lift his hand high enough to knock a third time, but somehow he couldn't muster the energy to do more than lean heavily into the wooden door. As his coherent thoughts slipped away, Batman realized he had a huge problem. It was all he could to to keep to his feet, even with the support of the door. He was beginning to slide down the door when it abruptly opened and he found himself in the arms of a surprised Jim Gordon.
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