Déjà Vu

It's actually ridiculously easy to get papers, but that isn't anything he hadn't expected. This is, after all, Gotham in the '80s, before it was cleaned up, and the "underground" operations are still relatively aboveground. The police force is more corrupt than it had gotten by the time he'd come here. The atmosphere of the city reminds him so much of Blüdhaven that he finds himself attending the police academy before the ink is even dry on his new papers. He shrugs and goes along with it. It isn't as though he can be a superhero without messing up the timeline, and at least this way he might do a bit of good.

It's easier the second time around. He doesn't have any reason to conceal his abilities at this point in time, after all, so he doesn't hold back.

It's strange, the first time he testifies at a case Harvey Dent is prosecuting. Strange to see his face unmarred, his hands sans coin, his personality whole, and know that he's the man who's killed so many, has tried to kill Dick, has caused so much misery for so many people, and to know that he hasn't done any of that, isn't that man, yet. He mentally coins the term "time travel vertigo" even though he knows he won't have reason to use it with anybody but himself unless he somehow gets retrieved. He isn't holding his breath on that one.

Gordon's young, in a way he's never been to Dick, and really hasn't been since he got shot. He's only a lieutenant, half unsure of his place in the world and in the department and in Gotham, and Dick wants to tell him he'll do all right, but he can't, he shouldn't even be in Gotham if he wants to make sure the timeline really is safe. But no matter how he resists what he really wants to do, he's sucked into the fringes of Gordon's fledgling group of people who don't, actually, have too much of a problem with the Batman.

Sometimes he's there when Batman comes, whether because of the Signal or to Gordon's office, and he can't help but stare, because he'd forgotten that Bruce had ever looked so young, before years on the job had beaten him down. Only, he isn't certain Bruce had ever looked this young when he'd known him. Certainly not any time recently. Fortunately, he's expected to stare. He is, after all, a young officer confronted with sudden evidence that at least one urban legend (though it's barely even an urban legend, at this point in time) is true. He makes certain he isn't watching (he could, but it would attract Bruce's attention to him) while he disappears, leaving Gordon cursing. The soft sound of the cape on the windowsill or the rooftop is enough for him to track Bruce by. The memory of the smell of Kevlar and leather and everything that, added together, is Bruce, makes him randomly break out smiling for a week afterward.

Nobody comes for him in the first year, or the second, or the third. Eventually he lets go of the small bit of hope he'd been clinging to (never a lot; he'd seen miracles happen many times in his lives, odds beaten, impossibilities come true; but he'd also seen the inevitable happen too many times not to know that, while the odds are sometimes beaten, most of the time they aren't) and stops waiting for rescue from the past and starts living his new life. It's hard letting things happen when he knows he can stop them (he takes a personal day on the day his parents die, and sits at home and cries and never goes on the roof with Gordon again), but for all the ugliness he could prevent there's a flip side. If his parents hadn't died he never would have become Robin, become Nightwing. If Jason hadn't died Tim would have just kept being the Batclan's personal stalker and wouldn't be the highly efficient Robin he is now. If Barbara hadn't gotten shot by the Joker…Every action has consequences, and he knows that even the worst things he can prevent have eventually saved lives, have eventually made the world a better place.

Nothing he tells himself makes it any easier.

Morse Code

It's strange to be returning to the same school where one of his best friends was shot, especially knowing that she'd died from the wound, but Bernard was handling it well. Mostly. He hasn't hyperventilated or freaked out or anything, anyway. Yet. He's been spending a lot of time concentrating on only his breathing, and fortunately the teachers both don't expect much from him and are giving him a little – make that a lot – of latitude, since they know about Darla.

When he isn't holding to normalcy by force of sheer will he mostly watches Tim, who seems to be taking it a lot better than he is. That isn't, actually, saying very much, but Tim doesn't seem to be acting much differently than he usually acts, which makes him wonder how good of an actor Tim actually is. He sneaks a glance at Tim. Tim looks completely entranced in the lecture that's putting everybody else to sleep, and Bernard snorts mentally in amusement. Definitely a better actor than he'd even suspected.

Tim slides his hand totally innocently off of the desktop and into his pocket. He took his phone out, clearly intending to just glance at the caller ID, but his eyes just stop there and for a second an expression of what's almost certainly shock passes over his face before he wipes it clear and returns to his former position but with his hand in his pocket around his phone. There are only five minutes of class left and Bernard can hardly wait to grill Tim, but unfortunately Mrs. McMillian is one of those teachers who teaches up until the bell (and doesn't let you pack everything up until then either), so he doesn't have a chance until it sounds. And Tim rockets out of his seat like he's on fire or something because they aren't allowed to use their phones in the classrooms (or during school hours, of course, but those just ended), leaving Bernard to curse (mentally and under his breath; he doesn't want to get detention, and this is a high school for God's sake, not a nursery, he should be allowed to curse if he wants) and gather his stuff (which has spread out as usual; he's never been able to keep his mess contained) and follow as quickly as possibly, which isn't very because some people think doorways are appropriate places to stand and talk.

So he only catches the very end of Tim's conversation with whoever's on the other end of the phone, which tells him nothing except that apparently Tim sometimes ends phone calls without saying goodbye or any of its synonyms, just hanging up.

"Hey Tim," Bernard says, draping an arm over Tim's shoulders. Tim does that no-response thing that Bernard's halfway certain means he doesn't like it, but he ignores it. If Tim doesn't want to be touched he can just say so. "What was that about? You practically ran out of there. Not that I don't sympathize with the urge to get out of physics, but normally you don't seem to have it."

"Phone call," Tim says shortly and completely uninformatively.

Bernard sighs loudly and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I kind of got that. But with your busy social schedule surely you get called all the time?" He isn't sure if this is ironic or not. Tim's schedule has cleared up a lot lately, but on the other hand he still hasn't been willing to talk to Bernard much outside of school. And he's never seen any of Tim's other friends, if they even exist. Then again, he'd thought Tim had made Stephanie up, too.

"Not by her." Tim doesn't seem even a bit cheered up by Bernard, which means…

"Shit." It hits him suddenly. He's only seen Tim looking like this when something reminded him of Darla or Stephanie unexpectedly. "Is somebody else dead?"

Tim nods, once, and doesn't say anything, just twists out from under Bernard's arm and walks away quickly enough that Bernard knows the conversation is over whether he wants it to be or not.

***

Bernard has the skill to coax Tim into telling him at least some things. More than he'd ever expected, really. Like the fact that both the funeral and the will reading are on Saturday, which tells Bernard…something. That Tim's dead friend is older than they are, almost certainly, because she has a will, and he doesn't know of anybody in high school who does. That Tim was close enough to his friend to be mentioned in the will, or at least think he might be. Sometimes Bernard wonders about the parts of Tim's life that he doesn't see.

He doesn't call Tim on Saturday; even if he caught Tim at a time when he wasn't at the funeral or the will reading, Tim would be even less talkative than usual. Instead, he waits for Sunday, when Tim should be at least a little recovered and not nearly so busy. He pretends it's just a normal call, like he isn't bursting at the seams wanting to know everything Tim hasn't, and probably won't, told him.

"So, Tim…you want to go see a movie or something?" he asks. "I'm sure we can find something up to your standards in the theaters."

"Can't," Tim replies. "I've inherited a large amount of computers and I have to move them today."

"Today?" Bernard asks, brow arching involuntarily. "There's a time limit?"

"Not…technically, but it's really better the faster I do it." There's a lot unspoken there, and Bernard can feel it, but he has no idea what it is. Which is frustrating, as are many things with Tim.

"Well, I think I can figure out how to disconnect a computer, if you want some help."

"These aren't exactly standard, but…you mean that offer?"

"You know what they say: good friends help you move, great friends help you move bodies." Which was…perhaps in bad taste, considering. But there's only the usual (usual now, anyway; it's like he's gotten worse at being normal) socially awkward Tim Drake silence (like it takes him a second to realize it's a joke and figure out the right reply) before he retorts.

"And which one are you?"

"I don't know, Tim, you got any bodies you need moved?"

"I might, you never know…but seriously, it'd be great if you'd help. It'd keep the tension at reasonable levels, at the very least."

He's not even going to ask; sometimes even he knows better. "So should I come over now, or what?"

"Oh, right, you don't know where…you have a car, right?"

"Yeah…should I not meet you at your house?"

"We've already left. We're almost there, even."

"Uh, okay, where's 'there'?"

"You know the clocktower?" Tim asks.

"Yeah…" Bernard says. Everybody who's lived in Gotham for a while knows the clocktower, and most Gothamites have lived there for a while (sometimes he thinks there's something in the water that keeps them there no matter how bad things get). He waits for Tim to give directions starting at the clocktower. But he doesn't. "Wait, you inherited computers which were stored in the clocktower?"

"Barbara owned the clocktower," Tim says mildly, like it's a completely normal thing to know somebody who owns such a…landmark. "Just ring the doorbell when you get there and somebody will let you in."

"Sure," Bernard replies. "This had better not be a prank, though. Wait, scratch that, I think it would actually be reassuring if it were a prank."

"Noted," Tim said. "Prank you later, though; I'm at the clocktower."

"See you there."

***

Despite Tim being…Tim, Bernard halfway expects it to all be a big prank involving whoever owns the clocktower getting angry at him, so he's a bit apprehensive when he rings the doorbell. Not that he shows it; even if there isn't anybody watching (and he isn't entirely certain about that; the camera over the door is difficult to miss) he's not going to let anybody know how he feels. After all, nine tenths of success is appearance.

There's a buzz and the door unlocks remotely. Nobody pops up and says anything, or uses the intercom, but he assumes the unlocking means he's supposed to enter. Or at least that's the excuse he'll use if he gets arrested for trespassing. The door opens easily, anyway, so there weren't more locks than the ones which were just unlocked.

The door opens into a hallway. Elevator doors are sliding open at the end of it, like the clocktower's expecting him, and when he enters the elevator they close and the elevator starts to rise without him doing a thing. Just how wired is this place, anyway? And if the previous owner had been the one who'd wired it this much, what kind of computers had she left to Tim? The elevator doors slide open at what's apparently the top floor before the roof (which apparently also has elevator access), cutting off his train of thought.

What looks like a really intense "discussion" cuts off as the doors open, and everybody turns to stare at him like he wasn't expected, like they have no idea what he's doing here. But he recognizes Mr. Drake, so he knows he isn't in the wrong place. Tim darts forward (who knew he could move that quickly?) and pulls him into the room.

"Oh good, you're here," he says, quicker than Tim should ever speak. "I'll just introduce you around and then we can get to work. So, this is Dinah Lance, Helena Bertinelli, Dick Grayson, Jim Gordon, and you already know my dad." He's practically bouncing in place (okay, for anybody else it wouldn't seem extreme, but for Tim? Bernard wonders how much caffeine he's had, especially considering how much Tim seems to enjoy coffee in the normal run of things), and barely gives Bernard a chance to shake hands and say hello before he pulls him into another room crammed full of computer stuff and electronics Bernard doesn't recognize, even from the computer and technology magazines he'll never admit he reads. All of the chairs have been removed from in front of the desks, he assumes for easier access to whatever has to be packed up.

He can't stop the quiet "wow" which slips out of his mouth, and Tim smirks at him.

"I never would have taken you for a technogeek," he says, but with the caress he's giving the computer stuff with his eyes Bernard knows he'd be geeking out far more than Bernard is if he hadn't seen it all a hundred times before. After all, he actually knows what it all is. Presumably.

"I'm not," Bernard protests, knowing it's futile. "But I don't think there's a person alive who wouldn't be amazed by this, even if half of it's barely recognizable."

"Yeah," Tim sighs happily. He's in geek heaven. "Babs always had the best toys, but she never let me play with them, except when I wired the place and helped her test it."

"You wired the place?" Bernard asks, surprised. He would have thought it was done by a professional. "How wired is it?"

"More than you would believe," Tim replies. "It took forever because I had to do it mostly by myself."

"She didn't help?" Bernard tries to work out why. With this much technology, he'd have thought she could do the job herself.

Tim takes a picture from one on top of the desks and hands it to him silently. It's Dick Grayson from the other room with a redhead in a wheelchair, and he practically smacks himself. No wonder she hadn't wired the place herself. No wonder there's an elevator. No wonder there aren't any chairs in this room; it has nothing to do with packing. Sometimes he's just a bit slow.

"So…how'd you get to know her well enough to wire her clocktower?" Bernard asks. "Or do you secretly run a business that I don't know about on the side? Though if it was a business I don't suppose she'd have left you her computers."

"Hey, you never know," Tim says with a shrug. "Can you unhook that monitor and pack it in that box? Use plenty of padding." He starts unhooking a different monitor. "But no, no business. We met through Dick."

"Okay…how do you know him then?"

"Used to live next door to him."

"Now, when you say you lived next door to him, do you mean when you were at that boarding school, or during No Man's Land, or when you lived next door to Bruce Wayne?"

"The latter. Bruce adopted him just recently. I thought you read all those tabloids and gossip columns and everything?"

"What, really? I haven't really been paying attention lately, I guess."

"Things have been crazy," Tim says quietly, and they work quietly for a while, remembering everything that's happened to Gotham and to them lately.

***

"Hey, what's this?" Bernard asks, holding up a metallic sphere. "I think I see a button."

"Don't press it!" Tim yelps, snatching the ball from Bernard's hand before he can. "This is one of Dinah's, actually."

"Did I hear my name?" the blonde - Dinah - asks from the doorway.

"Yeah, we found one of your toys." Tim tosses it at her.

"I didn't know she had any more of these," Dinah says, tossing it casually from hand to hand. Bernard wonders if that's such a good idea, since Tim had freaked out so much when he'd been the one holding it. He thinks perhaps his feelings should be hurt, but at least it seems she knows what it is, which is more than he can say.

"Waste not, want not?" Tim offers with a ghost of a grin.

"Guess so," she says. They're quiet for a while, until the silence makes her shift. "It's going to be weird. Without her." She stops with a glance at Bernard.

"I know," Tim replies. "I might be able to help you with business. A little. But it won't be the same."

"No." She fidgets.

"Why don't you go use the holo-room?" Tim suggests, possibly just to get rid of her.

"It still works?" she asks. "I thought you turned all the computers off."

"It has a completely different set," Tim says. "And I'm not taking them."

"Really?"

"They wouldn't be much use to me without the room, you know."

"If you say so."

"Really, Dinah," he chides her. "You need to get over your technophobia. It's not as if computers are going to become less prevalent in the future, after all."

The noise she lets out is half way between a laugh and a sob. "You sound just like Barbara." She disappears from the doorway.

Tim twitches like he wants to chase after her and apologize, but he returns to packing up the computers.

"Holo-room?" Bernard asks.

***

Bernard has never before been told about anything which "officially doesn't exist, or at least not on Earth outside of a few research labs", but he knows that even if he had been he would have loved the holo room the most, simply because it makes Tim talk to him. And sure, half of the talking he's doing is warnings not to tell anybody about it and attempts to describe things as vaguely as possible (especially where his friend had gotten the technology from), but still. Tim. Talking. At length. Without much prompting at all, nothing behind a murmured mm-hmm. Even if he only has the vaguest idea what Tim's talking about, and half the time it's like his mom lecturing him, it's still Tim talking. It's impossible not to love anything which does that.

And he's always known that there's more under the surface of Tim Drake than he'll ever see, but that doesn't make it any less of a palpable pain to see Tim so alive, so talkative, and then just shut down completely when his dad comes into the room.

"Are you guys about ready to go?" he asks with cheerfulness so fake even Bernard can see it, and this is only the second time he's seen Mr. Drake.

"Sure, Dad," Tim replies. "We just have to take everything out to the car. Or cars; I'm not sure it'll all fit in ours."

"I can take some in my car," Bernard offers. "I think I can find my way to your house from here without too much trouble."

"Why don't I ride with you and make sure?" Tim says quickly, obviously not wanting to spend a lot of time with his dad. "Wouldn't want you to get lost and end up in Blüdhaven or something."

"Sure. If that's all right with you?" Bernard says to Mr. Drake.

He looks like he's going to say no (he kind of twitches, even), but he doesn't. "That's fine. I just hope we have enough space for all this at home."

"I'm sure I can make some."

Bernard has no idea what the deal is with Tim and his dad, but he knows that a) he doesn't want to know, and b) he wants to be as far away from them as possible because he doesn't want to be in the same room as them when their cold war erupts into violence (hopefully of the screaming kind, but he can't get Tim's old bruises and stitches and scars out of his mind). He grabs up a box and takes it into the elevator. They drop their almost-fight to do the same.

The nice thing about elevators is that they don't have to make as many trips up and down; they can fill the elevator, take it down, and unload it to the cars, and return for the remaining boxes and cases. Plus, no stairs, which is always a good thing except (the elevator's signs advise him) in case of fire. Unfortunately, he knows it won't be this easy at Tim's house. Tim's room is on the second floor.

***

It's always somewhat disturbing being in Tim's room. Of course, it's Tim, so disturbing (as Bernard is starting to realize) is not actually too unusual. But it's unnatural for a room to be this clean and neat, the bed made and wrinkle-free, everything obsessive-compulsively put away and, knowing Tim, probably alphabetized. Tim had sketched out a layout in the car and begins unpacking and putting everything in place as soon as they take the first load upstairs. He lets Jack, Bernard, and Dana bring everything else upstairs while he places monitors and computers and stuff Bernard doesn't recognize in places which look completely random until he has almost everything placed. He works without stopping even momentarily to consider placement until he just stops and steps back.

"Got it all placed?" Bernard asks. "Because I think it's about time to turn it all on."

"Yeah," Tim says, pressing a power button which turns everything on. "I just hope I can get in."

"What, the will didn't have a password in it for you?"

"Clearly you don't realize how much security is on these machines. Barbara changed her password a lot, plus there's various biometrics. I mean, hopefully she added the person she left the computers to to the security system, but if she didn't pretty much the only thing these computers are good for is scrap metal."

"Couldn't you reformat them? Or something?"

"She was big into computer security; do you honestly think she wouldn't protect her computers from that?" But the computers have no problem with Tim, booting to various operating systems as soon as they collectively scan his retina. Bernard doesn't recognize the names on half of the splash screens, much less the programs which start up automatically and minimize immediately.

"So I take it she was a power user?" Bernard asks, as if he doesn't know. He hadn't had any idea that Windows could be made to look like that.

Tim snickers. Bernard's never heard him snicker before, so it's possible he's boggling a little. "Oh, you have no idea."

"I think I'm starting to get one."

"You really aren't." Tim seems to remember that he doesn't want to tell Bernard a lot, even so obliquely that he doesn't have any idea what he's being told. "Hey, you want to play a game? I'm sure she's got a few not-yet-released games loaded on these, even if she never played."

"She was a beta tester and she never played? How does that work?"

"She was the worst kind of workaholic, and…not technically a beta tester." He hands a keyboard and mouse to Bernard (pointing at the monitor he now has control of) and pulls out a pair of gloves and a strange pair of glasses for himself.

"Is that some sort of virtual reality thing? I thought those were just science fiction."

"Bernard. You do realize we live in a world which gets invaded by aliens on a regular basis, right?"

"Good point. So why don't I get a set?"

"Because there's only one, and also they take a while to really master. Mainly because you absolutely have to touch-type with them, without the benefit of having anything to actually touch."

"Fine, fine, have it your way. Which game should I kick your ass at?"

***

Tim is actually really good at computer games (and they try several, because Bernard thinks it might just be a fluke at first, a game that Tim's played a lot), the result, he says, of having friends who play them a lot and used to drag him into them all the time. His closed-off expression tells Bernard that they're yet another topic he's not supposed to ask about. Tim's new computers are amazing. They play the newest games on the highest quality and they don't slow down even a little. Maybe in a few years, after the games are released, after they're getting a bit on the old side, computer enthusiasts will have computers which can play the games at this speed without cranking down the video quality.

It goes without saying (or even glaring) that he shouldn't ask for specifics about how Tim's dead friend had this technology.

"We have got to do this more often," he says, flopping back on Tim's no-longer-military-neat bed. "Your computers are awesome."

Tim's only answer is a smile saying just how aware he is of that fact. Knowing Tim, it also means Bernard has no idea how good they are.

"See you tomorrow."

***

Tim's hiding something. Bernard can tell because he's acting completely normal. This is Tim. Is normal even in his vocabulary? He does have a wide and varied vocabulary (he always uses all sorts of big words that are probably on the SAT and, like, in spelling bees, but he never blinks when Bernard uses the most obscure slang terms he knows in an attempt to get Tim to admit there's something he doesn't know), but somehow Bernard doubts it, unless it's defined there as just "not Tim". Bernard's known he was unusual since they first met. How long has Tim known? Surely he isn't so wrapped up in himself that he has no idea.

"So, Tim, what's going on?" he asks at lunch.

"Going on?"

"You know what I mean. You're acting…normal."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "You do realize what you just said, right?"

"Since when do you act normal? You aren't normal, not by any definition of the term."

"Maybe it's easier to…pretend."

"Is it?"

"Yes," Tim says flatly, not even trying to pretend he's telling the truth. It's like he has to lie to Bernard but wants him to know he's lying. Which, translated from Tim-think, doesn't mean he wants to tell Bernard. It means he has a secret so strange there isn't a snowball's chance in hell that Bernard will guess, or at least that's Bernard's translation.

Idly, he wonders if there's anybody else who's had occasion to develop a mental Tim-English dictionary. He wonders if they (whoever they are, if they exist) have a better one than he does.

He wishes he knew them so he could compare notes.

He's almost certain Jack Drake doesn't have one, or at least not one that's anywhere near accurate. The people at the clocktower, however…too bad he never bothered to remember their names.

***

Tim seems invested in keeping Bernard away from his dad, or possibly his computers, so for the next few weeks they spend a lot of time going to movies in theaters and eating at fast food joints and hanging out at the mall, even though Tim never buys anything, or even looks at it like he's considering buying it. They could, theoretically, go to Bernard's house, but the only thing it has in its favor is the computers and consoles, and he's been depressed every time he's looked at them since he played with Tim's computers. Besides, it probably does Tim good to be around people outside of school. God knows he doesn't get out of his house on his own, in a way that has nothing to do with being grounded and everything to do with Tim clearly wanting to be a shut-in when he grows up. Or possibly before.

They're in the food court, nursing a couple of sodas, when Tim tenses like he suddenly remembered or realized something.

"What's the matter, Tim?" Bernard asks. "Leave the stove on or something?"

Tim doesn't respond, and the way he's just staring into space and not blinking is now reminding Bernard more of people having flashbacks in movies, minus (of course) the guns and explosions and driving cars into things. But Tim's never been in a war, so any flashbacks he has have no reason to involve guns or explosions or anything violent.

Then again, he has no reason to be having flashbacks.

Wait, had Tim been in Gotham during No Man's Land? He'd never talked about it, but then Tim never talks about anything except, apparently, computers. And him being here during NML would explain his dad's possessiveness/protectiveness, if he's afraid he'll lose Tim if he lets him out of his sight. Maybe the clocktower people were part of the reason Tim was here? It would explain the hostility.

If it's a flashback they need to get out of here. And if it's about No Man's Land there's no way he's going to try to take Tim's soda away from him, even if his ever-tightening grip means his upholstery (and Tim's pants) probably isn't safe.

He manages to get Tim out to his car somehow. How, he doesn't know, because all of his attention is focused on Tim, on worrying about him. Because Tim's never been normal, but this is strange even for him. The cup goes, as he'd predicted, before they're even out of the parking space, so now they absolutely have to go home, because there's no way he's going to let the soda just dry there and ruin the upholstery, and Tim's a bit too far out of it to take him to the deluxe car wash where they clean the inside as well as the outside. And the $5 car wash does nothing for upholstery.

At the house, he shoos Tim out of the car, and he just stands there and does nothing about his pants even though they have to be uncomfortable in their wetness while Bernard dries the seat off the best he can, cursing. Not that he begrudges Tim his little moment of craziness, but he has to use the car, and the wetness is kind of annoying. Then he drags Tim inside before he can realize that Tim almost certainly has some sort of skills with which to defend himself if he really did survive NML. Fortunately, Tim seems content to let him drag him around.

"Take off your pants and put those on," Bernard tells him when they reach his room, pointing to a pair of his pants. Tim's zombie flashback mode is apparently also a follow-whatever-orders-he's-given mode because he starts taking his pants off immediately.

Bernard hadn't thought to guard against this, mentally, because while he knows he's attracted to Tim, Tim is normally way too modest to strip in front of anybody. It's actually amazing that he survived dressing out for gym without dying of embarrassment. Well, unless he actually did die, and became a zombie, and this is just his zombie side asserting itself. He shakes his head, and tries not to stare, because it's Tim. In boxers. Without anything over them. If Tim wasn't all zombified right now…but he is. He takes Tim's pants and puts them in the washer, then calls Tim's dad and asks if Tim can spend the night, using the soda incident and "a shower" as the reason Tim isn't the one calling, as well as the old "I thought if I left it up to Tim he wouldn't ask" to convince Jack. Tim isn't the only one who can lie, and it seems unlikely that he'll be together enough to go home at a reasonable time today.

When he returns to his room, Tim hasn't put pants on. After the sacrifice of pants he'd made, zombie Tim's snubbing them. He should feel insulted. He probably would, if the boxers weren't shorting out every thought in his brain.

"Tim, I know we aren't exactly the same size, but you do need to wear pants of some sort," Bernard says in as close to his normal tone as he can manage, holding the pants out toward Tim. He hopes Tim doesn't notice how little success he's having at not staring. The boxers hide nothing.

Tim grabs his wrist really tight. "Ow. Ow, ow, owowow," Bernard whimpers, dropping the pants. He's going to have bruises, and it doesn't look like Tim's even trying. Tim's hold lessens a little, enough that Bernard could maybe move a little without his bones getting broken, if he didn't know that Tim could tighten his grip at the slightest move he makes. "Okay, Tim, you don't have to wear pants if you don't want to. I mean, we're just in my house, not outside where you can get arrested for indecent exposure or anything." He's babbling, but Tim's scaring him and he talks a lot when he's scared, it's a defense mechanism…and he should really calm down. Even if Tim's having a flashback, maybe he can calm him down and make him let go of his wrist.

…Except he has no idea how to snap people out of flashbacks. And somehow he doubts Tim's going to let go of him so he can look it up on the internet. "Tim, you want to let go of me?" he tries hopefully. "I'm not going anywhere, you don't have to hold on to me." Tim doesn't let go. This is almost certainly the longest Tim has ever touched him voluntarily. Unless it doesn't count as voluntarily because he's so out of it. Without Bernard being the one doing the touching, anyway. "Can we at least sit down?" Bernard asks, edging towards the bed. "Maybe you can go to sleep and wake up, you know, not acting all weird? Or at least, acting weird in the ways you normally act weird, not in this way. I'm so not helping my case here, am I?" But apparently he is, because Tim sits down next to him on the bed, close enough that he can feel his body heat all up and down his side, not just where Tim is gripping him like a vise, like it's life-or-death that he keeps holding on.

Bernard keeps up a steady stream of talk, still trying to calm Tim down or at least get him to let go of his wrist, because the constant pressure on his new bruises isn't pleasant no matter how much he wants - craves – Tim's touch. His strategy has limited success. Tim doesn't let go, but his grip loosens as he pillows his head on Bernard's shoulder and falls asleep.

Gently, carefully, Bernard slides his wrist away from Tim's hand and massages it. Definitely bruised. If it had been a life or death situation…well. It wouldn't have been Tim who was the weak link, that's for sure. If he'd been dangling from a ledge or something, he would have been able to hold on until somebody got there to help pull him up, if he wasn't able to do it himself. It's yet another of those skills it's not entirely unreasonable to develop in Gotham. Bernard wonders if he'd developed it deliberately, if he'd ever had to use it. If he'd ever had occasion to really notice its lack.

Tim's starting to drool on his shoulder. They may be friends, but Bernard doesn't let anybody drool on him, no matter how good a friend they are. Carefully (because he doesn't think his wrist can take much more abuse, and Tim's going to feel guilty enough whenever he snaps out of this without breaking it) he maneuvers Tim into a lying position on his bed. It's a bit early, so he can put Tim's pants in the dryer and look up flashbacks online and then go to sleep on the couch and avoid Tim until he puts some pants on, because Tim's straight (he dated a girl Robin!) and not interested and even if he was right now it would be wrong to take advantage, like date rape or something. He tries to leave, but Tim, still sleeping, puts his arms around him and pulls him down onto the bed next to him, snuggling into him like he's one of those body pillows or Tim's girlfriend (well, okay, not Tim's girlfriend; there's little doubt in Bernard's mind that Tim's still a virgin, girlfriend or no girlfriend). He pulls Bernard down so that he's lying down too, so that they're spooning, and then Tim throws his legs around Bernard so he can't even move, and it's a good thing he went to the bathroom earlier because judging by the way Tim's holding on to him with all of his limbs he isn't going to get another chance anytime soon.

It's a very good thing his parents are out of town, Bernard thinks, because this is not the kind of thing he wants to have to have to explain. Or at least not when it's just because of zombie Tim. Now, if he could convince Tim to give him this much contact without him being all messed up in the head…perhaps they could work their way up to it? He wonders how he could even broach the subject to Tim. He couldn't even talk to Darla about his attraction to her, and asking somebody of the opposite gender out when they aren't interested doesn't freak them out nearly as much as asking somebody of the same gender does.

Speaking of attraction, it's really difficult to ignore Tim and his pantslessness when he's right there at Bernard's back, wrapped around him like…something that wraps stuff. Wrapping paper, maybe. Though he's so warm, he's closer to being an electric blanket. Wouldn't that be delightful in winter, a Tim ready and willing to cuddle? He takes a few moments to enjoy that thought before he remembers that the reason he's having it is because Tim's in the same bed as him (to understate things). Things are going to be awkward enough when he wakes up without getting turned on. So, change of mental subject. To…he chooses a subject at random. Vegetables! Vegetables are completely nonsexual. They don't have genders, aren't involved in sex, there's absolutely nothing erotic about them. In fact, they're so horribly boring he wouldn't be surprised if he dropped off right now. Except Tim eats vegetables. With every meal. Sometimes as a snack too. It's like he's a health nut or thinks he might get scurvy at any moment or something. Or like eating vegetables is some part of his religion, possibly all of it. Which totally fits with Bernard's theory about No Man's Land; he's heard that there hadn't been a lot of vegetables to go around then, and that after NML a lot of people who'd stayed had a newfound love of them. Like the almost worshipful expression on Tim's face when he digs into a nice plate of vegetables. Maybe there's some way he can get Tim to turn that expression on him.

Wait, no, that's the kind of thought he's trying to avoid. But what can he think of to avoid that kind of thought? Is it even possible, with Tim pressed into him so warmly? Ugly old people? His parents having sex? Math? He feels his eyelids growing heavier and welcomes the darkness that signals sleep.

***

He wakes up when the warmth at his back shifts. His side feels cold in a couple of places, and he knows that the warmth had been on them too, and now is gone. He presses back into the warmth in an effort to get it to stay, to not go anywhere.

"Um." Tim's voice says from behind him, and it all comes crashing back. He sits bolt upright and starts rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Sorry," he says, voice still thick from sleep. "Forgot about you."

"Um. Sorry?" At least it seems that Tim's back to normal. Tim normal, at least.

"You had a- a- flashback or something, and all you can say is sorry? How about you tell me what that was all about?" He turns to look at Tim for the first time since he woke up, but Tim is looking everywhere but at him, like he's fascinated by Bernard's room, like he hasn't seen it before.

"I can't," he says quietly.

"If you can't talk to me, at least tell me you have somebody you can talk to," Bernard says. "Because that? Was not exactly reassuring of your mental health, no matter how good a façade you put up the rest of the time. I'm going to have bruises."

Tim's eyes snap to him, like he can't help but look. "Did I- what did I do?" He sounds halfway terrified, and maybe there's something to Bernard's theory about abuse because he looks like people in Lifetime movies who are afraid of being second generation abusers.

"It's fine," he says, holding up his wrist. "You just held onto me like I was your lifeline or something. Not that I mind, except for the pain, but you really need to talk to somebody."

"I can't. I'm not allowed."

"Why not?"

Tim is silent.

"There's nobody you can talk to about…whatever's bothering you?"

A hint of a smile twitches the corner of his lips. "Nobody living."

"So talk to somebody dead! Talk to their grave or the air or write them a letter. I don't care how you do it. But you need to talk to somebody, even if they'll never be able to talk back or give you advice."

Tim looks shocked, but he nods like it's a good idea, whether it is or not. "Um…where are my pants?" he asks like he's halfway afraid of the answer.

***

The only word he can think of to describe Tim when he sees him next is "guarded". Of course, that could describe Tim at any point, but it's somehow more now, like he's been experiencing actual emotions and doesn't want anybody to know. And it's not because of his little freak-out the other day, or at least not just about that, because he'd been more or less Tim-normal when Bernard had dropped him off at his house afterwards, and now he's…guarded.

This is, actually, an improvement, because it means he has something to guard, as opposed to the terrible blankness of the other day. And it's like it's Tim's natural state to be guarded, because he does it better than anybody, well enough that Bernard only knows he's guarded because Tim lets him see that, even though he isn't anything close to letting Bernard see his actual emotions that he's guarding.

"Am I to assume you actually followed my advice?" he asks. "Is it snowing in Hell? Are pigs flying without mad scientists being involved?"

"It was…helpful," Tim replies, the pause meaning something significant, but as usual with Tim, it isn't anything Bernard can interpret. Sometimes Tim can be so frustrating…but today Bernard's content to just have him back to his usual enigmatic self.

***

~Months Later~

Tim's hurt, he went away for his vacation away from his parents and Gotham and he came back covered in bandages. Not Band-Aids, bandages, taped on and huge and white and Bernard knows that he isn't actually covered in them because Tim's been covered in bandages before (it's what made him develop the abuse theory), and this is nowhere near as covered as he had been then because it's only on his head, and those had been mostly on his body, where there's a lot more area to be covered. But he has bandages, and one of them is behind his ear, like if whatever wound Tim had gotten had been just a bit deeper his brains would have leaked out on the ground or whatever he hit his head on. Or if it had been more forward, he would have lost his ear. Bernard pokes at it.

Tim ducks out of the way, like he hasn't done on a regular basis since- well, since before Bernard met him, because somebody trained him to not mind when people around him get in his personal space and stay there. But it looks like he's only ducking because it hurts, not because he doesn't want – make that isn't willing – to be touched. Which makes entirely too much sense, and he really should have thought of that before poking at Tim's fresh wound.

"Sorry," he says, dropping his hand. "What happened? I let you go on vacation without me for one week, and what do you do? You get injured."

"I can't talk about it," Tim replies, tapping his also bandaged middle and index fingers on the wall in what Bernard's brain is insisting is a pattern, even if he can't work it out.

"You can't share the story of how you got horribly injured with your best friend?" Bernard asks.

"What makes you think you're my best friend?" Tim asks, and on anybody else that tone would be completely serious, but this is Tim, and he's had months in which to find Tim's sense of humor and learn when he's making a joke.

Bernard clutches his chest. "You mean I'm not? Oh, how you wound me!"

"Yes, I've ditched you for the company of a bear whose acquaintance I made in the woods."

"Is that what happened to you? You got a bit too close to the honey or something?"

"I told you, I can't talk about it, but there were no bears involved. I told my dad I fell while climbing." Which, of course, means that there was no climbing involved, at least in the injury, because Tim never tells Jack the truth, even when it would be smarter to. He may have climbed a little just to make sure he was acquainted with the process or something, though. His fingers continue tapping.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Bernard asks. If his fingers were hurt badly enough to be bandaged, he doubts he'd be tapping at every available surface.

"Yes."

***

Maybe Tim's a masochist. It explains the injuries, the old scars, the tapping with injured fingers. But he doesn't stop tapping after his fingers heal, and he always seems to take good care of his injuries and at least try to avoid getting hurt. Bernard could almost pass the scars off as clumsiness, but he's actually seen Tim move. There's nothing clumsy about him unless he's doing it deliberately.

The tapping is not some sort of nervous tic or habit; Tim had picked it up all at once when he'd gotten injured, and it gets faster as time passes. Maybe it's Morse code, with one finger for the dit and the other for the dah? But what's the point of sending messages to yourself in Morse code, especially when it's Morse code which makes no sense? Working off that theory, Bernard learns Morse code and attempts to decipher what Tim's tapping out. But neither BENPYR nor JTAXLK is a word, nor anything like a word, so either it's in code (he wouldn't put it past Tim to use a code in his Morse code conversations with himself, but he doesn't have anything near the ability to decode it if that's what he's doing) or it isn't Morse code, just some weird instant habit of Tim's. If anybody could pick up a habit immediately, it's Tim, so he stops even trying to comprehend Tim's actions.

He starts getting a lot of weird spam in his email account, emails all from different addresses. Most of them try to get him to take various quizzes, but some of them ask really personal questions which, when taken as a whole, seem to be rather pointed. Either somebody's trying to set him up with Tim or Tim's sending the emails. While he can't think of anybody who would want to set them up, the alternative is even more unlikely.

"I've been getting these strange emails lately…" he tells Tim.

Tim freezes, and a strange expression passes over his face. Maybe he had been the one sending them. But he starts muttering to himself. "I can't believe you did that."

"Hearing voices, Tim?"

"In a sense." Tim looks like he wants to jump out of the window to escape this conversation. They're on the ground floor, so he wouldn't get hurt too badly, but jumping through closed windows is never a good idea so Bernard makes sure he's between Tim and the window.

"So, what, you have multiple personality disorder and one of your personalities sent me the emails?" Bernard doesn't give him enough time to pretend that's the truth. "Please, how stupid do you think I am? And I know that you don't regularly berate yourself out loud in second person, so don't try to pretend you do."

"Sorry," Tim says, looking at the floor. "I have a friend who's, um."

"Trying to set us up?" Bernard prompts. Tim nods and doesn't look in his direction. "Well, I assume they at least bothered to find out if you're interested before trying, so…" he steps forward and kisses Tim. He can't get at Tim's mouth at first, because he's looking at the floor, so he kisses Tim's cheek, and then Tim turns his head and his lips slide along his cheek and then he's kissing Tim's mouth, and it falls open, and he can't keep his hands off of Tim, just has to get in contact with as much of him as he can, and it seems Tim has the same idea because he's licking the roof of his mouth and his hands are somewhere on Bernard's back and they're pressed together close enough that there isn't any space between them.

And then Tim's pulling away and saying something, not to him, but not to anybody else because there's nobody else in the room, and Bernard knows he should be focusing but his lips are swollen and possibly his brain is melted because he didn't know Tim was interested, or that he was such a good kisser, or that he could be so expressive. But then Tim turns his computer monitor on, and it isn't showing the usual desktop, it's showing video, and he doesn't think he should be seeing this, because it's the kind of video they never get on TV, video of some field by a farm, with superheroes really close, fighting what looks like Superboy, except that isn't his costume and he's right there besides, on the ground like he's hurt. And the video is being taken by one of the heroes, somehow, because there's movement, faster than anyone but one of them or a professional athlete could move, and there's no reason an athlete would be in the middle of nowhere for a battle like this.

Tim's into it, more than Bernard would have expected him to be, nails digging into the palms of his hands and biting his lip until it bleeds and looking like he wishes he were there even though, if that many heroes can't do anything, there's no way he could if he were there. He flinches every time one of them gets hurt especially badly, but he doesn't look away, just keeps staring like it's a train wreck, like if he looks away it'll just be worse. And then some interminable amount of time later the battle's over, all except the cleanup, and he kind of wonders what happens to the bodies of the dead heroes except that's so not a good thought to be having after watching that, because some of those bodies were pulped, and if none of the other heroes know their secret identities they'll have to be identified by dental records or fingerprints or DNA or not at all. He barely makes it to the bathroom in time.

He rinses his mouth out and returns, and Tim looks a little bit grey but he smiles like he'd just gotten here, like they hadn't talked about the emails or kissed or seen that video. And he can almost believe it was all a hallucination, because his computer looks like it hasn't been touched since last night when he'd checked his email, and Tim's smiling like nothing had happened, but there's a line of blood caked on his chin from when he'd bitten his lip, and his nails are red at the tip, where they'd been pressed into his skin so hard he'd bled. And he's grey, like he should be going into shock or fainting or something, and he's just smiling like nothing had happened.

"Shouldn't we, like, send that video to the news or something?" he asks, and his brain isn't melted anymore, it's frozen, like a block of ice, and he just can't go along with Tim's little charade right now, no matter how much closer it might get him to kissing again.

"What video?" Tim asks, gesturing at the computer, where pipes are endlessly being drawn across the screen.

"I can't deal with this today," Bernard says, to himself or to the air. He doesn't know. But Tim nods once and leaves.

***

It's on the news, later. There isn't any video, just bland descriptions and photographs of those who'd died. Some of them don't even have photographs, just names in the list, and he wonders if anybody knows them, if anybody mourns their deaths as anything more than one more hero who'd died today.

He sees Tim in school, and they're still friends, but Tim's always busy now, busy and not in his house, and when he sees Jack Drake he looks defeated, like he's not allowed to have his anger any more, and without it he has nothing.

Tim continues his enigmatic tapping, and his concealment of his emotions, and starts having bruises and cuts and broken bones all the time again. And Bernard knows that he can have Tim again, if he connects the dots, follows the breadcrumbs, deciphers the encoded Morse code he taps on every available surface.

Partner

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Dick asks, entering Lieutenant Wilson's office and ignoring whoever's sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He's old and his leg's acting up today so he's cranky, so it doesn't really matter to him that he's interrupting their conversation. Besides, he'd been called into the office, away from his work.

The lieutenant's been here long enough that he doesn't startle at being called "sir" by someone who probably should have retired years ago. Would have, too, if he wasn't every bit as much of a workaholic as all the other former Bats. What do people even do when they aren't working as many hours as physically possible (or at least as many hours as they're allowed to) in a day? If he had the answer to that one… "New partner. Richard Grayson, Matt McGinnis."

"It's Dick," he says automatically, before the name can register, and then he blinks as he shakes McGinnis's hand. He hadn't realized how little he'd been paying attention to what's going on with the newest Bats, but apparently it's little enough that this one has become a detective and moved to Blüdhaven without him knowing.

"Grayson will show you the ropes," Wilson says, sounding exactly like any of the lieutenants he'd had over the years. Any except for Amy, though perhaps the distinction is completely subjective.

"I'm looking forward to working with you," McGinnis says in a creditable impression of an eager rookie, but he's neither done a lot of undercover work nor spent a great amount of time in Bruce's presence, and certainly not before he dropped most of the act, so the signs are there for Dick to read.

At this point the Blüdhaven Police Department is looking for any excuse to get rid of him, so they can lower the insurance premiums or something (Dick's never been too clear on the reasoning, it's not like there isn't enough crime to go around, after all), so he pretends he doesn't see it. "Likewise. So, to work, unless there's something more-?"

"No, no, go ahead," Wilson waves them out of his office.

"Your desk," Dick says, pointing to the desk pushed up against his. It's empty except for the computer monitor and the overflow from his desk. No matter how long the "paperless office" has been pushed, his desk has only become a little bit less cluttered than it had been in the early years. There's a visceral difference between working with files on a screen and having them there, in your hands, getting coffee stains when you set your cup down in the wrong spot after a long day's work, rotating the crime scene photos so they make the most sense. "Shove those back on my desk and grab one to work on; I'll get us coffee."

"I can do that," McGinnis says, and it's really obvious that he'd only gotten into the game after Bruce's death because there's no way Bruce would have let him go through life without training him out of his instinct to try to pamper people just because they use canes and are old.

"If I thought I'd have a problem I wouldn't have said I'd do it," he growls, and McGinnis shrinks back because he's used to a different Batman than Bruce.

The coffee here isn't the same swill it is at most police stations (he knows; he's been to enough of them, sharing information and working together) because after a few years of putting up with it he'd quietly started making sure it was always stocked with the good stuff and that none of the coffeemakers were malfunctioning badly enough to change the taste. There's nothing he can do about people not changing the filter, but it's as good as he can do. And it's better than bringing his own thermoses (thermosi?) of coffee.

Amusingly, there is a mug here that has a robin on it (apparently it's from sort of wild bird museum or whatever it's called), so he fills that one for McGinnis as a joke McGinnis won't know he's in on. His mug was painted by Jody a couple of years ago, with all of the former Robins and subtle (he doesn't think McGinnis will notice) Robin theming.

This isn't the first time he's had to carry things with both of his hands since he'd gotten the cane, so he has a system worked out. His cane, when taken apart, fits in his pocket well enough that it won't fall out, and if he walks slowly enough it won't hurt too much more than it already does. His life has been a negotiation for less pain for far too long.

McGinnis seems to have learned his lesson, at least for the moment, because he doesn't fawn over Dick, or walk over to take his coffee from him, or anything. His lips quirk at his mug, and he oohs at Dick's. Dick's used to that reaction; Jody is a very successful professional artist for a reason.

"My niece painted it," he says proudly.

"Your niece?" McGinnis asks, half politely and half with actual interest.

"Adoptively, sort of. She has an exhibition in Blüdhaven this week if you want to meet her." Dick hands McGinnis one of the brochures he keeps a stack of on his desk. Jody being successful is nothing new, but that doesn't keep him from being proud every time he sees her work or hears it mentioned.

"Your niece is Jody?" McGinnis says incredulously. She goes by just her first name, professionally. "We learned about her in art class." Probably in the Cave, too, considering her powers, even if she'd never been even tempted to follow in her father's footsteps. She's too powerful for any of the Bats who are still Bats to consider doing anything other than monitoring her.

"She's a talented woman." Dick can't keep the smile off of his face. "So what do you say? Want to go to the exhibition tomorrow?"

"Yeah, that'd be great."

They work for the rest of the shift, and don't stay overtime even though there's always more work to do, because there's nothing urgent. Dick takes a few file folders of cases, even though they aren't supposed to do that, aren't supposed to work on cases in their free time, because his stack at home is starting to get low. It isn't like he's taking anything unique, anything that isn't duplicated at least three other places for redundancy. After so long, everybody's used to, and grateful for, the files which "mysteriously" appear on their desks when nobody's watching, crammed with post it notes in handwriting which has nothing in common with Dick's (not that everybody doesn't know it's him, anyway, but changing his handwriting gives him some plausible deniability).

That night, after dark, he watches out his window to where he knows the bad (or at least, even worse than most of the others) parts of the city are. If he watches in the right places (he knows exactly where they are, even after so long) he can see the pinpoint of light that means boot rockets.

He doesn't know if the smile on his face is happy or sad.

Shadows Thrown, Attempt 1

His death passes unremarked upon by most of the world.

Bruce Wayne's death is mentioned briefly in the news, and of course his funeral is well-attended by various acquaintances and people who never met him but were grateful for everything he'd done for Gotham, but he's soon forgotten by most except for plaques and buildings named after him. Dick steps into his place at Wayne Enterprises and, after a short transitory period, proves just as able as Bruce had been. Tabloids run conspiracy theories about his death until they find juicier prey, which doesn't take long.

Batman's death is felt more profoundly, but not in a way that most recognize. It's there in the black armbands the superheroes (and others who knew him and of his death) refuse to comment on, in the changes in the JLA's roster, in Nightwing being the urban legend stopping crime in Gotham. But there's no funeral, no memorial, no statue commemorating the fallen, just a gradual fade in the number of stories told about him.

Once a year, Jim Gordon sits in a diner after hours and drinks one of the two cups of coffee he orders and wishes he'd be beaten to the check once more.

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."