Girl Wonder

A/N: sequel to something which I haven't written yet, in which comics!Tim goes through RotJ

Tim isn't the same. Nobody else notices it, not really, but Cass does. It's written in every move he makes that he needs help and he knows it. But he can't give up being Robin, not if there isn't someone to replace him, and he can't get help if he's Robin because Batman needs a certain kind of Robin, and if Tim was getting that help he wouldn't be the type of Robin Batman needs. Cass thinks about it for a while and then asks Tim what Robin is, and he replies with his body. Robin is bright, and happy, a foil for Batman. He keeps Batman sane, reminds him that the world isn't all darkness and death. Reminds him of what he's fighting to save.

Cass goes away and thinks. She remembers Steph, the way she moved. The way Nightwing moves. The way Tim moves when he's around Batman. The way they smile. The way their bodies scream for Batman to cheer up and the way Bruce subconsciously responds a little, the way he doesn't when it's just her. The way they love the jumplines, say it so loudly with their bodies that she isn't the only one who can see their joy even when they don't say anything. While she and Batman come out of the shadows to silently knock everybody out, Robin is the diversion, the brightly-colored target who hops in the thick of things, smiling and teasing and laughing. She isn't certain she can talk as much as she should to be Robin, but every Robin is different. She can laugh. And it won't be the first time she's been a target.

She goes to Barbara. "Need Robin clothes."

"Tim has plenty of uniforms," Barbara replies, turning from her constant surveillance. One of the views on her monitors is always of Tim, now.

"Not Tim," Cass says. "Me."

Barbara blinks behind her glasses. "Cass…you're Batgirl. And there's already a Robin."

"Tim needs help," Cass says, and Barbara already knows. She's been monitoring him constantly since his ordeal, and has noticed things that others haven't. She's seen him when he's alone. She nods and helps Cass design her own Robin uniform.

***

Cass shows up at the cave in her new uniform, and smiles at the startled faces. Smiles like Robin smiles and like she smiles, with her whole body.

"Batgirl, what-" Batman says.

"I'm not Batgirl," she says, making sure to say every word. "I'm Robin."

All the tension that's been running through Tim all this time drains away, or at least all of the tension which came from not allowing himself to get help. Batman isn't looking at him, though. He still thinks Tim wants to be Robin. He's marshalling his arguments when Tim speaks.

"Robin," he says. "Thank you." She smiles again as he peels of his mask. Even Batman can see that he's wrong now that he's dropped the mask he's been keeping over himself and his psyche for months.

"Tim?" Batman says quietly.

"Batman needs a Robin," Tim says. "But he needs a sane Robin, or at least one saner than I am right now."

Symmetry

It seems fitting that he should die here, in a setting so similar to how it all began. He can still hear the gun roar in his ears, both the one from so long ago and the one that's just been fired. He wears Kevlar, but even that can't stop a gunshot at such close range. Everything seems distant, but this isn't the first time he's been wounded so he tries to keep moving towards the mugger. His foot, clumsy from pain and blood loss, slips on a pearl slick from the puddle of blood already spreading from the bodies. He goes down hard, his muscles not responding to his attempts to fall right.

He knows this is the end for him. Nobody else knows yet, but Oracle- Barbara- is scrambling a team and he knows his body won't be left on the pavement of Crime Alley. He wonders if there will be another Batman, since neither Dick nor Tim wants to be his successor. His eyes linger on the expression of the boy who just lost his parents, and he knows there will be, even if he never takes the name. He doesn't know if he should smile or cry as he slips into the darkness.

Novelty

He publishes under what is obviously a pseudonym. Given the coded messages strewn throughout his books, some of the more obsessive of his fans spend months trying to decipher what the name means, trying to figure out who he really is from his choice of name.

The pseudonym is random.

The only one who deciphers the true code, or even determines its existence, is a ten-year-old boy, but since he'd long since found out that the real person who writes the bestselling, impeccably-researched crime novels is Bruce Wayne, nothing changes.

Alfred and Dick still don't know that not all of Bruce's computer time is spent chasing down criminals.

Garden

He doesn't ask anybody for permission. He could, of course; however rarely the former inhabitants saw each other, they still had each other's contact information. In the space of a few hours, Vandal and Shade and Eel and Slade could be there for a conference. He's not particularly fond of them, but he knows it would be the right thing to do to ask their opinions. Earth isn't his alone, after all. Technically. He doesn't bother, though. Earth is his in all the ways that matter, and he knows the others will just pass his rudeness off as just Bruce being Bruce (it was ridiculous to maintain a secret identity when it was only them, when he doesn't have anything to protect even from those he'd once called his enemies). On the empty plain where once a great city had stood, he sets to work.

It's delicate work at first; on most worlds, life had evolved slowly and naturally and had built the atmosphere as time passed, changing the world and being changed by it. It would be difficult for his plants to throw off the balance of gases in the air; after all, it's such a large planet and his garden is so small. But he's thorough; he plans to at least visit for the rest of his life, however long that might be. If an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, he's going to invest his attention, his diligence, in that ounce of prevention.

He creates a perfectly balanced ecosystem, hand-selecting everything down to the microbes, and tends it by hand until it's stable and robust and alive without need of his help. Nothing in his garden would be familiar to somebody acquainted with only what had been Earth biology, but there's nobody by that description any more. And much as he would love to see roses again, it's a relief just to see something alive on this planet again. Over a few short years, the former location of Gotham City becomes a wilderness even Isely would have been happy with, although the trees will take longer to really be trees. It's all right, though. He can wait.

***

The next reunion goes smoother than he'd expected. He had, after all, started in Gotham. For all that Gotham doesn't exist any more, still nobody dares try to tell him what he can and can't do in it. Gotham is his in a way nothing else has ever been, in a way that defies not only what's normal, but possibly also what's possible. The others have all moved on with their lives, with the exception of these occasional remembrances. He's the only one who stays.

Shade gives him clippings from his own garden, and he knows he has implicit permission (not that he needs it, but it's the thought that matters). His garden spreads through careful cultivation and species selection to encompass the world.

Memoriam

He flies in and lands on the empty plain. There's nothing but this wasteland as far as the eye can see. The only difference seeing it from space had made was that there's water in other places. Even the Event hadn't gotten rid of those, even though it had wiped out all life on the planet, except for a few of the more robust microbes and a small percentage of the metas and aliens who had called Earth home. None of them had even tried to pick up the pieces and rebuild civilization on this planet, even those who were most attached to it. There was too much pain and too little life here to even think of trying.

His boots crunch on the gravel. They're the same boots, or at least the same design (if it had been the same exact costume it would have long since crumbled into dust), he's worn for a long time. The whole costume is the same; he can't be bothered to keep up with the rapid change of fashions anymore, not when the years, the decades, blur together like the days had used to when he was younger. The centuries haven't yet lost their slowness in his perception, but he can tell it's only a matter of time. He fears he's lost touch with humanity (or whatever, since there aren't any humans any more unless you count a few immortals; other languages have words which are more encompassing, but he still thinks in English, even after all this time since he last heard it spoken even by himself); their lives seem so ephemeral to him now that he doesn't even try to connect any more. Not that it matters; he doesn't do the heroing thing any more, hasn't since the Event no matter how often he'd been asked. It just didn't seem right to try to save somebody else's world when he'd failed so miserably at saving his. And it had been his (perhaps it still is), no matter how little he'd fit in while it had still been alive.

There had once been a city here, but it's impossible to tell from just looking at it. Enough time has passed that even the buildings have been eroded to rubble. The Event had been so thorough that it had taken a long time; there had been no plants to cover the walls and tear them down, no animals to break the windows. For years after the Event the city had been a still life. Cold corpses had laid where they'd fallen in a grotesque parody of life, children playing, mothers in the process of preparing dinner, crime stopped in its tracks. With few bacteria left to decay the corpses, he'd had ample time to see everything before it had faded with what had seemed cruel slowness: every person he should have been able to save. His friends. His loved ones. People he'd known only vaguely. People he'd never met and never would meet. But eventually they were unrecognizable even to him. And then they were gone, and he almost wished they weren't because even seeing their bodies everywhere was better than seeing the city so empty, so devoid of anything that even resembled life out of the corner of the eye. He'd left Earth then, and only returned at intervals to remember, as one of the few who could, one of the few who still can.

The spot isn't marked. It never had been, but for anyone but him it would have been easier to find with the aid of streets and of buildings to use as landmarks. He's made the journey so many times that he never has even a moment of doubt about the location. He doesn't even step over the invisible lines delineating where the sidewalk ends and the buildings begin. He reaches his destination and closes his eyes at the rush of memory of years past, of the distant past, of those who'd died.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice harsh from only rare use. It sounds overly loud to his ears, even over the strong wind which had always been blocked by the buildings before they'd been eroded to rubble so that it could only be felt on the rooftops. He feels tears stinging his eyes, as he does when he comes here every year. "I'm sorry."

He pulls two flowers from where he'd secured them under his belt. They aren't roses; all the roses were destroyed at the same time everything else that mattered to him was destroyed. But they're the closest he can get. Gently he places them on the ground and walks back to the sleek black ship.

A Good Day

It's been a year since the end of the war. Bernard's accustomed, now, to seeing men and a few women with haunted eyes who dive for cover at any sudden loud noise, an adaptation which had been perfectly logical, perfectly natural, when they were in the warzone but which is out of place even in Gotham. Bernard's gotten over it for the most part. He still twitches when he hears fireworks or gunfire a few streets over, but he manages to stay upright. He doesn't think anybody who wasn't there even notices him react any more. But he was only a medic, doing triage not quite on the front lines. Most of the people he'd known over there, even the ones who'd come back before he had, still reacted more.

He'd never expected Tim to be one of them, but then again he'd met a lot of people he wouldn't have expected to be soldiers serving in the war. And he'd never known Tim very well.

He hasn't seen Tim since Tim's dad died, right after the gang war, so when he sees him walking down the street he isn't entirely sure it's actually him. Tim moved to Blüdhaven, why would he be back here? But something about the way he moves makes Bernard willing to risk embarrassing himself. It's not like it would be the first time.

"Tim?" he says hesitantly.

The man's eyes snap to his, and wow, how could he forget those blue eyes that seem to pierce into your soul? "Who wants to know?" He seems different, and not in a minor way. The Tim he'd known (he's sure this is Tim, now) had been the complete opposite of confrontational, breaking up fights he hadn't even been involved in. This Tim seems willing (eager?) to fight.

"It's Bernard, Bernard Dowd," Bernard says. "C'mon, Tim, I know I've changed, but I don't think it's been that much." He gives the grin he didn't feel like giving very often anymore because he knows (hopes) Tim would recognize it.

"Oh," Tim says slowly, relaxing. "Sorry, my memory's kind of…" he gestures vaguely toward his temple.

"Plus I doubt the scar helps," Bernard replies, fingering the raised skin where shrapnel had almost taken his eye out in a familiar motion. Sometimes it's hard to keep his fingers off of it, even though he knows that the more he touches it the more attention it draws to itself.

"Scars are…nothing major," Tim says, rubbing at his neck. His collar moves under his hand and Bernard sees a truly nasty scar across his neck. How had Tim even survived that? It looks old, though, so Tim didn't get it in the war unless he was one of the lucky few who got treated by one of the few metas who can heal. He doesn't have any problems not staring at the scar, which is rare even now, with so many people who were wounded in the war walking around. With his scar being so visible.

"You want to grab a cup of coffee?" Bernard asks. "Or whatever?"

"Sure." They're falling back into the old patterns, a little. Neither of them is the same, or even close, to who they'd been when they knew each other before, but it's easy enough to pretend they are. If he doesn't look at Tim's eyes darting all over the place. If he doesn't look at the windows, at his scarred reflection. If there aren't any loud noises to make them jump.

They order, and Tim chooses the table in the best strategic position, away from the large windows at the front of the shop but right next to the side exit. Where he can see everything that goes on in the coffee shop and can duck out quickly if he needs to. At first Bernard thinks this unconscious positioning is new, something he picked up in the war like so many others had, but when he thinks back to high school he realizes that whenever Tim had chosen their table he'd always chosen one like this. Bernard had never realized because he'd never had to think about how to avoid getting killed back then. Maybe Tim always has.

The silence stretches out awkwardly, and belatedly Bernard remembers that he'd always been more of a talker than Tim had been (how could he forget something like that? He'd always talked a lot). "So, Tim, what have you been doing?" he winces, knowing that can be a really bad question to ask people who were in the war. "I mean…" He can't think of anything to finish his sentence with.

Tim fidgets with a napkin, but there's something off about his fidgeting, about the way that he's completely still except for his fingers. He wouldn't be moving more than one of Gotham's gargoyles if he wasn't shredding the napkin very precisely. Bernard can't remember ever seeing Tim fidget like this (or at all). Seeing even this completely normal fidgeting on Tim is like seeing some of the more messed-up people he'd encountered trying to act normal. Like they know there are some things normal people do, so they do them, but something about the actions is just off. Nothing you can point to and say, "That's wrong", but just something that sets your teeth on edge and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

After a moment he realizes Tim isn't going to say anything. Maybe what he'd done is classified. Maybe he can't remember (he did say he had some memory issues, after all). Maybe he just didn't want to talk about it. "I was in the war," he says to make conversation. Not particularly cheerful conversation, of course, but what else are they supposed to talk about? Bernard, at least, hasn't found civilian life particularly engaging since he got back, and it's hard to just forget about something you've lived for years. "Just a medic, but, you know, I was there."

Their drinks are ready, and Tim goes and gets them without a word. Tim has always taken his coffee black (of course), but he raises his eyebrow at Bernard when he sees that he isn't the only one, now. There's a large difference between this and the triple grande vanilla non-fat with whip lattes he'd practically lived on back in high school. He blushes. "I don't really have a sweet tooth anymore," he explains like he needs an excuse for his tastes changing. Tim nods shortly and they drink their coffee in silence for a while.

"I wasn't," Tim blurts, and it takes Bernard a moment to remember where their conversation had left off. Tim doesn't look up from his coffee, and he doesn't seem inclined to say anything more.

"Then how'd you get like this?" Bernard asks. "I mean, no offense, but you look terrible."

Tim twitches, or maybe flinches. "I can't." He clears his throat. "I can't talk about it."

"Well, I hope you're talking to somebody about it," Bernard says.

"No." Tim looks up, finally, his eyes wide. "Nobody else needs to have my nightmares."

"Do you at least have somebody looking after you?"

"As if I could avoid it."

"And they let you just wander around the city? You look like you could have a flashback at any moment."

Tim laughs, one short ha! which contains no amusement whatsoever. It sends chills down Bernard's spine. "None of my flashbacks are lethal. Besides, they're keeping a very close eye on me even if it doesn't look like it." He waves at the security camera as if he thinks somebody's watching the feed in real time. With how weird Tim's acting, Bernard isn't sure if he believes Tim's delusional (which would be the safe bet in normal circumstances, but if Tim wasn't in the war who knows what he got mixed up in that messed him up so badly) or that somebody really is watching him. It's theoretically possible, since a lot of security cameras are now police-accessible over the internet, but it's very unlikely.

He's worried about Tim even after seeing him again for such a short time, but he isn't his mother, so he drops the subject. Unfortunately, that means they have nothing to talk about. Again. Bernard's always filled in the empty spaces in conversations with gossip, but he hadn't kept in touch with anybody from high school, so they don't know any of the same people any more.

Tim tenses in an all-too-familiar way when two women wearing head scarves sit down at the table next to theirs, speaking what sounds like Arabic. Bernard tenses too, ready for Tim to have a flashback. Hearing Arabic is one of the bigger triggers, in Bernard's not limited enough experience. And just because Tim claims he wasn't in the war doesn't mean he was telling the truth. But Tim relaxes as much as he has during the rest of their conversation after a second and drains his coffee.

"I should go," he says dully. "If I'm not back for my meds at 4 they'll start stopping me when I leave."

Bernard stands up and follows him out, still sipping at his coffee. "Can I call you?" he asks. "Or you could call me."

Tim shakes his head, just a quick jerk to the side. "Today's a good day. They're rare."

"They won't always be rare."

Tim's expression is guarded. His eyes only meet Bernard's for a second before resuming their darting around. Bernard thinks that, if it were anyone but Tim, he'd have an expression of hope. He doesn't know if Tim knows how to do emotions any more, or even fake them the way he'd used to sometimes in high school (Bernard wasn't supposed to notice, but sometimes he'd caught Tim out of the corner of his eye, expressionless, although he'd always been all smiles when Bernard had turned to him). He fumbles in a pocket and sorts through several scraps of paper before he finds the one he wants. That's new; Tim had never been less than organized (some, like Bernard, would say anal) back in high school. "Try this number," he says, shoving the paper at Bernard. "It isn't mine, but she might let you talk to me."

"Thank you."

"Don't get your hopes up."

Bernard opens his mouth to say something, but the sharp retort of gunfire cuts him off. He throws himself to the ground before he can even register that it actually is gunfire, not a car backfiring or somebody dropping a stack of plates. Tim doesn't duck and cover, though, he falls into a pose like he's ready to do karate on somebody, not like he's possibly in the firing range of a semiautomatic. Tim reaches for his waistband, and half of Bernard's thoughts are Please, God, tell me they didn't let him out with a gun and half of them are glad that he is armed (unless he only thinks he's armed, if this is some sort of a flashback and he actually doesn't have anything) because he can stop whoever's shooting.

But it turns out that Tim doesn't have a gun. He pulls something metal out of his waistband, and it takes a moment for Bernard to register that it's a shuriken, or rather several shuriken, and by that point they're flying through the air, the sun glinting off of them and half-blinding Bernard. He doesn't have time to think of even one reason shuriken are ineffectual in gunfights before they've lodged in the gunman's hand and arm and demonstrated that sometimes, at least, shuriken can be effective.

There's a sudden strong wind and suddenly there's a man in front of Tim, who's looking around frantically and clutching another shuriken. "Tim," the man says in a soothing voice. "It's okay, you got him. There isn't anybody else. You're having a flashback. Concentrate on my voice. Come back to the real world."

All at once the tension drains out of Tim, leaving behind a weary confusion. The shuriken drops from his limp hand. "Bart…?" His voice wavers.

The man puts his hands on Tim's shoulders and looks into his eyes. "It's me." Tim's frantic eye movement (trying to watch everything at once) seems to have stopped, perhaps because he's with somebody he trusts. It hurts, a little, to know that Tim doesn't trust him, but he hadn't expected anything else. They'd only known each other for a few months back in high school, after all.

"I did it again, didn't I." It isn't a question, just a statement full of resignation. Tim's perfect posture has collapsed, and he slumps standing up, only the other man's hands on his shoulders holding him up.

"Sorry I was so late," the other man apologizes, even though he'd gotten there within seconds of the first burst of gunfire. "Barbara took a bathroom break at just the wrong time."

So they had been watching him! Bernard really doesn't want to know what Tim had been mixed up in, now. But Tim's his friend, or was anyway, so he picks up the shuriken and stands up. He isn't an expert on shuriken, but this one looks handmade, not like the ones he's seen in knife shops and in the possession of some of the guys he'd known during the war. He holds it out to Tim silently, since even the noise he'd made standing up had attracted their attention to him and he's being looked at intensely by a pair of blue eyes and a pair of gold. Tim accepts it just as silently, but the other man grabs his wrist.

"Tim…" he says almost warningly. Tim doesn't reply, just tucks the shuriken back where it came from and doesn't meet the man's eyes. The man gives up, sighs and throws his hands in the air. "Fine. Come on, we have to go." He turns and walks off, Tim following silently behind him.

Bernard watches them go, fingering the paper Tim had given him in his pocket. This was a good day for Tim. He isn't sure he can deal with that.

Some Comas…

The doctors had never expected Bruce to come out of it. Time and time again, they'd urged his guardians to pull the plug. First Alfred, until he had a heart attack and died. Then Dick, until he and Tim died in the same battle. In the years following they'd focused their attentions on Clark. Clark was, however, an eternal optimist, and so he came and visited Bruce frequently. Besides, he knew Bruce's views on euthanasia.

"I wish you'd pulled the plug while you could!" Bruce shouted, and threw his tray of food. Tried to, anyway; it only made it over the edge of the bed because it slid off.

"You don't mean that," Clark said. He was so relieved to have his friend back that even Bruce's anger was comforting. "You don't approve of euthanasia."

"I've recently had reason to change my opinion." The only emotion on his face was around his eyes. Clark's never learned to read that tell on Bruce; his cowl had been lead-lined after their first encounter, and he'd never had much contact with Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy.

"Why, Bruce?" Clark asked, his voice hushed. "You've always been so determined."

"Just go, Clark." He turned his face away from Clark in a clear dismissal. After a while Clark left. Bruce would snap out of his funk soon; he always did. Clark went to Asia to give aid to the people who found themselves in the path of yet another hurricane.

It was hours later before he next listened for Bruce's heartbeat. The familiar action had comforted him over the years; Bruce's heartbeat had always been there, strong and steady.

This time, it wasn't.

Clark rushed back to the hospital. Bruce had just masked his heartbeat somehow, right? He'd done that before, when he was in costume (uniform, Bruce insisted. "We aren't kids going trick-or-treating."). But even the knowledge of that didn't stop his heart from clawing its way into his throat, didn't stop him from being as terrified as he'd been when Bruce had first slipped into the coma.

When he got to the hospital, there was a man hosing off the sidewalk. The runoff was red, fading to pink as he watched, and he knew.

***

"I wish you'd pulled the plug while you could!" Bruce shouted, and tried to throw the tray. It should have flown across the room to the wall beside Clark. The Jell-o and the drink and the unidentifiable main course should have run down the wall, making a mess for some hapless candy striper or janitor to clean up, but his muscles had atrophied while he was in the coma and it only slid off of the bed. He hoped it had at least gotten Clark's shoes dirty, but it probably hadn't. Clark was always lucky that way.

"You don't mean that," Clark said. He looked happy. He looked like he thought Bruce should be happy, like he should just forget about Alfred and Dick and Tim and the Mission he'd never be able to do anything about again because his muscles have atrophied and besides he's too old. "You don't approve of euthanasia."

When he thought about all the pain he could have been spared by just not waking up…"I've recently had reason to change my opinion."

"Why Bruce? You've always been so determined." Clark knew why he'd always been so determined. He knew it had always been the Mission. Why couldn't he see how little Bruce had without that? He didn't even have his family.

"Just go, Clark." Bruce turned blindly towards the window, hoping Clark would leave soon. The last thing he needed was somebody who didn't understand hanging around. Some interminable period of time later, Clark took the clue and finally left.

When the television started showing Superman helping out in Asia, Bruce made his move and stood up. He'd worked with Clark often enough to know that this was one of the few times he wouldn't be listening to him with at least half an ear; Clark could be downright stalkerish at times (Bruce knew it was the pot calling the kettle black, but that didn't change the truth of it). Even the few steps to the window were nearly impossible; his legs were trembling with exhaustion by the time he reached it. But he'd soldiered on in the past. Besides, this was the last time he'd have to.

With trembling hands he opened the window and stepped out onto the ledge. The wind whipped him familiarly, almost comfortingly. This is where you belong, a little voice in him whispered. He thought of Alfred, of Dick, of Tim, and jumped.

He'd never called this flying like the others sometimes had. It had some similarity, but he'd never allowed himself to forget that it was nothing more than falling, even with the grapples and de-cel cable. Always before he'd slowed his descent with a cable or by grabbing onto something, or had been caught. This time he didn't save himself. This time no arms caught him, no brightly garbed superhero swept him into the sky in a rush of adrenaline and a quasi-embrace.

The only embrace he found waiting for him at the lowest point of his fall was that of his parents.

Sprain

"Hey Frank," Dick called as Frank entered the gym. Frank looked around, but he couldn't see where Dick was. "Up here." Frank looked up to see Dick balancing on one hand in the rafters.

"Hi Dick," Frank replied. "Should you be doing that?"

"Why not? As long as I use my hands instead of my legs there aren't any problems when I'm up here."

"You could fall and get killed."

Dick snorted. "From this height? Couple of broken bones and that's it." Either Dick's dealt with a lot of jumpers or he's thought about this way too much. He looked at Frank and sighs. "Fine, if it makes you feel better I'll come down." He started to move across the rafters, still balanced perfectly on his hands. Suddenly, there was a clank and Dick and the bar he'd been balanced on both started to fall. Dick grabbed something from his belt and threw it, and as it trailed out Frank saw that it was rope of some sort, with a weight on the end Dick threw. That end wrapped around one of the rafters and Dick swung down as if he was Tarzan or one of those swashbuckling heroes swinging from the chandeliers, except he did it better in some indescribable way. And yeah, part of it was that this is real and not just some actor pretending he's a hero, but another part of it is just that Dick looks right doing this. Even in the short time he was airborne some of the tension Frank hadn't even known was there until that very moment, tension which had always been there oh-so-subtly, melted away. And then Dick landed and rolled like he was used to doing it (and maybe he was; after all, he had that trapeze which he'd obviously used in the past, and he did a lot of gymnastic even now), only something obviously went wrong because when he came out of the roll he clutched the ankle on his good leg.

"What's the matter?" Frank asked.

"Sprained my ankle," Dick said in an everyday tone of voice, like he sprained his ankle all the time. "Do you mind getting the first aid kit for me?"

The first aid kit here is, of course, every bit as well-stocked as the one at Dick's apartment, but Dick just gets out an Ace bandage and uses it to wrap his ankle.

"How do you know it's a sprain and not a break?" Frank asked. "Maybe you should go to the emergency room."

"No," Dick growled. "This isn't an emergency. And trust me, I can feel the difference between a sprain and a break. I've certainly had enough of each." He started to stand up.

"What are you doing?" Frank demanded. "You can't walk like this."

"It's only a sprain," Dick said, exasperated. "I can handle a little pain."

"If you try to walk on that I'll tell the captain you didn't go to the doctor about it."

"You wouldn't." Dick sounded disbelieving.

"I would." Normally trying to stare Dick down is an exercise in futility, but Frank was sincere and Dick actually backed down.

He sighed. "There's a wheelchair over there somewhere." He waved off into the esoteric equipment corner of the room. Most of the equipment there was so obscure that Frank didn't even know what it was, much less how to use it. He had no doubt that Dick not only knew what it all was, but also that he was a master at using it. Even that corner of the gym is laid out neatly, though (he'd never thought of Dick as a neat or organized person, and he certainly wasn't with his files of with his desk, so perhaps he'd learned gym organization etiquette from somebody who was obsessive about it), and he finds the wheelchair quickly.

It wasn't one of those institutional wheelchairs they force you to use in hospitals. No, it was a wheelchair which looked like it was meant for heavy use, for somebody who would be stuck in it for the rest of their life. The handles were removable, and Dick removed them as soon as he wheeled it over.

"Thanks," Dick said shortly, reluctantly, and left the gym.

A Conversation

"You didn't have to bring it in person, Dick," Barbara said as a thick file folder plopped down on her desk.

"You know, Babs, just because you've got the GCPD nearly paperless doesn't mean other departments are too."

"Hey, it wasn't just me! The Wayne Foundation donated a lot of the equipment. If they'd donated money it would have been spent on things like body armor, not that they didn't donate money too."

"The Wayne Foundation gives computers to the police? Color me shocked," Dick deadpanned.

"I know, you'd almost think somebody on the board has a vested interest in having all of our files available electronically."

"Gee, I wonder who that could be."