August – The Compiled Text Version.
by Smitty (smittywing@yahoo.com) and Chicago (Chicago_haven@yahoo.com)

***

August 17, 0005h

	Tim shifted his feet, resettling himself.  He'd been watching the silent 
docks for three hours without a clear sense of why.  He suspected it was because 
somewhere in Bludhaven, Batman was shaking down various players in Blockbuster's 
operation and did not want his partner's disapproval.  *Or maybe he just can't 
look at the suit.*  Tim shook his head and tried to refocus.
	A soft chime sounded in his ear.  "Nightwing, you there?"
	He winced, realizing the voice was talking to him.  "Yeah, Oracle?"
	Pretense.  He knew he was talking to Dinah.
	"Is Batman with you?"  Hushed tones.  A sense of worry, even through the 
electronic masking.
	"Negative, Oracle.  He won't answer his com?"
	"No."  A pause. Expectant?  Or uncertain?
	"Do you have info for him?"
	"About the case?  No."
	"Oracle?  Is everything okay?"
	Silence.  "No."
	"Do you need me back?"
	More silence.  
	"Do you need me to get Batman?"
	"Will he come back with you?"
	"No."
	More silence, then a sigh.  "He's worse."
	She didn't need to say who.  Tim stared blindly at the docks, trying not 
to think too hard about it.  "What's the situation?"
	"Infection.  High fever."
	Tim closed his eyes for a second.  "Prognosis?" he whispered.
	Pause.  "Uncertain at best."
	"Understood.  Nightwing out."
	He hated to cut the conversation so abruptly, but what else could he say?  
He ached to go back, but if the unthinkable happened, Batman was right - they 
were too close to breaking Blockbuster - Dick had been too close.  To let the 
opportunity go would be to dishonor his life.  Still, Batman should know, should 
be informed...
	He took a deep breath, prepared for the cold anger that would surely greet 
him across the comlink, and activated the narrow emergency channel that would 
get Batman's attention.  He'd just pressed the button when a soft rustle caught 
his ear.
	He whirled, his bo barely deflecting the descending machete as Batman's 
voice answered his signal.
	"Nightwing, report."
	Tim twisted his wrists, cranking the bo to an angle that caught the one-
two swipe of blades.  He lost his small space of retreat as he backed with the 
blows - his new position left his right heel over empty space.  He thrust his 
weight forward, ducking and rolling to the side.  "He's here!" he hissed into 
the comlink.  No sense warning his attacker that he had Batman on the line.
	"I'm tracing your signal."  Impossible calm tones as the large man now to 
Tim's right somehow chose not to strike.  
	Instead he spoke.  "Impressive.  But you are not the man I killed."
	Tim remained cautiously on the balls of his feet, his bo balanced in his 
hands, and inspected his foe.  Tall and broad, like Batman.  Clad in black, 
clothes cut loose enough to hide the dimensions of the man.  Face unmasked, 
goateed but smooth cheeked.  Perhaps thirty.  Dark eyes, piercing, glittering 
with intelligence.  
	"I fight for him," Tim replied, using *the Voice*.
	A dark eyebrow quirked in amusement as the machetes disappeared into 
sheaths across his back.  "So you do, Youngster.  But I do not kill without a 
contract."
	"Bastard," Tim hissed, lunging at the smiling villain.
	His thrust was casually deflected by a suddenly unsheathed again machete. 
"Someone taught you to use that rage this way.  Sloppy.  Sloppier than you are 
capable of."
	Tim attacked again, the image of Dick's bloodied body flashing in his 
mind.
	"This is not a fight I want, Youngster."
	Suddenly Batman's *Voice*, cutting through everything.  "ROBIN!  
DISENGAGE!"
	"NO!" Tim yelled in frustration, but his training wouldn't let him attack 
again.
	A chuckle from the man once again sheathing his machete.  "Your mentor 
knows how to create good soldiers," he remarked before turning to drop from the 
roof.
	"NOO!" Tim cried again, knowing how quickly Dick's attacker would elude 
them.
	"Robin!"  Batman again, at his side, not in his ear.
	"He's gone!  I had him!"
	Batman followed Tim's gaze.  "He'll be back."

*** 

August 17, 0015h

	Gotham was running scared.
 	The streets were quiet.  They were safe tonight, but no one appreciated 
them.  No one whose safety mattered.
 	Cassandra Cain stood wide-legged on the edge of Wayne Tower and glared out 
over the city.  She felt fearsome.  She felt powerful.  She had the entire city 
afraid of her.
 	And she felt scared.
 	They had made contact.
 	Batman and Tim.  Batman didn't worry her.  The hunt was on and any trace 
of Bruce Wayne had been swallowed by the Suit.
 	It was Tim.  Tim could disappear into the Robin suit, become Robin.  But 
it didn't work that way with the Nightwing suit.  He was just Tim.  Fortunately 
for all, Tim had willpower to rival Green Lantern's and more courage than any 
one person had a right to.
 	She just hoped that wouldn't get him killed.

*** 

August 17, 0038h

	"Roy?"
	Cecilia Jones bit her lip and peered into the room. Roy Harper lay on his 
back, the light from the hallway washing across his chest.
	She rested her temple on the cool edge of the doorframe.  It wasn't as if 
she regularly went barging into her boss's bedroom in the middle of the night. 
If one could rightly call him her boss.
	"Are you ok?"
	They'd heard about Nightwing in the early hours of the morning.  The 
Titans had rushed to offer any help or support they could.  Most of them 
returned within the hour with promises from Black Canary to keep them updated on 
his condition.  A few stayed to donate blood.  They wouldn't even let Roy do 
that.  With his history, he never could, but having to admit that he couldn't 
help his friend had hurt him deeply.
	"Sure."  Roy's voice sounded flat in the darkness.
	Cissie's eyes closed as all the pain he was repressing oozed from the 
edges of the single word.
	"I don't think I am," she said, her voice echoing clearly into the room.  
She pushed the door open further and stepped through.  Letting the door swing 
shut behind her, she crossed to Roy's bed and sat on the covers.  She knew Roy 
slept nude.  In another time, this knowledge might make what she was about to do 
awkward, but not now.  Now, the covers were pulled up to his waist and they 
weren't going anywhere.  She curled her body around his, crossing one arm over 
his chest and pillowing her golden head on his broad shoulder.  His arms came 
down from above his head and wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
	 A deep shudder ran through his body and when she leaned up to kiss his 
cheek, she found salt beneath her lips.

 *** 

August 17, 0145h

	Leslie stared at the temperature reading.
	104.7.
	And rising.
	She felt her stomach knot, but she made her decision.
	"Dinah?" she said in a slightly louder than normal voice, knowing that the 
other woman was monitoring the basement lair.
	The response was instantaneous.  "Yes, Leslie."
	"Get STAR Labs for me."
	"Right away."
	There was a moment's pause, long enough to meet the worried expressions of 
Babs and Spud.  "We have to get his fever down," Leslie explained as a voice 
said, "STAR Labs."
	"This is Dr. Thompkins," Leslie said clearly.
	The voice gave the impression of a person sitting up straighter in his 
chair.  "Go ahead, Dr. Thompkins."
	"I need that team down here, stat."
	"We're calling JLA for transport," the voice answered tersely.  "ETA three 
minutes."
	The line clicked, returning the room to an uncomfortable silence punctuated only by the 
machines keeping 
Dick Grayson alive.  There was nothing else to say.

*** 

August 17, 0258h

	J'onn J'onzz had a headache.  He wanted to blame it on spending the last 
three days breathing water instead of air.  Or maybe on the struggle to 
telepathically soothe and coax a lost and frantic baby sea monster out of the 
Sea of Japan and back to its pod.  But he knew that wasn't it.
	"He found his mother," Arthur was saying in satisfaction, floating next to 
his teammate in the deepest part of the North Pacific and watching the joyful 
dance of reunion among the leviathans.
	J'onn managed a smile and a nod.  "No more Godzilla panics."  Just other 
panics, he thought, resisting the urge to massage his temples.
	Arthur gave him a curious look.  "You seem tired, old friend."
	"As do you," J'onn countered, reading weariness on the Atlantean's 
features.  "This kind of crisis is disruptive to the art of statecraft."
	Arthur shook his head.  "I can't believe I had to have *Batman* tell me 
that there was trouble in my realm."  His tone was disdainful and self-
denigrating.
	"You have many responsibilities, Orin.  And I know you need to get back to 
them.  I will take care of the debriefing."
	It was only J'onn's use of his sea name that kept Arthur from bristling, 
from reading the Martian's offer as a slight.  "Batman will want to hear from 
both of us," he pointed out, eyeing J'onn narrowly.  He did not fail to notice 
the slight wince that Batman's name evinced.
	"Batman has other concerns.  He'll accept my report."  J'onn's tone had no 
doubt in it, but it was heavy.  He would not betray the scream ricocheting in 
his skull, but he could not hide how it weighed on him.
	Arthur seemed prepared to ask more questions, but something on J'onn's 
face held him at bay.  He nodded.  "Very well.  I will see you on my next 
monitor duty."
	"Yes."  J'onn agreed, turning to shoot toward the surface.
	The closer he got, the more he felt compelled to raise his mental shields.  
The side effect of his frequently established telepathic link between his 
teammates was a heightened sensitivity to their distinctive mental voices.  It 
was usually not a problem.
	His teammates did not usually project at him the familiar, echoing anguish 
he had felt as he had watched his daughter die.
	Now it was beating at his mind, a steady howl for more than 24 hours.  He 
grit his teeth as he burst free of the ocean, steeling himself as he prepared to 
open himself a little more to his friend, to send a message of comfort.  As 
gently as he could, he reached out.  *Bruce?*
	The response was immediate, sudden, and unexpected.  The door to Batman's mind slammed 
shut, cutting off the scream, but also *any* contact at all.  J'onn recoiled, struggling to regain equilibrium 
as he shot across the afternoon sky.  His senses reeling, he signaled the Watchtower to teleport him up.

*** 

August 17, 0345h

	"I wan - I want to - Babs -" Spud's breath came in gasping sobs as he 
clung to Babs, looking entreatingly into her face.
	"Spud, sweetheart-"
	"No!  You pr - promised!  You said - I -"
	"Master James," Alfred's voice interrupted, his tone gentle but carrying 
the force of an order.  It wasn't enough.
	"NO!  He's hurt - an - an - and wh - what if-"
	"Spud!"  This time it was Dinah's voice, startlingly stern as she took his 
hand and urged him upright.  Her hands settled on his shoulders as she knelt in 
front of him.  "Stop it.  The doctors need to do their job.  Right now we'd only 
be in the way of that, you understand?  Spud?"
	His eyes remained shell-shocked wide, focusing somewhere past Dinah.  She 
gave him a little shake.  "Spud!"
	His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, and then the tears started 
again.  "I -I just w-want -"
	Dinah wrapped him in an embrace.  "Shh, Spud.  I know."  She looked past 
his shoulder at Babs' pinched face.  "He needs sleep," she mouthed.  She 
resisted the urge to add, "So do you."
	Babs stared almost sightlessly at her best friend soothing her son, 
watching the way Spud trembled in her arms.  When had he last slept?  Before all 
this started, day before yesterday.    He and Dick had been up early for them - 
7? 8?  40 hours ago.  Seemed more like 40 years.  With a weary nod to Alfred, 
she acquiesced.  She didn't want to sedate Spud, but this round of hysterics was 
so out of character even under the circumstances...
	Dinah's eyes flashed reassurance at her as Alfred quickly doctored Spud's hot chocolate.  It 
didn't make her feel any better.

*** 

August 17, 0425h

	Spud stared numbly at his ceiling, feeling oddly distant from his body.  
He had almost fallen asleep, but he fought his sluggish heaviness, his ears 
straining for any clue about what was happening with Dick.  All he could hear 
were the muffled tones of the three grown ups in the kitchen, made 
indecipherable by the quiet whir of the air conditioning and his half-closed 
bedroom door.
	He didn't want to sleep.  He wanted to stay by Dick, to be there in case 
anything happened.  If he was there then Dick would remember about daddies not 
leaving little boys.  But Dinah said the doctors needed to not worry about Spud 
and Babs had tucked him in and said that Dick would feel bad if he kept Spud up 
all night again and maybe they were both right.  Still, he didn't want to sleep.
	A new sound entered his consciousness, and after a moment he placed it as 
the sound of Babs' workroom door opening.  A moment later he heard Babs' cry, 
"Leslie!" - but then the conversation turned too soft to hear again.
	His heart beat quickened.  He needed to know what was going on!  But his 
limbs felt so heavy...
	Focus, he told himself, summoning up reserves of will.  He fought to a 
sitting position, then slid barefooted onto the floor, motion becoming easier 
once it was begun.  He crept forward purposefully, slipping through the opening 
of his door and sidling down the hallway until he was close enough to the 
kitchen to hear.
	"...reclose some of the wounds," Leslie was saying.
	"And the fever?  Will it stay down?"  Babs' voice.
	"It's down for the moment.  I can't promise we've got the infection under 
control.  We're going to keep a doctor here for now to monitor the situation."
	"You'll stay?"
	There was a pause and a sigh.  "Barbara, right now I'm too tired to think 
straight.  I can't trust myself not to make a mistake, not to be more of danger 
to him than a help.  And the clinic will need me tomorrow -"
	"We understand, Leslie."  Dinah had joined the conversation now.  "I can't 
thank you enough for everything you've done."
	"I'll come back tomorrow evening, or if there's any big change.  Dinah, 
have you talked to Bruce?"
	The question brought a frozen silence to the kitchen before Dinah spoke 
again.  "He has been - working," Dinah said carefully, and in the hallway, Spud 
felt himself frown.  Where was Bruce?  But Babs voice brought him back to the 
moment.
	"Leslie, it's not so bad as that?"  She sounded scared.
	"Barbara, it's been as bad as that.  And I know how Bruce can be.  But if 
anyone can get him here - I know how he'll be if -"
	"Dr. Thompkins, I will endeavor to get Master Bruce to understand the 
situation," Alfred put in.  "And I will also be happy to drive you back to 
Gotham."
	"Thank you, Alfred."
	"Miss Dinah?"
	"I think I'll stay here," came the slow reply.  "If-"
	The rest of her phrase was lost as Spud moved out of range of the kitchen, 
heading for the Oracle room.  Leslie said Bruce needed to come.  She was right.  
Bruce was Dick's second daddy.  Dick needed him.  Like Spud needed Dick after 
Scorch died.  Like Spud needed Dick now.
	He was relieved to find that the heavy door to the workroom wasn't locked, 
although it still took great effort from his tired limbs to open it enough to 
slip through.  He felt his mind trying to wander, and he fought it, focusing his 
concentration.  He had called Bruce before when Dinah was mad at him.  It didn't 
sound like Dinah was mad now, but she sounded like she hadn't talked to him.
	He stared dumbly at the keyboard for a moment or two before he remembered 
how to connect to Batman.  He made himself focus very hard so his fingers would 
hit the right buttons, and then he waited.
	And waited.
	He knew the signal was going out because it made a little ping sound.
	He waited longer.
	No answer.
	With a heavy sigh, he closed the connection and sat for a long moment staring at the monitor.  
He felt impossibly tired, and his arms and legs were growing more leaden the longer he sat.  He let his 
head fall onto his arm where it rested on the arm of the chair.  His eyelids sank lower, fighting his effort to 
stay awake, to at least get back to his bed where Babs had left him.  It was a losing battle.

*** 

August 17, 0440h

	Dinah left Barbara and Leslie in the kitchen and ducked into the computer 
workroom to catch her breath.
 	Damn Bruce!  Where *was* he?  Would it kill him to call in once in a 
while?
 	The strains of the day were really starting to catch up with her, she 
realized, and wished she had brought her coffee with her.  Her stomach was jumpy 
and she didn't think it was the baby kicking.
 	Her eyes fell on the computer.  The Oracle line was abandoned-they'd 
missed a step again.  Too much of this and things would come unraveled, she 
reminded herself, stepping closer to check the logs.  If someone had left a non-
emergency message, maybe she could route them an answer before-
 	Her eyes widened as she saw Spud curled exhaustedly in the large manager's 
chair he sat in when he stayed with Babs during her time as Oracle.  They'd put 
him to bed almost an hour ago!  How could he have made it back here?
She crouched down next to the chair and tenderly brushed sticky curls away from 
his hot face.  He was running a bit of a fever himself, she noticed. Just enough 
to force the exhausted little body into restorative mode.
 	Dinah started to wonder what he was doing in here, but she knew, deep down 
in her heart, she knew there was only one reason.
 	To call Bruce.
 	She ran trembling fingertips over the keyboard.  The keys were smooth and cool under her 
touch, steady  little knobs that did miracles.  She wondered wildly what would happen if she pressed 
them, if she called Bruce.  She wondered if Spud had talked to him.  If her husband's voice had actually 
entered this room, reaching out to them, heard only by Spud.  She blinked back tears and hefted Spud in 
her arms, laying his head on her shoulder. With luck, she'd be able to get him back in bed without Babs 
ever noticing he was gone.

*** 

August 17, 0530h

	Fruitless.
	The search was fruitless.  Not a trace.  Robin-Nightwing, he reminded 
himself ruthlessly.  It had to be Nightwing out here or not at all.  Nightwing 
was flagging and needed to be at his desk first thing the next morning.  
	"Go," he said suddenly.
	"What?"
	"Get home.  You don't have much time."
	"You coming?"  The young man waited for an answer and got none.  "Ok, 
then.  Any word?"
	The line had been active.  He hadn't answered it.
	"None."
	"No news is good news."
	Batman didn't answer and the boy flew away.
	He stayed crouched on his gargoyle, running scenarios, computing 
possibilities, laying plans in his head until something happened and his eyes 
hurt.  His lightning reflexes brought his head to bear on the source of the 
attack.
	The sun was rising, dappled splotches of light racing over the city spread 
out below him.
	It was morning.

*** 

August 17, 0708

	Alfred made great effort to control the tremor in his hand as he poured 
hot coffee into three mugs.  Granted, he wasn't as young as he used to be, but 
the shock of it all was turning him into an old man.  He set the coffee pot down 
for just a moment, to rest, and an instant later was grateful he had.
A sharp rap at the kitchen storm door startled him. He took a moment to compose 
himself before unlocking and opening the heavy interior door that connected the 
kitchen to the driveway.  Two worried faces peered at him through the screen in 
the storm door.
	"Master Timothy!  Miss Cassandra!"  His fingers fumbled the latch 
confounding his attempts to open the door.
 	"Sorry Alfred," Tim apologized shortly.  "We should have gone to the 
front."
 	"Not at all, young sir."  With a deep breath, Alfred quickly manipulated 
the lock and opened the door to the younger members of the family.  "I had not 
expected to see you this morning."
	Tim passed a weary hand over his face.  He looked like death warmed over, 
Alfred despaired.  His skin was sallow and his eyes red and dull with 
exhaustion.
 	"We're on our way to work," Tim explained succinctly.  I wanted to stop 
and see how he was."
 	'He' meant Master Dick, of course.
 	"Of course," Alfred replied.  "Would you care for some coffee first?"
 	Tim looked incredibly grateful.  It had been an exhausting and frustrating 
night.  He'd had just enough time to get back to his apartment, shower and 
change for work and race back to BlŸdhaven to see Dick before taking off for 
work again.  "Please?"
 	"Of course," Alfred said, immediately handing him one of the freshly 
poured mugs.  "Miss Cassandra?"
 	Cassandra looked at him knowingly.  "Bad night."
 	Alfred nodded.  "A very bad night indeed."

*** 

August 17, 0926

	Dinah sat in Spud's chair in Barbara's workroom, pulling her feet onto the 
seat and her knees to her chest.  The house, for once, was quiet.  Doctors had 
come and gone, leaving a passel of machines in their places. Leslie was back at 
her brownstone for a few hours of much-deserved sleep.  Alfred was downstairs on 
vigil.  Spud, heavily sedated, was sleeping dreamlessly in his room, Buckshot 
and Evil Spoon standing sentry on his headboard.  Tim and Cassandra were making 
their appearances at Wayne Enterprises.  Even Babs had managed to lie down for a 
few minutes and rest her exhausted body.
 	That left only Dinah, running on a few leftover dribbles of adrenaline and 
more coffee than she should have been allowed to have.  She sighed and rolled 
her neck, feeling the leather of the swivel chair brush her skin. She blinked 
gritty eyes and reached out to spin the mouse of the nearest computer.  The 
screensaver cleared away, leaving a panel of settings.  Dinah clicked a box to 
sound an audio warning if a new Oracle call came though and sagged back in the 
chair.  The line had been quiet the last day.  It was no secret amongst the hero 
community that Nightwing and Oracle had some sort of relationship.
 	The silence in the room was almost palpable and it was pressing down on 
Dinah.  She lifted the conventional telephone and quickly dialed the Manor.  
Alfred wouldn't be there to answer.  But maybe... maybe.
 	The answering system picked up.
 	Dinah listened to the message and quietly replaced the receiver.
 	Forty miles north, Bruce Wayne stared at the telephone and tightened his 
mouth.
 	No news was good news.

*** 

August 17, 1154h

	Babs sat quietly watching as Spud's sleep grew more restless.  His fitful 
tossing worried her, but it was a definite improvement over his drugged 
stillness of a few hours before.  She would not allow him to be sedated again, 
she decided firmly.
	Spud whimpered in his sleep and she reached out her hand, resting it 
soothingly on his sweat-damp curls.  He calmed a little.
	Babs glanced at Spud's baseball clock, wondering if she should wake him.  
He needed the sleep, but the clearly encroaching nightmares did not need to be 
part of the package.  She shuddered at the memory of her own nightmare which had 
jerked her awake only three house after she'd lain down.  The only problem was 
that waking up didn't make it go away.
	Spud began mumbling now, an occasional word clear enough for Babs to make 
out.  "...don't ... bad guy ... too many ... not hiding ..."
	"Spud," she said gently, still uncertain about waking him.  Her voice only 
seemed to enter his dream.
	"No, not talk to me ... watch bad guy ... not me ... he's got ... look ... 
not at me ... watch ... no ... no ... DICK!"
	Spud sat bolt upright, tears and sweat trickling down his face.  He gulped 
for air, his eyes wide and panicked as Babs reached for him.
	"Spud, shhh.  I'm here, Spud," she soothed, frustrated in her effort to 
take him into her arms by the wheelchair and his frozen attitude.	
	His eyes focused on her, and an expression of pure betrayal crossed his 
features.  Babs wanted to curse.  Dick always calmed Spud after nightmares, and 
in his sleep-muddled state, Spud must have expected to find himself in Dick's 
arms.  She took Spud's hand.  "I know, Spud," she sighed.
	They sat for a moment as Spud's breathing eased, and finally he wiped a 
pajama sleeve across his eyes.  She could see him struggling for calm, his face 
wearing an expression so like Dick's in similar moments that she ached to see 
it.
	"How is he?" Spud finally asked hoarsely.
	"Sleeping.  Alfred is with him."
	It wasn't a full answer, but Spud seemed to accept it.  "Okay," he said 
softly, closing his eyes.
	Babs watched his face, trying to place his oddly composed expression.  
Recognition struck suddenly and prompted her to transfer herself from her chair 
onto Spud's bed.  Maybe she wouldn't be able to transfer back, but she'd be 
damned if she would allow her child to take the path of retreat that had claimed 
Bruce Wayne.
	Spud's eyes flew open at Babs' sudden weight on his bed.  "Babs?" he asked 
uncertainly.
	Babs scooted herself back to lean against the headboard.  "Yeah?" she 
grunted.
	"Babs, your chair - you won't -"
	"You'll help me," she said firmly.
	Spud opened his mouth and shut it again.  He tried again.  "But - but I'm 
-"  His eyes began to well again.
	Better, Babs thought, even though his tears pained her.  She opened her 
arms.  "C'mere, Potatohead," she whispered.
	He scrambled into her embrace, although he was still careful to sit beside 
her legs rather than on her lap.  He pillowed his face against the side of her 
breast, now making no effort to stop his slow tears.
	Babs wrapped her arms around him, letting one hand idly stroke his unruly 
hair.  "When I was a teenager," she began, "I wanted to be a superhero, too."
	Spud's head jerked up to stare into her face, and Babs smiled comfortingly 
at him even as her heart sank.  The reaction and Spud's nightmare ramblings 
suggested that her son was blaming himself for his father's injuries.
	"So I made myself a costume," she continued, "and one night I decided to 
try it out."
	"In your wheelchair?" Spud puzzled, his face perplexed.
	"I didn't need a wheelchair then," Babs clarified, using her thumb to 
brush away one of Spud's tears.  "I could still run and dance and kick and fight 
crime."
	"You still fight crime," Spud pointed out, and Babs almost laughed in 
surprise.  She hugged Spud tightly to her for a second.
	"Yeah, I do.  But not like then.  Then I was Batgirl."
	Spud sat up again, his nose wrinkling.  "But Cassandra-"
	"Cassandra was probably still in diapers back then," Babs explained.  
"This was back when Dick was still Robin.
	Spud took a moment to digest this.  Then:  "Is that why you got shot? When 
you were Batgirl?"
	"No."  She shook her head.  "That was later.  I was lucky as Batgirl."
	"Lucky?"
	"I didn't know what I was doing when I started," Babs recalled.  "It was 
just so exciting, sneaking out of the house at night, putting -"
	"You snuck out of the house?"
	"I knew my father wouldn't approve.  He'd have been furious."
	Spud nodded in recognition, settling down again.
	"So I'd go out in my homemade costume with only a yellow belt in judo and 
a little gymnastics training and I'd try to find crime.  And when I found it, it 
was - it was like being extra-alive - kicking butts and taking names.  Being 
Batgirl was so much cooler than being plain old Barbara Gordon."
	"Didn't Batman get mad at you?"
	Babs shook her head.  "Things were different then.  And I think - I think 
Dick might've argued for letting me stick around."
	"He already liked you."
	Babs smiled, the story pushing back some of her worry for a moment.  
"Yeah.  Except I thought he was just a kid.  And we were kind of competitive, 
because I was really jealous of him."
	"Jealous of Dick?"
	"Well-"  Yes, she had been, she remembered.  Desperately jealous and 
refusing to admit it to herself.  "He was just this kid," she explained, "but he 
was Batman's *sidekick*, and I wasn't.  He always would be there, and the two of 
them were like a well-oiled machine."  The phrase slipped easily from her mouth, 
and with it a different set of memories.  Memories of a hurt and bitter Dick 
Grayson, spitting those words in anger as his relationship with Bruce fell 
apart.
	And suddenly, she got it.  She understood why Dick had been so adamant 
about keeping Spud off the rooftops.  It wasn't about the risk.  It wasn't about 
the possibility of days like this one.  It was about building a family around 
the language of fists and risk at the cost of the language of comfort and 
support.  It was about the fact that Dick Grayson was lying in a coma downstairs 
and no one had seen his "second daddy" since the scene of the crime.  Babs felt 
her stomach constrict in anger and regret as she held her son closer to her.
	"Babs?" Spud questioned, a quaver in his voice.
	"Yeah," she answered.  "I'm sorry, Spud."
	He was quiet for a moment.  "Do you miss being Batgirl?" he finally asked.
	"Sometimes," she confessed.  "But then I remember that Oracle can do more 
good and not just anyone could be Oracle."  They were Dick's words, a mini-
lecture he had offered her more than once.
	Spud nodded thoughtfully.
	"Spud?"
	"Yeah?"
	"Dick and I love you very much."
	"I know," Spud replied, a full measure of confidence behind his words.  He tightened his hold 
around Babs and buried his face again.  "I know," he repeated.

*** 

August 17, 1238h

	Spud walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.  He 
promised Babs he would try to eat something, even though his stomach had felt 
queasy when he woke up.  Maybe he should fix a plate for her, too, he thought, 
thinking of how tired she looked when he had helped her back into her chair and 
watched her head for the elevator.
	He was surprised to see there was a giant plate of sandwiches in the 
fridge, occupying an entire shelf.  Who had made them, he wondered?  There were 
a half dozen varieties, different meats and cheeses.  Alfred, he realized.
	They looked good, although he knew they would taste like ashes the way 
everything else did, making it hard for him to swallow.  Still, he had promised 
Babs.
	He carefully selected a sandwich half, roast beef with cheese and lettuce 
and tomato.  It looked like it was the first anyone had touched the platter.
	He let the refrigerator door close and walked over to the table, taking a 
seat.  He took a bite of the sandwich, forcing himself to chew.  The tomato 
juice cut through the ashiness, but it was still hard to swallow.  But he had 
promised Babs.
	He felt the mouthful reach his stomach, felt the way his stomach curled 
around the food almost painfully the way it used to when he and Scorch found 
food.  He knew that feeling.  He was glad that it was hard for him to eat, 
because that kind of hungry tummy would throw up if he ate too fast.  That 
happened once, he remembered.  After that, Scorch would never let him have all 
the food they found at once - just let him have a little bit at a time.  He set 
his sandwich down.  He missed Scorch.
	Scorch would know what to do now, he thought, staring emptily at the 
partially eaten sandwich.  Scorch always took care of him.  Like Mommy did.  
Like Dick did.  Like Babs did.
	He should have put the sandwich on a plate, he thought, looking at the 
crumbs on the table.  Alfred would make a comment about not raising young 
ruffians.
	Alfred made the sandwiches.  When did he do that?  This morning?  In the 
middle of the night?  He was tired and worried, too, but he was taking care of 
everybody.  
	Spud picked up the sandwich again, taking another slow bite.  He wondered 
who was taking care of Alfred.
	He finished chewing and swallowed.  He thought about what Babs had said, 
about doing more good by helping behind the scenes.
	He set his sandwich down again and went to get some water.  He remembered 
the night he found out that Dick was Nightwing, how they had talked about not 
having anyone to be mad at but needing to make things better.
	He drank some of his water and returned to the table with his half-full 
cup.  The sandwich half was almost gone.  His tummy felt better.  Leslie said 
that when Dick woke up he would need everyone to be strong for him.
	He took the final bite of sandwich, washing it down with the last of his water.  He knew what he 
needed to do.

*** 

August 17, 1400h

	Stocks were up.  Investments were making solid returns.  Four new clients 
contracted this week.
 	And Nightwing was dying.
 	Jesse Chambers leaned her head into her hands.
 	Her father had gone so fast.  Even for a Speedster.  One minute he'd been 
there, larger than life itself.  The next, he was part of the Speedforce.
 	Nightwing had no such luxury.  After all, he was 'only human'.
 	Jesse reached for the phone again but stopped herself.  She'd called for 
an update only a few minutes before.
 	It felt like forever.
 	She knew from experience the best medicine for waiting was work and the 
stack of files on her desk and the rapid rise in QuickStart's value attested to 
that.
 	And still she sat, thinking of things both relevant and not, until Tally 
knocked on her door.
 	"Miss Chambers?  Wally West is here to see you.  He doesn't have an 
appointment but I thought maybe you'd like to see him anyway."
 	Jesse managed a weak smile.  "Thanks.  Show him in."
 	Wally shuffled into her office wearing jeans, boots and a t-shirt.  He 
looked exactly like he came off his family's farm.  That alone was reason for 
concern.  She felt a little defensive, remembering how he'd all but snubbed the 
Titans the night before last, talking mostly to Vic while she organized the 
entire blood collection campaign.  She hadn't minded then. She'd needed the 
work.  She'd needed to know that she was doing something.
 	The two Speedsters stared at each other.
 	"You wanna sit down?" Jesse asked.
 	"Yeah."  Wally crunched heavily into one of her client chairs, not even 
taking his hands out of his pockets.
 	"What is it?"
 	"I screwed up the other night.  Everything I did was wrong."
 	"You saved his life."
 	"But I screwed up."
 	"Apparently not too badly."
 	"I got rattled.  Went too fast on the compressions.  Forgot to grab 
Barbara's chair-forgot Barbara even needed the chair."
 	"She'd probably love to hear you say that."
 	"And then I couldn't do anything."
 	They sat there in silence for a moment.
 	"There were a lot of people who couldn't do anything," Jesse finally said. 
"And we were some help.  We got some blood."
 	"We don't know  he can take Speedster blood."
 	"We don't know that he can't."
 	"Do you think he'll be ok?"
 	"Of course he will."
 	"Do you really think that?"
 	"I don't know."
 	"Me either."
 	Jesse slouched in her chair and started playing with a pencil.  "It 
doesn't seem possible that he wouldn't be all right."
 	"You know about the contingency plans, right?"
 	"Of course I do."
 	"Are you-"  Wally didn't want to finish, but she knew what he was going to 
ask.
 	"Yeah.  Unless Roy fights me for it."
 	"Would you let him have it?"
 	"I might.  He was better the other night than I was."
 	"We've been around the whole Bat thing longer than you.  It's hard to get 
used to."
 	"I don't have the time."
 	"To hang around the Bat family?  Who does?"
 	"I mean to lead the Titans.  Full time."
 	"Neither did he."
 	"We shouldn't be moping around here," Jesse sighed.
 	"Yeah," Wally agreed.  "You wanna go for a run?"
 	Jesse thought about it for a minute and was surprised by her answer.
 	"No," she said.  I guess I don't. But you should go.  It'll make you feel 
better."
 	"You think so?"
 	Jesse nodded.  "I have a lot of work to do."
 	"Well, ok.  If you think so."
 	Wally released his uniform from the special ring he wore and zipped out of 
her office in, well, in a flash.
 	In the resulting wind, Jesse almost thought she could hear a man's voice 
say, "Wanna learn a new kick?"
 	She shook her head and dismissed the voice, reaching for one of the files on her desk.  There 
was work to be done, and lots of it.

*** 

August 17, 1725h

	Leslie was mildly surprised when Spud opened the door for her and Alfred, 
but she managed a smile for him.  "Hi, Spud.  They left you in charge?"
	The youngster nodded solemnly.  He still looked wan and pale, but sleep 
had taken the frantic edge out of his eyes.  "Dinah's taking a nap and Babs is 
Downstairs, so I'm watching the phone."
	"Ah, very good," Alfred acknowledged.  "That's a very important job, 
Master James." 
	"Yes," Leslie agreed. Alfred had mentioned that Spud seemed to have a new 
mission since he had awakened.  He'd bullied Alfred into a nap in the early 
afternoon and apparently had done the same to Dinah.
	Spud carefully shut the door behind Alfred and Leslie and reactivated the 
locks.  "Come on," he directed, leading them through the house to the Oracle 
workroom and the elevator it contained.  It was only when they entered the 
workroom that Leslie realized that "watching the phone" meant monitoring the 
Oracle line.
	"Babs is waiting for you," Spud explained as he tapped the elevator call 
button.  When the door opened, he stood aside and made no move to enter.
	"Aren't you coming?" Leslie asked.
	"I explained to Dick that someone has to keep the house running until he's 
back on his feet," Spud informed her with a seriousness that made her ache for 
him.  "He's supposed to call if he needs me."
	"He'll always need you, Master James," Alfred said softly, "but I am sure 
he is proud that you are helping where help is most needed."
	He reached down to give Spud's shoulder a squeeze, then joined Leslie in 
the elevator.  The doors closed, and Leslie looked at him.  "A bit of a shift," 
she remarked.
	"I suspect when night falls, he'll be back by Master Dick's side."  
Alfred's voice held a note of surety that reminded Leslie of how many 
traumatized small boys Alfred had coaxed through crises.
	The opening of the elevator doors forestalled any further comment.
	The lair was quieter than Leslie had left it, with only Babs by Dick's 
bedside.  The emergency team was gone, although Leslie knew someone could be 
summoned in a heart beat if needed.  She hoped they would not be needed again.
	She crossed the space to Dick's bed swiftly, smiling at Babs.  "And how is 
our patient?" she asked gently.
	Babs looked up at her, her face looking slightly less drawn than it had in 
the early hours of the morning.  "Still feverish," she replied.  Her voice 
sounded hoarse.
	Leslie nodded, picking up the chart hanging from the bed.
	"Leslie?"
	"Mmm hmm."  His temperature was still fluctuating a few tenths to either 
side of 100 degrees, Leslie noted with concern.  And the latest notes showed his 
chest congestion wasn't clearing as it should be.  
	"Leslie."
	Babs tone brought Leslie's eyes up.
	"I wanted to say I'm sorry," Babs said humbly.  "About last night.  With 
Spud.  You were right."
	Leslie dropped her eyes back to the chart.  "He looks better this 
afternoon."
	"Dick or Spud?"
	"Both, but I meant Spud."  Leslie looked up again.  "I bow to a mother's 
wisdom.  The hand holding thing was my fault.  I was the one who suggested it to 
him.  It looks like you've found better ways to make him feel needed."
	"Leslie, don't."
	Leslie sighed.  "Barbara, I'm sorry, too.  I'm sorry any of this happened.  
But last night - you were exhausted and worried and trying to do right by a boy 
who's seen too much of this kind of thing in his short life.  I'd be a poor 
doctor if I took that personally."
	She paused, then reached a hand past the respirator tube to brush a stray 
lock of hair from Dick's forehead.  His face was warm under her palm, causing 
her to frown slightly.  She hoped against hope this wasn't gong to turn into a 
fight against pneumonia on top of everything else.  "I just wish I could heal 
him."
	Babs set her hand atop Leslie's for a moment.  "You're working miracles," she reassured 
quietly before pulling back to let Alfred take her place.

*** 

August 17, 2035h

	Tim went through his equipment check slowly and methodically.  He didn't 
know the layout of the gadgets in the Nightwing suit as well as he should and 
those few extra seconds he took examining the contents of each compartment were 
helping him catalogue his arsenal.
	Cassandra was studying a pictorial map of the nightly Gotham patrol route 
for one person.  She should know it by heart, Tim thought with a frown, but they 
were all being just a little more careful than usual.
	Tim reached back to slide the escrima sticks into their holster.  One was 
an actual fighting stick, a spare kept in the Cave; part of a practice set. The 
other was his telescoping bo, extended to the first notch to simulate a second 
escrima stick.  He didn't dare attempt to adopt a new fighting style now, but 
	Nightwing wore escrima sticks and so would he.
	"Not like decoy plan," Cassandra finally spoke from the computer.
	"And I don't like leaving you in Gotham alone," Tim responded, pulling the 
stylized mask from a pouch.  He stepped up and put a hand on her shoulder. It 
wasn't that he didn't have the utmost faith in her abilities.  It was that he 
didn't like all the attention being directed elsewhere.  It made him 
uncomfortable.
	"Decoy plan is stupid," Cass snorted.  "Gotham alone is Tim-Worry."
	"I need to be worried," Tim decreed.  "It keeps me on my toes."
	"No," Cass disagreed.  "Need to be calm.  Worry makes sloppy."
	Tim leaned down and kissed her, wondering if this would be the last time 
he did so.  She returned the kiss with such immediacy he wondered if she was 
thinking the same. They parted when they heard the door above them open and 
heavy footsteps on the stairs.
	Batman's mask was already in place when he hit the Cave floor. "It's 
time," he growled.  "Batgirl, you know your job.  Ro-"  He paused, catching his 
own slip.  "Nightwing, you're with me."
	Cass and Tim exchanged a glance and then Tim affixed the mask to his face, 
following Batman to the Batmobile.
	Cassandra watched after them until the taillights became pinpricks and then vanished.  She 
pulled the mask over her face and turned back to the computer.

*** 

August 17, 2315

	Babs heard the elevator start up over sounds of the
eavesdrop line she had set up to monitor Oracle
activities.  She wasn't actively listening to the
constant stream of chatter as Dinah fielded calls, but
the sound of conversation was a welcome distraction
from the beep and hiss of the machines surrounding her
husband.
	She hoped it wasn't Alfred coming down.  The old
gentleman looked as drawn and worn as she had ever
seen him when she had relieved him a little over an
hour ago.  She suspected he had slept less than she
had, although Leslie had hounded them both to rest
their bodies.  "What good will you be to Dick when he
wakes up if you've taken ill yourselves," she'd
scolded.
	When he woke up.  Babs wanted to believe that Leslie
would not give false hope, but Babs found her faith
faltering.  There had not been a flicker of Dick from
this body beside her, kept alive by a respirator
forcing air into his congested lungs.  She hadn't seen
or heard any sign of her husband since he had called
almost 48 hours ago to say he had found Spud.
	The elevator doors opened, and Babs fixed her face
into a weak smile of greeting.  Spud stood there in
his pajamas, half wrapped in a blanket from his bed. 
His hair was mussed, but his deeply shadowed eyes gave
lie to the idea that he had been sleeping.  He looked
out at Babs through the open elevator doors, his
expression pleading.
	Babs wordlessly held out a hand.
	It was enough of an invitation.  Spud moved slowly,
his wide, hollow eyes focused on Dick, but he headed
unerringly for Babs outstretched hand.  When he
reached her, he didn't take her hand, but leaned his
head into it.  Babs let her fingers smooth his stray
curls.
	"Still couldn't sleep, little man?" she asked gently.
	Spud continued to stare past her to the man lying on
the hospital bed.  "Is he - is he done jerking around
and stuff?"
	"I hope so.  Leslie and the other doctors think the
infection is under control.  His fever is down."
	Spud finally turned serious hazel eyes to Babs.  "Is
he going to die?"
	Babs sighed heavily.  "I don't know, Spud.  I hope
not."
	"Me, too."  He moved closer to Babs' chair, leaning
down and resting his cheek on the arm rest.
	"You want to sit up here with me?" she offered.
	He looked up at her.  "Aren't you going to send me
back to bed?"
	"Do you want to go back to bed?"
	"No."
	"Well, then, do you want to sit here with me?"
	"In your chair?"
	"If you want."
	Spud gave her a mingled look of desire and fear. 
"Won't I hurt you?"
	"Hurt me?  No, Spud, you won't hurt me.  You'll just
need to remember to shift around since I won't know if
my legs go to sleep."  She managed not to let irony
tinge her tone.
	"Okay."  Spud scrambled up awkwardly as Babs braced
her chair.  He settled into her lap and leaned his
head against her chest, carefully turned so he could
still watch Dick.  Babs wrapped her arms around him
and rested her chin against the top of his chest. 
Drawing comfort from each other, they began another
night's silent vigil.

*** 

August 18, 037h

	"You must be the master of the one I killed," the man nodded, "here to 
avenge his death."
 	"The boy is his own master," Batman growled.  "And I fight as his second." 
Batman sprang into the opening gambit.
 	The assassin sidestepped the lunge and grabbed Batman's wrist in an iron 
grip as it shot by him by scant centimeters.  Batman instantly locked a hand on 
the assassin's arm below the elbow and threw.  The assassin landed gracefully on 
his feet and rose, machetes at the ready.
 	"You are unwise to challenge me unarmed," he hissed.
 	"Who said I was unarmed?" Batman growled.  Two Batarangs appeared in his 
hands, glinting in the moonlight as the combatants circled each other.
 	"Toys."  The blades sang as they slipped through the hot summer night.
 	Toys they might be, but in a flash they were linked and when the blades 
invited them to dance, the Batarangs flashed out, a hooked end latching over 
each blade and Batman twisted his wrist, spiraling the swords away from their 
master and sending them spinning to the ground, poised on their ends.
 	The assassin leapt, heel aimed at Batman's throat.  The Dark Knight redirected the heel with 
the flat of his hand, pushing it upward.  The assassin gracefully flipped backward with the momentum the 
deflection and leant and drove his arm upward, two fingers extended.  Batman sidestepped the attack but 
found himself in poor position to attack.  He executed a rapid snap kick that only grazed the assassin's 
shoulder.  The other man tried to leave the ground again, only to have Batman's ankle hook over his own 
and deny him the air in a quick jerk.  With a feral growl, the assassin fell back to let Batman take the 
offensive.  This was going to be a long fight.

*** 

August 18, 0146h

	Kick
	Block
	Parry, parry -
	Lunge
	Catch
	Thrust
	Parry, parry -

*** 

August 18, 0203h

	Tim paced the shadows anxiously, never once taking his eyes from the 
building across from the tower that was his refuge.  He was far enough way that 
he wasn't an immediate target for the machete-wielding bounty hunter, but close 
enough to charge in if needed.  He flexed his hands in the heavy gloves, 
reminding himself how to set the one-time-use taser in the suit.  He might need 
it.
 	Cass was nowhere to be seen.  After her all-too-fleeting embrace on the 
roof of the Port Authority, he'd found himself a better position and stayed 
under cover.  He had no doubt she was in the area, even close by, watching and 
waiting.
 	He occasionally turned on the magnifying feature in the mask-Nightwing's 
mask-to more closely study the drama that had been playing itself out on the 
roof for over an hour.  The speed and precision with which their moves were 
executed was breathtaking, in more ways than one.  One good hit and not even 
Batgirl would be fast enough to save Bruce.
 	Tim's eyes tracked back to the blades still embedded in the roof and shook 
his head as Batman and the assassin danced closer to them.
 	"Draw him away," he muttered under his breath.  "Don't let him get his 
hands on those things again."  He remembered the hiss of air as those blades 
barely missed his own body, the clash of polymer bow against the shining metal.  
There wasn't a damn thing about those blades that let him relax.
 	Tim did a quick survey of his own rooftop, listening for a footstep, a 
shift in the wind that wasn't right, anything to indicate he wasn't alone. He 
heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing, so he reactivated the magnifying 
lenses to see if he could figure out exactly what the assassin was up to.  The 
scene before him enlarged and he could see the assassin backing towards the 
blades.  Batman parried back a step, then attacked, just out of range, to force 
the man to move towards him.
 	But the assassin didn't play.  Instead, he spun on his heel, snatching the 
blades from the rooftop and then he was leaving the scene, making a jump-
 	Right at Tim.
 	Tim frantically dialed the magnification down, restoring his vision to 
normal before the assassin hit the roof.  His bo was in his hands fast enough to 
block the first sweep of the swords and then the swords were gone, clattering to 
the ground as Batman tackled the assassin, slamming between the man's shoulder 
blades.  Tim backpedaled as the assassin tried to throw Batman and got his hand 
on one of the swords.
 	Batman grabbed the man's wrist at the pressure point, trying to force a 
release on the weapon.  The assassin clearly recognized the technique and 
countered it, rolling over Batman to gain the advantage.  They grappled 
fiercely, twisting and striking, with Batman forcing the sword arm up to keep 
the blade at bay.
 	Batman jackknifed under the assassin, flipping him off, but he was too 
close to the edge.  The man grabbed onto his opponent as he went flying, pulling 
them both off the roof.
 	Tim raced to the lip of the rooftop, preparing to cast a line to snag 
Batman, but he realized they'd only fallen as far as the next rooftop over and 
were grappling again.  The sword lay abandoned.  Tim vaulted over the safety 
wall, landing heavily on the next roof.  He looked up quickly to see the 
assassin, machete in hand, run for the far end of the roof, Batman in quick 
pursuit.
 	Tim gritted his teeth and straightened on aching knees to follow.  He ran 
full tilt for the far end, being careful to watch where Batman and the assassin 
ended up.
 	As he approached, Tim gauged the jump and quickly put on the brakes.  
Loose gravel slipped under his unfamiliar boots as he scrambled to a halt.  He 
gazed malevolently across to the other roof.  It was a jump he could have made-
easily-when he was at the top of his game but tonight it just looked like a 
deadly drop.
 	He pulled a grapple from his gauntlet-Nightwing's gauntlet, he reminded 
himself-to swing over an alternate way.  He found a suitable ledge and it only 
took him one transfer to alight on the elusive rooftop.
 	But it was empty.
 	Tim cursed as he scanned the nearby buildings, looking for a flash of 
movement, for any sign of Batman and the nameless assassin.  He blew an angry 
breath of air out through his teeth and lifted his wrist to speak into his 
communicator.
 	"Nightwing to Batgirl," he said flatly.  "I lost them."

*** 

August 18, 0315

	When Dr. Joseph Bengali had been offered a position at STAR Labs, it had 
been the culmination of a carefully tailored life plan.  He had gone to all the 
best schools, maintaining his standing at the top of every class all the way 
through medical school.  He had set his sights on the world's premier research 
facility, and he had made it.
	He had been assigned to the committee on alien physiology, which is how he 
ended up with ties to the JLA and the Titans.   In three years, he had 
established himself as one of the core physicians to whom the superheroes of the 
world turned in an emergency.  He was a skilled surgeon and a man of unfailing 
integrity, and he carried his well-earned reputation with pride.  He had still 
been surprised two nights ago, however, when he had been dragged from his sleep 
to assist in a desperate attempt to save a man's life.
	Had anyone asked Dr. Bengali's opinion, he would have said it was a 
hopeless case.  He had seen superheroes recover from quite astounding injuries 
more than once, but those had been meta-humans.  One thing that was instantly 
clear to Dr. Bengali when he arrived in the makeshift operating theatre (in a 
warehouse of all places!) was that their patient was not a meta-human.  He was 
just a man in a costume.
	Now, two nights later, this young "Nightwing" still lived, and Dr. Bengali 
was slated to take the transporter down to some secret coordinates to check in 
on him.  He frowned as he glanced over the chart, updated hours previously by 
Dr. Thompkins and faxed in via some circuitous route.  Infection.  High fever.  
Seizures, which when finally controlled had required reclosing of the man's 
wounds.  Possible onset of pneumonia.
	Dr. Bengali glanced from the chart to the desk attendant, an older woman 
who wore an air of having seen it all - twice.  "Has there been any report since 
this was faxed in?" he asked.
	"Every hour on the hour," the woman - Doris, her nametag read - replied.
	Dr. Bengali shook his head in amazement.  "And?"
	Doris gave him a hard look, seeming to know what he was getting at.  "He's 
still alive, Doctor, and he's going to stay alive."
	"You seem mighty confident in that assessment, Doris."
	"Dr. Bengali, when you've been around as long as I have, you get a sense 
for these things.  And I know that boy.  He's got Bat in him."
	Bat.  Dr. Bengali resisted the urge to shudder.  The Batman had appeared 
at STAR Labs all of twice in the young doctor's experience, and both times he 
had left the young Doctor with a cold feeling in his stomach.  The Bat would 
explain the secrecy, though.  "Well, I suppose I better get going then," he 
said.
	Doris did not comment, turning her attention back to her active computer 
monitor.  Dr. Bengali sighed and headed for the transporter room.

*

	He did not end up back in the warehouse, but rather in a - basement?  They 
had stabilized him enough to move him and they brought him here?  Dr. Bengali 
knew it was not his place to question, but he could not fathom the decision 
making in this case.
	His patient lay in a surprisingly fully equipped medical bay in the midst 
of some of the largest computer arrays Dr. Bengali had ever seen.  Beside the 
hospital bed, a red haired woman sat in a wheelchair, a small boy in her arms.  
Wife and son, Bengali decided, although he found himself idly wondering how a 
superhero had become saddled with a crippled wife.  Surely the young man he had 
operated on could have had his pick of women, and he had chosen this one.  
Interesting.
	The woman looked up as Dr. Bengali appeared, her expression indicating 
that she had been expecting him.  He crossed to her with outstretched hand.  
"I'm Dr. Bengali.  I was one of the surgeons attending your - husband? -" 
	She nodded in confirmation.
	"-when he was first brought in."
	The woman in the chair did not extend her hand to him, looking 
apologetically to the youngster in her lap.  Dr. Bengali realized the boy was 
not asleep, as he had assumed, but was staring fixedly in the direction of his 
father.  Suddenly embarrassed, the doctor let his hand fall to his side.  
	"Has Dr. Thompkins talked to you about Mr. - uh - Nightwing's condition?"
	"*Leslie* told me you would be coming, Doctor.  She was concerned that his 
lungs are not clearing as she hoped.  There has been no perceptible change in 
his condition in the past five hours."
	The message was clear.  The wife was not a lightweight, and she outranked 
him with the lead physician on this case.  
	Resisting a sigh, Dr. Bengali set about checking Nightwing's vitals, 
listening to his lungs, inspecting his injuries and changing their dressings.  
He grunted to himself as he made notes on the chart.  He could see why Dr. 
Thompkins was concerned about pneumonia.  And the young man was still running a 
low-grade fever.  When he drew a small amount of blood to run white cell counts 
back at the lab, he saw the wife lean down as if to listen to a whisper from the 
still wide-eyed boy.  She murmured something in reply and kissed the top of the 
boy's head, rubbing a hand gently along his back.
	"Mrs. Nightwing?" Dr. Bengali ventured.
	"Yes?" she replied with an air of vague distraction.
	"Have you considered checking your husband into a proper hospital?  There 
is-"
	He stopped as the woman's eyes snapped to his face and the boy in her lap 
perceptibly stiffened.  "Why, Doctor?  Has his condition deteriorated?"
	Dr. Bengali winced.  "No, no.  It's just that a hospital could -"
	"Could what, Dr. Bengali?" Her tone was cold.  "Could badger us endlessly 
about how this injury happened?  Could demand to know his real name?  Could keep 
him in a cold, sterile room, restricting who could see him and when?  Is our set 
up here so lacking?"
	"No, no.  I've never seen a finer private facility, in fact.  I just 
thought -" 
	"You didn't think, Dr. Bengali."  Her eyes were fiery, impaling him with 
unvoiced accusations.  Dr. Bengali glanced at Nightwing to free himself from 
that condemning gaze.  Whatever brought these two together, he realized, it 
could not be the pity of the hero for the cripple in the chair.  Those blazing 
green eyes did not belong to someone who allowed herself to be pitied.
	"Now, Dr. Bengali, will you be kind enough to give me an update on my 
husband's condition - *without* editorializing?"
	Dr. Bengali licked his lips nervously.  Why was this woman making him feel 
like an intern again?  "The congestion in his lungs still hasn't cleared, but it 
doesn't seem to have gotten worse, either.  His left lung still isn't filling as 
fully as I would like, but given the tissue damage he sustained, that's not 
entirely surprising.  I've drawn some blood to check the status of the earlier 
infection.  He's still running a temperature of 100.3 and the injury to his 
abdomen shows some discoloration, although that may be due to the resuturing.  
The cut to the arm shows signs of healing and I believe he may have avoided any 
serious nerve damage based on involuntary responses.  Beyond that, there's not 
much I can say."
	The woman closed her eyes for a moment.  "So basically no change.  Thank 
you, Doctor.  But before you go-" She fixed him with one of the coldest stares 
he'd ever felt. "Your questioning of my judgment regarding my husband's 
treatment is unacceptable.  Your casual disregard of what is clearly a difficult 
situation for me and my family is a sorry indictment of your bedside manner, and 
I do not appreciate the fact that you have caused my son undue fear.  I will 
thank you to run your tests and report your results to Dr. Thompkins, but you 
are not welcome in our home again."
	Dr. Bengali stepped back, stung.  He had only been trying to help!  But 
the woman in the wheelchair was no longer looking at him, was focused instead on 
shifting the child in her lap.  What had Doris said about the Bat?  It seemed 
that it was in more than the husband in this case.
	A ping sounded, and the woman glanced over at one of the computers.  "Go 
ahead, STAR Labs.  Take him back."
	Within seconds, Dr. Bengali was back in the transporter room, and the reproachful look on the 
face of the technician who ran the transporter spoke volumes.  With a sigh, he headed to the laboratory 
with his blood sample, wondering how far he had set back his career.

*** 

August 18, 0333h

She moved silently, blending with the shadows.  She didn't want him to 
know she was there.  And she didn't want those who were stalking him to know she 
was there.
 	It wasn't hard.  No one was looking for her.  Not really.
 	The one she stalked should know.  But he thought her elsewhere.  He 
thought she was stalking the other.
 	And that's the way it should be.
 	Cassandra crouched on a ledge almost directly over her prey, watching 
carefully.
 	After all, he just didn't look like Tim without the Robin suit.

*** 

August 18, 0444h

	It was funny.
 	Not in a humorous way.  Not at all.  In that way of odd coincidences or 
lack thereof.
 	Since he was eight, he thought he'd been training for the retribution of 
his parents' deaths.  That was the ultimate test of his training, of the years 
of discipline.  It was the test that seemed less and less likely of ever 
presenting itself as the years marched on.
 	But he'd been wrong.  It hadn't been the test after all.
 	This was the test.
 	Not the man who'd cut down his parents.
 	The man who'd cut down his son.
 	This was the great challenge in his life that he would win or die trying. 
This was the Day of Reckoning.
 	This was the day he had to ignore the aches in his body, the exhaustion 
that leeched at his senses.  He had to forget the anger and pain he felt at 
Dick's injuries.  He had to forget that there were people waiting for him at 
home.
 	He had to keep watching, not let the assassin or his weapon out of his 
sight.  He had to keep up.
 	He had to.

*** 

August 18, 0500h

	Tim heaved another sigh and wished Cassandra would check in with him.  
He'd been wholly unsuccessful at relocating the assassin and Batman.  Cassandra 
had acknowledged his message but had failed to follow up.  He hoped she was ok.  
He felt like a sitting duck even though he knew that Batman was keeping the bad 
guy occupied.
 	At least he thought he knew.
 	He sensed a change in the air and automatically dropped to the deck.  A 
blade whistled over his head.  He rolled, the blade digging into the ground next 
to his neck.
 	He had to find some way to get back on his feet but before he could make a 
move, a dark shape hurtled into the assassin, slamming him across the roof. The 
blade of the machete besides him snapped at the force of the attack.  He 
scrambled up to see the two black beings separate briefly, then clash again, 
retaining enough silhouette to be recognizable.  It was too small to be Batman, 
he realized suddenly.  Where was Batman?
 	"Get under cover."
 	Tim felt a flash of relief as the gritty voice was accompanied by the familiar sound of boots on 
the roof.  The cavalry was here.

*** 

August 18, 0502h

	The Bat and the man warred within.  One screamed that this was his fight 
and demanded to interfere.  One knew what had to be done and knew that Batgirl 
was the best chance at achieving that goal.
 	And this time the man won.
 	Batman let them fight on, watching for slips, ready to assist if needed.
 	But Batgirl was younger, quicker, and she hadn't been fighting for hours.  
He was not needed.
	Rabbit punches and a sizzling wing chun met blocks and thin air.  She 
whipped and wove, waltzing around the offensive moves.  She evaded the heel of 
his hand, ducking under the taut arm and delivering an elbow to the available 
lower back.  It connected and the assassin rolled forward, immediately 
recognizing his fortuitous proximity to his fallen sword.  The blade was broken 
but certainly still lethal.  He charged Batgirl, compensating for a sidestep.
 	She saw it.  He was well-balanced, could adjust to either side.  So she 
stood and waited.
 	And waited.
 	And waited.
 	She heard Tim call to her, but she ignored it.  Instead, she counted.
 	And waited.
 	She dropped at the last possible second, falling to her back and kicking 
one leg up.  Her heel lodged in the hollow of his hip-she never missed-and the 
assassin flew over her head, perfectly aimed to hit the ground in the corner, a 
few yards from where Batman waited.
 	But the assassin had other plans.
 	The second she kicked him free, he snapped his body tight, arching his 
back to widen his trajectory.
 	Batman grabbed for him, but it was too late.
 	The assassin had gotten one hand-the one without the blade-- on the ledge, 
providing himself the leverage to snap up the heel of one boot and deliver a 
swift undercut to Batman's chin.  Then, he merely flipped his feet over his 
head.
 	And let go.
 	Batman muttered a curse as he staggered back to the ledge, a line already 
in hand.  He glanced down and almost hesitated, but his instincts were too 
strong and the line was already uncoiling as it fell towards the assassin. It 
snagged around his chest and Batman felt the muscles in his arm strain as he 
took the other man's full weight.  He looked down at the man at his mercy, 
hating him, fearing him, wanting to let him plummet to his death.
 	But he couldn't do that.
 	It was against the code.  The code that Dick had nearly died for.
 	And so he braced one foot on the ledge and pulled again.
 	The flash of steel caught his eye and his face twisted in horror as the blade in the assassin's 
hand neatly sliced through the line.  The pressure disappeared and Batman stumbled back.  He felt 
hands on his back and realized Batgirl and Robin-Nightwing-Tim-were bracing him.

*** 

August 18, 0532h

	"Oracle.  This is-" Tim glanced up at Batman and Batgirl.  "-Robin.  Come 
in, Oracle."
 	Silence.
 	Tim frowned.  "This isn't right," he said.  "Dinah should be monitoring 
the line if no one else is there."
 	"Maybe broken."  Cassandra lifted her own wrist.  "Batgirl to Oracle."
 	Again, no response.
 	"I think we should go find out what's going on," Tim said soberly. 
"Batgirl?  Come with?"
 	Batgirl nodded.
 	"You ready, Batman?"  Tim paused before throwing his line, looking back at 
Batman.
 	The older man was standing still and he seemed fascinated by the sunrise.
 	"I won't be joining you just yet," he replied.  "My work's not done."

*** 

August 18, 0605h

	Babs lost track of how long she had been sitting with her head resting 
against the edge of the mattress.  Spud still sat in her lap, sleeping again in 
that exhausted slump that he tended to fall into before the nightmares hit.  She 
took comfort from his presence, wondering not for the first time if she could 
have gotten through this without the need to look out for her son to keep her 
going.  
	His face lay pale and slack against her chest, half covered in the blanket 
that draped around his shoulders.  He had almost broken her heart earlier, as 
she woke him from what was clearly another nightmare.  When his breathing had 
finally settled, his shaking eased, he had quietly asked if she intended to keep 
him if Dick died.
	How could he question that?  Easily, she supposed, remembering his story 
of rejection and loss.  But the thought of possibly losing him - she tightened 
her hold unconsciously on his sleeping form.  He was her family now, with her 
dad gone and Dick -
	She raised her head to look at her husband.  Forty-eight hours, Leslie had 
said.  There should be some sign within 48 hours if he was going to recover.  He 
could still come back after a longer time, but the chances grew slimmer every 
day he remained in his coma.
	Babs reached out a hand to touch that beloved face, so pale, so still!  
How much in the past years had she come to rely on the ready smiles on that face 
to help her through tough days?  She had prided herself on her independence, 
despite all that had happened to her, but now, faced with losing this man?  She 
felt helpless in a way she hadn't since she had first been crippled.  If he 
died?  Could she continue to deal with the superhero community?  She'd been 
through it once before, dealing with folks who were constant reminders of what 
she'd lost.  She'd learned to deal with it - and Dick had helped.  Without him?
	Or if he didn't die, but ended up confined forever to a hospital bed.  
Could she care for him?  Could she deal with the anger and grief and frustration 
that she knew he would feel?
	She ran her fingers through his hair, sweaty and sticky from exertion and 
fever and still some dried blood from two nights ago.    She remembered other 
nights when his hair felt like this, remembered chasing him off to the shower 
after a patrol, some nights getting pulled in with him under the warm spray...  
	She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  Maybe never again.  It had 
taken her so long to believe he still saw her as a complete woman, still desired 
her.  She didn't want to be a widow.
	She forced down the thought and made herself open her eyes again.  He was 
here now, still alive.  She could still look at him at least.
	His face was placid, more peaceful looking really than it had been since 
they brought him in.  If she focused only on his eyes, refusing to allow herself 
to see the tube that went down his throat to feed his lungs, she could almost 
believe he was sleeping.  She ran her fingers gently over his eyelids, then 
traced the line of his brow.  She wanted those lids to flutter open, those blue 
eyes to turn to her, tell her everything would be okay.  They didn't.
	His forehead was cool under her hand, but she didn't trust that his fever 
might be gone.  More likely she was fevered from exhaustion.  She felt so 
defeated.  She continued to study his peaceful expression.  It was like he was 
no longer fighting - she froze at the implication of her idle thought.  She 
would NOT believe that Dick had given up.  He would NEVER give up, and neither 
would she.
	With new determination, she slipped her hand into his.  "Dick," she 
whispered, not allowing the tears that threatened to fall.
	She laced his fingers into his and gave his hand a little squeeze - and 
gasped.
	Spud started in her lap.  "Babs?" he asked fearfully, seeing her dissolve 
into tears.  "Babs, what's - is -?"	
	"Spud, it's okay, it's okay."  Her tears sounded almost like laughing.  
"Open a channel to Leslie."
	Spud slipped down from her lap, scared and confused but understanding what 
he needed to do.  He padded across the concrete to the key board, carefully 
entering the code that Babs had shown him for calling Leslie.
	There was a pause as Spud's call went through, then a breathless, "Hello?" 
heavy with sleep and alert with panic.
	"Leslie, it's Barbara," Babs choked out, letting the transmitters in the 
room pick up her voice, unwilling to let go of her husband.
	"Barbara, what is it?  What's happened?"
	Spud watched Babs, trying to read her expression as she took a deep 
breath.
	"Leslie, it's okay.  It's going to be okay.  *He just squeezed my hand*."
	As the words "Oh thank God," breathed over the comlink, Spud stared for a split second at 
Babs, digesting her words.  Then he flew across the floor and into her lap, hugging her tightly as she 
rubbed his back with her free hand and continued to smile through her tears.

*** 

August 18, 0625h

	"Dinah!"
	Dinah jerked awake, disoriented.  Her neck screamed in protest, cricked 
from the angle at which she'd fallen asleep in the chair.  She reached 
frantically for the console, confused, trying to locate the source of the cry.
	It came again.  "Dinah, where are you?"
	The basement.  Babs was calling her on the basement intercom.  "Right 
here, Babs," she answered quickly.  "What's wrong?"
	"Not what's wrong.  It's good.  It's good news."  She sounded almost 
manic.
	"Babs?"
	"He's responding.  Oh, Dinah, he's responding.  We need Alfred to get 
Leslie and - oh Dinah -"
	Dinah's weary face managed a smile.  "I'll be down in minute, Babs.  Just 
let me wake Alfred up."  She was already half out the door.
	She never noticed the message waiting on the muted Oracle screen.

*** 

August 18, 0645h

	Tim looked uneasily at Cassandra as he let them into the Grayson home.  
"Hello?" he called into the eerily silent house.
	There was no answer.  
	"Babs?  Spud?  Dinah?"
	"No Bentley," Cassandra pointed out.
	Tim nodded in acknowledgment, moving back through the house toward 
Oracle's workstation.
	The door was ajar.
	"No news," Cassandra said at his elbow.
	Tim nodded.  No news was good news.  He steeled himself and led the way to 
the elevator.
	The doors slid open, and suddenly Dinah was in his arms.  "TIM!"
	"Dinah?"
	She stepped back from him.  "Hey Cass.  Is Bruce with you?"
	"He went back to Gotham," Tim said apologetically. "What's going on?"
	"Sorry, I was just coming to call.  He's responsive!"
	"He's awake?" Tim questioned, faintly stunned.
	Dinah's expression fell a little, although she still kept her smile.  "No.  
No, not awake.  But he'll squeeze your hand."
	"Good news," Cassandra said firmly.
	Tim nodded.  "That is good news.  Can we see him?"
	"Tim, tell her."
	Cassandra's words jarred him.  The night's fight suddenly seemed far 
distant, something from a dream.
	"Tell me what?" Dinah asked sharply, her eyes narrowing.
	Tim moistened his lips.  "We got him.  The assassin."
	Dinah's eyes widened.  "Are you serious?  Who was he?  Where - are you all 
right?  Is Bruce -?
	Tim shook his head.  "We don't know.  I mean, about the assassin.  We're 
all right, just tired."
	"Batman catch him.  He cut line."
	Dinah looked blankly at Cassandra.
	"The machete guy," Tim supplied.  "He jumped.  Batman had him but then -"
	"Dead?" Dinah whispered.
	"No body," Cassandra shrugged.  "But gone."
	"Gone," Dinah echoed hollowly.  She shook herself.  "I guess that's more 
good news, then."  She thought for a second.  "But they don't need to hear it 
yet."
	Tim, already stepping into the elevator, gave her a confused look.  The 
thoughtful expression on Dinah's face turned into one of resolve.
	"Let me come down with you.  I'll tell Babs.  But let her decide how to 
tell Spud."
	"Spud tough kid.  Okay to know," Cassandra argued.
	"Just let Babs do it," Dinah requested, a hint of temper under her tone.  
"And Tim -"  She paused, her eyes hinting at tears.  "You'll tell Dick, right?"
	Tim studied Dinah's face and the lines of exhaustion traced there, the 
dark circles under her eyes.  She looked hopeful, but weariness had beaten her 
down.  He wondered for a moment how his face looked.
	"Yeah," Tim agreed softly as they finally all stood in the elevator and the doors closed.  "I'll tell 
him."

*** 

August 18, 0655h

	Lois Lane emerged from the steamy bathroom into the aroma of cooking 
bacon.  It smelled wonderful, but it still drew her eyebrows together in a 
frown.  She hastened to the bedroom to dress, worried about her husband.  By the 
time she had drawn on her suit coat and put in her earrings, the bacon was 
undercut by French toast and coffee.  Her stomach rumbled, and she headed for 
their eat in kitchen.
	"Clark?" she asked, watching as he stood over the stove flipping golden 
triangles of French toast.
	"Morning, Lois!  Orange juice?  It's fresh squeezed."
	He had it sitting in front of her before she could answer and was back to 
the stove as she settled at her place at the table. 
	"I used Ma's recipe," he explained, sprinkling powdered sugar on four 
toast halves and setting the plate down at Lois' place.  "Coffee?"
	"Uh, yes, please," she acquiesced.  He was moving too fast to slow down.
	The oven door opened and he pulled out a plate of bacon without using a 
pot holder.  Not that it would hurt him, but Lois couldn't help a reflexive 
wince.  "Clark."
	He turned, a spatula in his hand.  "Yes?"
	"Clark, stop."
	He looked at her for a minute, then returned to the stove, putting 
together his own plate.  After a moment, he brought his breakfast to the table 
and sat.
	"Clark," she began, reaching a hand to his wrist.  "I love you.  This is 
sweet.  But Clark -"
	"I know.  You don't have to eat it."
	She shook her head.  "Clark, that's not it.  Please.  It's wonderful.  
But..."  She reached a hand to his cheek. 
	He accepted the gentle contact.  "I'm sorry, Lois.  I just - I just feel 
*helpless*."
	Lois nodded encouragingly.
	"It's - I think I stopped remembering how fragile they are.  Batman racks 
my balls every chance he gets - he's tough as nails.  And Nightwing - he 
*flies*, Lois.  I remember him reaming me out for interrupting one of his jumps.  
I forgot that they're still -"  He put his face in his hands.
	"They want you to forget," Lois reminded him gently.  "It's called pride."
	"It's foolishness!  You didn't see - that little boy -"
	"Clark, you've seen that much and more every day.  The world's a tough 
place.  You do what you can; you make it easier for so many."  She resisted the 
urge to sigh.  This wasn't the first time they'd had a conversation like this.  
It seemed like for every life he saved, he counted more that he did not.  He 
always recovered, throwing himself with renewed vigor into his crusade, but when 
it was a teammate, someone he cared about...
	"I know," he whispered, taking her hand.
	"Look," she said briskly.  "Why don't you call over there and see how he's 
doing?  I'm sure Barbara wouldn't mind knowing folks are thinking about them."
	Clark stared at her for a moment, not quite seeing her.  Then he nodded.  
"Yeah.  I'll do that."  He rose from his chair, giving Lois' hand a little 
squeeze.  "Thanks, Lois."
	She smiled.  "Hey, there's a reason they call me your better half," she 
teased.  "Hurry, or I'll eat your breakfast, too."
	He chuckled and reached for the phone as Lois began eating.  He thought 
for a minute, dredging the Graysons' number from his memory, then dialed.
	After four rings, he frowned.   *It's not the Manor,* he reminded himself, 
calming himself.  Who knew how far anyone was from the phone or who was around 
to answer it.  Maybe they even turned the ringer off, although that was not 
Barbara's style.
	Ten rings.
	He glanced up at Lois, who paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.  
"What's up?" she asked.
	He shook his head.  "No answer."
	Her eyes were troubled, but her tone was no-nonsense.  "Well, that doesn't 
mean anything.  They've probably just had a long night."
	Clark reluctantly hung up the phone.  "Yeah," he agreed.  "But still-"
	He pulled out his JLA communicator and tapped a code in.  And waited.
	And waited.
	Lois raised an eyebrow at him, concerned.
	Clark continued to stare at his communicator.
	"Batman has his moods..." Lois began.
	"Yeah."
	He waited a moment longer.
	"He's gone weeks without talking to any of you before, right?"
	"Yeah."
	Clark looked into his wife's eyes, seeing his own unease mirrored there.
	"Maybe I better head on over," he said.
	"Yeah," Lois agreed.  "I'll make excuses for Perry."
	Clark nodded, firmly shutting down his signal.  "I'll call you," he 
promised, leaning over to kiss his wife.
	"You have to," she reminded him, and then he was gone in a red and blue blur.

*** 

August 18, 1030h

	Clark Kent raised his eyes to see Leslie looking expectantly at him.  
"He's healing," Clark confirmed, relieved that his quick survey of Dick 
Grayson's body revealed only healthy tissue regrowth and nothing more ominous.
	Leslie smiled.  "Good.  Because I for one am sick of this basement."
	Babs glanced up from her spot at Dick's side.  "Leslie?"
	"I think he'd be more comfortable in his own bed, don't you?"
	"Are you sure?  I mean, the infection, and his lungs -"
	"His lungs are clear," Clark stated, pleased to be the bearer of good 
news.  This was much better than sitting in the warehouse listening anxiously to 
unsteady beeps, he reflected.  Being here now was worth the morning's panic that 
had prompted his visit, and he could not be angry at a family too busy 
celebrating to hear the phone.  After all, the unanswered phone was what put him 
in a position to announce: "And there's no sign of infection."
	"What he said," Leslie agreed, relieved at the rekindled hope in Babs' 
eyes and the smile on her tired face.
	"Tell me what you'll need," she said briskly.  "I can get Dinah and Alfred 
to help me set up the -"
	"And me," Clark pointed out.
	"Spud should know.  Should I wake him or -?"
	"Already up," a voice announced, and they turned to see Dinah and Spud in 
the elevator.  "What's the news?"
	Babs turned, her eyes shining.  "We get to move him upstairs."
	The effect on Spud was magical.  His pillow creased face lost its sleepy 
fog and he practically bounced to Dick's bedside.  "You hear that Dick?  You're 
coming upstairs!"  He grabbed Dick's hand, relishing the return squeeze.
	"Let's not get too excited," Leslie cautioned.  "He's not entirely out of 
the woods yet.  There's still a lot of possible complications.  And I'll feel 
much better when he starts breathing on his own.  I'm hoping a change of scene 
will expedite that."
	"Of course," Babs brushed aside Leslie's concern.  "But this is better.  
Much better."
	Dinah nodded, but Leslie could see how she was processing the doctor's 
words.  "Well, then," Dinah began, clearly shoving aside her worry, "let's get 
this show on the road.  Clark?"
	Clark rested his hand on the cart that housed the monitoring equipment and 
the respirator.  "Ready when you are."
	"Right," Leslie approved.  "Let's get the crew down here and get moving."

*** 

August 18, 1215h

	Filb pulled the squad car in behind the Volvo parked in the Grayson's 
driveway, deciding he'd rather not block the Bentley.  He had been relieved when 
Amy called this morning saying she needed a runner.  Runners didn't need 
partners, and work got Filb out of the house.
	He had ducked in and out of the precinct hastily, avoiding sympathetic 
stares and awkward conversation.  As long as his partner teetered on a line 
between life and death, other cops would be uncomfortable around him.  Premature 
sympathy would jinx Dick's chance of recovery, by cop logic, but business as 
usual just felt wrong.
	Filb knew Amy was creating work for him when she sent him out to the 
Graysons'.  It was a worthy mission, though, if not the most practical use of 
tax dollars.  No one would hold it against them.
	A wave of heat flooded into the car as Filb opened the door.  By the time 
he reached the front door of the Grayson home, sweat was trickling down his back 
under the required bullet proof vest.  August and January, Filb grumbled to 
himself.  Worst months to be a cop.
	When he rang the doorbell, Babs answered almost instantly.  She looked 
haggard, her eyes seeming almost bruised and her hair hanging limp.  But her 
smile at him was genuine as she exclaimed, "Filb!"  Almost without thought, Filb 
leaned down to embrace her, letting her cling to him for a moment.  He 
straightened when he saw Dinah enter the hallway.
	"Dinah, you remember Filb?" Babs asked, dashing a quick hand across her 
eyes.
	Dinah smiled easily, although she too looked impossibly weary.  "Of 
course, Babs.  How could I forget someone who works his way into so many of 
Dick's stories?"
	Filb laughed.  "I can imagine.  But whatever you've heard, I can promise 
you that Grayson started it."
	Babs managed a short chuckle at that as she herded Filb away from the 
entrance and shut the door.  There was a soft whir of the air conditioner 
cycling on to counter the August swelter that had accompanied Filb's entrance.
	"So you've come to look in on your partner?" Dinah asked conversationally.
	Filb glanced uncertainly at Babs.  "Is that - I mean, last I heard -"
	Babs gave him a reassuring smile.  "I'm sorry, Filb, I should've called.  
We brought him home this morning.  Just got him settled, really."
	"So he's -"
	"-turned a corner," Dinah finished firmly, as if forestalling further 
discussion. 
	"Okay," Filb agreed easily.  "I'd like to see him, but I'm also kinda on a 
mission."
	Dinah gestured Filb to an easy chair and sat on the living room sofa as 
Babs followed them into the room.  "A mission?" she asked brightly.  "Do tell."
	"I'm s'posed to get a lunch date for Amy and me," Filb explained, again 
looking more to Babs than Dinah.  "How's the boy doing?"
	"Much better with some sleep in him and a glimmer of hope.  Last night was 
rough, but -"
	"-but when he woke up this morning he had enough spunk to argue with me 
about taking a bath 'just 'cuz,'" Dinah interjected, smiling.
	"Don't tell me you made that boy wash?" Filb managed to sound 
appropriately aghast.
	"Yep.  Even under the fingernails and behind the ears.  I'm such an evil 
Grandma."
	This drew a laugh from Babs.  "Dick's gonna love calling you that."
	"Yeah, like he'll be willing to give up referring to me as 'Mommie 
Dearest.'"  Dinah turned to Filb.  "How do you put up with that man?"
	"Well, you know how it goes.  You get stuck with a partner, you learn to 
handle their quirks."
	Filb didn't quite understand the look and laugh which passed between the 
two women at this remark, but he took their laughter as a good sign.  "He's 
really getting better, isn't he?"
	This sobered them.  "He's not entirely out of danger, but we're not minute 
to minute.  It looks like the worst has passed," Babs explained.
	Filb nodded.  "So you think it'd be okay if me'n' Amy took Spud to 
Hogan's?"
	Babs eyes brightened as Dinah exclaimed, "What a great idea!  Get some 
food into the kid."
	"If he'll go," Babs hedged.  "He should get out of the house, but I'm not 
going to force him..."
	"Oh, you leave that to me," Filb reassured.  "I've got a plan."
	A relieved smile played on Babs' lips.  "If you can manage it - that'd 
help so much."
	That settled it, Filb decided.  He would manage it.  He stood.  "I'm technically on the clock, so I 
s'pose I shouldn't just sit around.  Can I poke my head in -?"

*** 

August 18, 1230h

	Dinah lead Filb down the familiar hall to the bedrooms.  Then she paused 
in the hall and turned serious eyes to Filb.  "He looks terrible," she warned, 
"but he really - he's better.  He'll get better."
	Filb nodded, trying to ignore the hint of wild hope in Dinah's tone.  
"I've seen this kinda thing before," he remarked gruffly.  He'd been a cop too 
long.
	Dinah inspected him frankly for a moment.  "Yeah," she finally said, "I 
know the feeling."  She put her hand on the doorknob.  "Thanks, by the way."
	He gave her a puzzled look.
	"For being there for them."
	"He's my partner."  Filb's tone was all the explanation that was 
necessary.
	Dinah nodded.  "Spud's in his room when you're done here," she told him, 
opening the door.
	An old man by Dick's side looked up at Filb's entrance and closed the book 
in his lap.  "You must be Officer Filbert," the man said in cultured tones.
	Filb nodded.  "Alfred?"
	Alfred inclined his head in confirmation.  "Come to see Master Dick?"
	Filb let his eyes settle on the bed and its occupant.  "He's late for 
work," he commented, prompting a weary smile from the older man.
	"He's never been one for mornings.  Although I'm expecting at any moment 
that he will jump up to complain about this respirator."  Alfred put a fond hand 
to Dick's pale cheek, and Filb was surprised to see Dick turn his head toward 
the gesture.
	"Hey, he's -"
	"Since this morning.  He's not regained consciousness yet, but he's at 
least reacting."
	Filb stepped forward, staring intently through he tubes and wires to the 
young man among them.  He had not lied to Dinah; he'd seen other friends - other 
cops - mowed down in a heart beat, one moment cracking jokes around the coffee 
pot, the next being fed through a tube.  But this was his partner: smiling, 
impatient, always-on-the-move Dick Grayson.
	"You can talk to him," Alfred encouraged.  "I've just been reading him 
_Henry IV_, so I'm sure he'd welcome something a little less bookish."
	Filb chuckled weakly.  "I should've brought our unfinished reports.  
Nothin' moves Grayson quite like the threat of paperwork."
	An appreciative, acknowledging smile crossed Alfred's features as his eyes 
met Filb's for a moment.  Filb looked away quickly, recognizing the strangely 
similar fondness that he and Alfred shared for the young man between them.  He 
fought the lump in his throat for a moment as he considered his partner.  Then 
he let out a little laugh.  "How about it, Grayson?  Think I should bring in 
some paperwork?  I mean, since you've decided to laze about and leave me to deal 
with Amy.
	"She's pissed, you know.  Got me drivin' ALL OVER Haven County.  Made me 
come all the way out here to kidnap your kid, even.  Barb said it was okay."
	Filb sat down on the edge of the king sized bed as he talked.  "Gonna take 
him to Hogan's, and it's your turn to buy."
	Alfred had returned to his chair as Filb began his monologue, but he 
looked up at this.  "You may want to consider that seriously, Officer Filbert.  
Master James has been known to have a hollow leg on occasion."
	"Heh.  Like father, like son."
	"Quite so.  That's a marvelous idea, by the way.  Master James could use a 
substantial meal."
	"What, hasn't Grayson been feeding the kid?  Well, since *someone* here 
seems to be welshing out of their responsibilities, I s'pose I'll cover Spud's 
tab myself.  But you are SO going to owe me, Grayson."
	"I'll make sure he doesn't forget, Officer Filbert."
	"Hear that, partner?  Alfred's my witness."
	Filb paused, then reached across Dick's body to grasp the hand of his 
unbandaged arm.  The squeeze that Dick returned was heartening.  "Get better, 
Grayson.  We need you out there," he finished gruffly, then released Dick's hand 
and stood.
	"Nice meetin' you finally, Alfred.  Dick's had nothin' but good things 
t'say about you."
	"Likewise, Officer.  And it is good to see that Master Dick has found such 
a good and worthy friend.  Master James is going to be thrilled."
	"I hope so.  Later, Grayson."

*** 

August 18, 1245h

	Filb poked his head into Spud's room, watching for a moment as Spud played 
listlessly with Buckshot and the Evil Spoon.  The boy's other toys sat neatly on 
a shelf, forgotten or ignored.  Spud himself was tidily dressed, for the first 
time in Filb's memory looking not remotely grubby.  It was almost more 
disconcerting than seeing Dick lying stilly in his bed.
Forcing down a sudden sense of world-weariness, Filb finally spoke.  "'Lo, 
Spud."
	Spud looked up, too tired to be startled.  "Hi, Filb."  His face screwed 
up in confusion as he realized what Filb was wearing.  "Whatcha doin' here in 
uniform?"
	"I'm workin', and I am so *not* lookin' forward to goin' back to the 
station."  Filb put a tone of dread into his voice.
	"You in trouble?"
	"I will be when Amy gets hold of me."
	"How come?"
	Filb made a great show of sighing and stepped into the room, squatting 
down by Spud.  "Well, I'll tell ya -" Then he paused as if considering.  "Nah, 
you don' wanna hear my troubles."
	Spud considered Filb skeptically for a moment, as if suspecting some ploy.  
"Did you break the radio again?"
	Filb chuckled in spite of himself.  Yeah, that had been a moment.  "Nah, 
nothin' like that.  Just - you really wanna hear?"
	Spud sat up on his knees, regarding Filb seriously.  He nodded.
	"Okay, see, Amy called me today to be a runner."
	"A runner?  You don't run," Spud scoffed.
	"True.  But a runner means more like someone who runs errands, y'know?"
	"Oh."
	"You got a chair for an old man, Spud?  'm not so good as my partner at 
sittin' like this."
	Spud stood up, looking around the room.  With a determined air, he walked 
over to a semi-buried chair and pulled a pile of clothes off it, scattering the 
laundry on the floor.  "Sit here," he directed.
	"Oh, Barb is gonna like that," Filb remarked.
	"I'll take care of it.  Now tell me your problem."
	Filb sat in the seat and leaned his elbows on his knees to address Spud.  
"Right.  So I'm s'posed to be running errands, right?"
	"Yeah."
	"So Amy, she says to me, first thing I get in today, she says 'Filb,' she 
says to me, 'Filb, it's Saturday, and we're having lunch with Grayson."
	Spud's eyes got wide.  "But Dick-"
	"Shh.  Who's tellin' this story?"
	Spud closed his mouth to listen.
	"That's better.  So 'm thinkin' like you are, that Grayson's not wantin' 
to do lunch today, even if we always have lunch at Hogan's on Saturday, 'cuz 
y'know, your dad's busy fixin' to get better after his fight with the glass 
truck."
	Spud nodded.
	"And I figure Amy knows this, too, but you know what it's like to say no 
to Amy once she gets somethin' in her head."
	"Traffic duty," Spud answered sagely.
	"Right.  So's I just kinda scoot on out of the station figurin' I'd figure 
somethin' out once I got here."
	"And?"
	"Well, it's like I said - Grayson's workin' on that gettin' better thing, 
so I gotta go back to the station empty handed.  I might not even get lunch."  
Filb managed to make himself sound worried about the lunch.
	Spud looked up at him in genuine sympathy.  "So whatcha gonna do?"
	"I don' know.  She really wants lunch with Grayson... HEY!"
	Spud jumped back slightly.  "What?"
	"I got it.  She just said lunch with Grayson.  She didn't say which 
Grayson."
	"You're gonna take Babs?"
	"Nah, she doesn't want to sit around Hogan's hangin' out with old cops."
	"Sure she does," Spud volunteered her gallantly.
	"Nope.  Yer ma's great, Spud, but she's not one for sittin' in cop bars."
	"I bet she would like it.  *I* like going to Hogan's."
	Filb looked speculatively at Spud.  "You do, don't you?"
	Spud nodded.  "'Cept you need a Grayson to go with you."
	"Wait a second.  *You're* a Grayson!"
	Spud blinked.  "I am?"
	"Sure you are.  Remember the court thing, when they said you were *ahem* 
James Grayson?"
	"That's right!"  Spud's face fell.  "But I should stay here-"
	Filb let his expression falter, too.   "Yeah, you're right.  I'm just 
gonna have to let Amy chew my hide."
	Spud looked at his father's downcast partner.  He thought for a minute.  
Then he spoke carefully.  "Dick says its good to help people when they're in 
trouble."
	"Yep, that's m'partner, all right."
	"And that sometimes we have to pick to help someone in trouble because 
they're in more trouble than someone else."
	Filb nodded, although he wasn't quite sure what Spud meant.
	"'Cuz Dick's got Babs and Dinah and Alfred here, right?"
	"Yeah, but you've got responsibilities and-"
	"But Dick wouldn't want you to get in trouble because of him.  I mean, I 
know that happens all the time anyway, but not on purpose."
	Filb fought a grin.  "Yeah, but this isn't on purpose either," he pointed 
out.
	"No, it's not.  But see, if I don't help you out now, that's kinda like 
getting you in trouble on purpose.  Since I can get you out of trouble, I mean."
	"You think?"
	"Well, you and Amy can have lunch with Grayson if I go, right?"
	"Yeah, I guess-"
	"And then she can't say you didn't do what she said."
	"Yeah, but-"
	"And when Dick wakes up, he'll totally say I did the right thing, 'cuz Amy 
will prob'ly be upset with him, too, about lunch."
	"Maybe-"
	"So I think - do you think Babs would let me?"
	"Let you what?"
	"Go to lunch with you?"
	"You really want to?"
	Spud hesitated, seeming to think hard about it.  It was all Filb could do 
not to reach out and hug the boy.  "I think-" Spud finally said slowly.  "I 
think it would be the *right* thing to do."
	Now Filb did hug him.  "I knew you wouldn't let me down.  Let's go find your ma."

*** 

August 18, 1315

	Spud stared emptily out the window as Filb expertly parallel parked the 
squad car.  Riding along with Filb had made his recent resolution to not worry 
Babs anymore easy; he could pretend that they were just hanging out after a ball 
game, waiting for Dick and Babs to come back from Gotham or something.  When 
they had picked up Amy, however, and Spud had moved to the back seat to let her 
ride up front...
	It wasn't Amy's fault.  She was the way she always was, making 
conversation with him by asking about his swimming lessons and aikido classes 
and making joking comments about how he needed to keep his father in line.  He 
couldn't keep up his end, though, and his silence spread to the rest of the car.
	"Here we are!"  Filb announced as he turned off the ignition.
	"'Bout time," Amy grumbled.  "I'm starving."
	"Me, too," Spud tried gamely, aware that his stomach actually *did* feel 
hungry.
	"Well, then, let's get to eatin'!"  Filb opened his door and stepped out, 
and Spud undid his seatbelt and scrambled to the rear passenger side door as Amy 
opened it for him.  He took her hand because she offered it, and the two of them 
followed Filb into Hogan's Alley.
	"Well, if it isn't the Liberal posse!" a familiar voice greeted, and Spud 
craned his neck in the direction of the sound.
	"Hey, Mutt," he greeted.
	"Hey, Spud," the young man returned.  "Usual booth?" he asked Amy.
	"You know it.  And since when are we Grayson's posse?"
	"Since forever.  I see how he rubbed off on you."
	"Ha!"  Amy disagreed.  "I taught that boy everything he knows."
	"Ri-ight," Michael Hogan replied, dropping three menus onto a table as 
Amy, Filb and Spud seated themselves.
	"When's school start?" Filb asked, picking up one of the menus.
	"Oh, freshman orientation starts on the 25th.  Seems inhuman to me, 
starting before summer is properly over.  Pop says the dorms are likely to be 
like ovens."
	"Probably," Amy put in.  "I don't know about the rest of this crew, but I 
know what I want."
	Michael pulled an order pad out of his bar apron.  "California burger with 
steak fries, side salad and a Soder," he recited.  "Pop probably already has it 
on the grill.  Filb?  Spud?"
	"Oh, my usual," Filb answered, closing the menu.
	"Got it," Michael replied.  "Coffee today?"
	"Yeah, why not?  Keep me awake through that paperwork Amy's gonna make me 
do later."
	"Consider it doubled," Amy said sweetly.
	"Spud?"
	Spud looked around the table and thought for a second.  "I'm s'posed to be 
here for Dick," he said carefully, "so I guess I'll eat whatever he orders."
	Michael nodded, jotting something down on the order pad and scooping up 
the menus.  "How's the old man doing, anyway?" he asked, trying to make the 
question sound casual.
	Spud matched his tone.  "Better."  He did not miss the looks that passed 
between the adults.
	"Good," Michael declared.  "I'll be out with your food in a few."

*** 

August 18, 1345h

	Dinah watched the can spin under the firm direction of the can opener and 
stop jerkily as the top of the can fully detached.  Half-heartedly, she dumped 
the can of soup into a waiting saucepan and flipped the stove dial to somewhere 
in the vicinity of medium.  She leaned her forearms on the counter and stared at 
the cold, lumpy soup.  A watched pot never boils, her mother's voice reminded 
her.
	Her mother.  Dinah closed her eyes.  How many times had her mother shrilly 
laid into her about her choice of work?  Dinah Sr. had hated what the superhero 
life had taken from her.  She envisioned the same disasters setting themselves 
upon Dinah Jr. and the Justice League.  In some cases, she was right.  And now, 
dead from a cancer caused by radiation she had been exposed to as a superhero, 
she was calling to her daughter from beyond the grave.
	I told you so.
	Dinah's eyes snapped open.  No.  She wouldn't believe it.  Things would be 
all right.  The worst was over.  Babs was sure of it.  And when Babs was sure of 
something, she was never wrong.  Never.
	But Babs was sure of Dick.
	Deep breath, girl, Dinah reminded herself.  If Dick gets better, Bruce 
will be fine.  Bruce will have to be fine.
	"Hey."
	It was Tim Drake's voice, heavy with fatigue.  Tim had been operating day 
and night, as Robin, as Nightwing, as Tim Drake, junior executive at Wayne 
Enterprises.
	And she was jealous of him.  He could move.  He could work.  He could act. 
And Bruce talked to him.
	"You ok?"
	The voice was closer now.  He was going to touch her.  He was going to lay 
a hand on her shoulder and offer to give her a hug and she was going to break 
into a million pieces.
	"Soup?"
	"She won't eat it."  Babs had barely eaten anything in two days.  It had 
to be Dinah's turn to be the grownup and she didn't want to eat herself.
	So she did the only logical thing.
	She threw the pot.
	"Whoa!"  Tim caught the pot handle in mid-air, cheating Dinah of the 
lovely crash she needed so badly to hear.  He quickly deposited the pot on the 
kitchen table and stepped in close enough to Dinah to avoid the kick she had 
aimed at him.  He quickly and expertly blocked two chops that certainly would 
have disabled him, and then caught her as she slid to the floor, too tired to 
launch any greater offensive.  
	"Dinah."  He stroked his fingers through her silky blonde hair, pulling it 
back from a tear-stained face.  "Shhh."  He settled on the floor, pulling his 
knees up on either side of her and leaning his back against the wooden 
cupboards.
	"Oh god, oh Timmy, I'm so sorry," Dinah apologized, wiping tears away from 
her face with both hands.
	"Shhh, Dinah, don't apologize," he told her, stroking a hand through her 
hair again.  "C'mon. It's ok.  You've held the family together this far. Let 
someone else take a turn."
	"I-I never wanted to be part of this family," Dinah sobbed, remembering 
all her sarcastic opinions on the dysfunctional group of people that made up the 
Bat-Family.  "I just... I just... I hate this!  Bruce... Babs... everyone's 
so... so closed up... I hate it!"
	"Shhh."  Tim pressed a comforting kiss to Dinah's temple.  "Come on.  If 
you hadn't been here, we would be in twice as bad shape as we are.  We owe you a 
big one.  You need to go home and get some sleep.  You owe it to the baby."  He 
paused.  "To Bruce's baby.  He'll come around.  This is what he does in a 
crisis.  It's tough to take, but it's what he thinks is best."
	Dinah nodded against his chest.
	"I'll call for Alfred and you can go home for a few hours."
	"Sir Timmy?"
	"Yeah?"
	"Can I just stay here for a minute?"
	"As long as you want, Lady Dinah.  As long as you want."

*** 

August 18, 1435h

	Spud barely murmured as Filb gently unbuckled him and lifted him from the 
back of the squad car.  "He's really out," Amy commented softly.
	Filb nodded.  "Hasn't been much sleepin' goin' on around here last couple 
of days."  He shifted Spud so the boy rested against his shoulder.  "You wanna 
go ring the bell?"
	"Oh!  Yeah, sure," Amy agreed, tearing her eyes away from the exhausted 
child.  She walked up to the Graysons' front door and tapped the doorbell.  
There was the familiar wait and then the sound of the locks being undone, and 
then the door opened.
	She couldn't place the name with the familiar face that answered the door 
until Filb said, "'Lo, Tim.  Brought back this sack of potatoes."
	Tim smiled at the weak pun.  "I *knew* someone was missing.  Come on in, 
Filb.  Captain."
	As Filb headed down the hall with Spud, Amy stood awkwardly in the foyer, 
not sure what to say to the man Dick had described to her as his "sort of" 
little brother.  Finally she asked the question that she most wanted the answer 
to.  "How's he doing?"
	Tim pulled his gaze back from following Filb's progress down the hall.  
"Dick?  Well, the infection seems to be under control and I think technically 
he's not really exactly in a coma anymore - Captain?"
	The seasoned cop had closed her eyes against Tim's almost off-hand 
description of her former rookie's condition.  She hadn't realized, or somehow 
hadn't believedÉ  She moistened her lips.  "Call me Amy, Tim.  Do they have any 
idea -?"
	He shook his head, understanding the unasked question.  "Do you want to 
see him?"
	Amy hesitated, her mind flashing back to early memory, of her father's 
last lingering days on life support after getting shot in the line of duty.  
Those sickbed images had crowded out happier memories of her father for years.  
"No," she decided.  "I'll stop by when he's stronger.  You'll pass my best 
wishes along to Barb."
	The sympathy that appeared on Tim's face made her almost want to hug him.  
"Of course," he replied.
	They lapsed into a silence that lasted until Filb reappeared from the hall 
a few minutes later.  "I tucked him in and let Barb know he polished off a bacon 
cheeseburger.  She said to tell you that she's gonna need help getting Grayson 
shifted over before the nurse comes around at 3.  I gave him hell for being 
lazy, but he listened to me 'bout as well as he usually does.  You ready t'go, 
Amy?"
	Amy nodded as Filb opened the front door, heading out toward the driveway.  
Filb hesitated, giving Tim a penetrating look.  "Seems to me Spud isn't the only 
one who could use some sleep," he observed.  Then he rested a beefy hand on 
Tim's shoulder for a second before slipping out the door to follow Amy.

*** 

August 18, 1600h

	Batman rubbed his eyes tiredly beneath his cowl and returned his attention 
to the Dick's files on Blockbuster.  He could have them ready by sundown and 
carefully planted on the desk of Captain Addad if he could stay focused.  His 
muscles were starting to stiffen from sitting so long after last night's battle, 
but he made himself ignore them.  The assassin might be gone, but he had been 
only a contract killer.  
Blockbuster had to go down.
	"Master Bruce?"
	Batman looked up to see Alfred standing at the foot of the stairs.  Then 
he looked down again to the files.
	"Master Bruce, I've brought Miss Dinah home for some much needed rest.  
She is sleeping in the master bedroom now."
	Batman felt a hint of guilt.  "Is she okay?"
	"As well as any of us under the circumstances, sir.  I thought perhaps you 
could benefit from joining her."
	Batman looked up at Alfred, taking in his weary face.  "Dick?" he asked, 
ignoring Alfred's suggestion.
	"Responsive but not conscious.  Still on the respirator."  
	No change.  
	Blockbuster was going down.  
	Batman refocused himself on the files in front of him, pulling up more 
notes on Dick's laptop.
	He heard rather than saw Alfred wait for a long moment.  Then:  "If you'll 
not be needing me, sir, I think I shall turn in."
	He didn't answer, and after a moment, Alfred headed back up the stairs.
	Dick had almost every puzzle piece in place, an airtight case that even 
the BPD couldn't fumble.  Batman felt a rush of pride as he meticulously 
assembled the files for Addad, obscuring any clues that Nightwing - or Dick 
Grayson - had anything to do with them.  It was solid detective work, enough for 
probable cause for a warrant, enough that there was no way Blockbuster could 
disassemble everything before he got caught.  Addad and his officers would 
follow Dick's leads and Bludhaven would be less one crime boss.
	The material on Dick's laptop was the key - the data he had not yet 
integrated into his mainframe files made the case solid.   Batman had recognized 
that instantly when he had opened the laptop two nights ago and scanned through 
its files.  He doubted anyone had even noticed that he had quietly removed the 
computer from the warehouse lair. 
	*Can you blame them?* a little voice nagged him.  He shook it off and 
began opening the last of Dick's files, the material he had put together in the 
last two weeks.  He was definitely going to make his self-imposed sundown 
deadline.  
	Blockbuster was going down.
	He clicked the mouse, and suddenly Dick's voice was coming out of the 
little speakers beside the flat screen of the laptop.  Batman froze at the 
hushed sound of his son's voice. "...-fted base of operations in South America.  
Guys tonight were hired guns from Oronto..."	
	He had been whispering when he made this file - recording from a rooftop 
or warehouse?  Sending data home in case he did not make it back?  Batman had 
been dimly aware that there was a growing price on Nightwing's head, but he had 
not let himself worry.  They all had prices on their head, after all.  
	"... suspect Blockie's trying to move some accounts to Kayman.  Seems to 
also be flying in some higher powered muscle ..."
	Dick's tone was musing and vaguely frustrated, as if he were listing 
information to try to figure out the links.  Then suddenly Barbara's voice 
appeared in the recording, explaining the whispering.
	"Honey, you still up?"
	A pause - perhaps for a kiss?
	"Just wanted to work on this a little longer, Babs.  I feel so close -"
	"You need sleep, sweetheart.  You'll see the connection in the morning."
	Batman felt like he should shut off the file, feeling like a voyeur, but 
he sat riveted, listening.
	A heavy sigh, then a tone laced with irritation.  "I can't be this close 
and let him slip through my fingers again.  Eight years, Babs.  He sent me here 
*eight years* ago.  And I'm *still* on this case."
	"Dick..."
	"I'll sleep soon.  I promise."
	"Like you promised last night, and the night before.  I'm worried about 
you-"
	"I'm FINE.  I'm just - I'm sorry, Babs.  I -"
	"Shh.  You'll wake Spud."
	Silence for a moment.  Long enough for Batman to think about how much had 
been going on in the past month - the wedding, the adoption, Dick's regular work 
with the BPD and his uncomplaining coverage of Gotham, plus the growing heat for 
Nightwing in his home city...
	"I just want Blockbuster out of here for good.  Done."
	"I know.  Have you thought about -?"
	"Asking Bruce?" There was an almost bitter sound in Dick's voice.  "Hey, 
Batman, I can't handle my own case, how about -"
	"Dick!  You know better than -"
	"Babs."
	Another silence. Did Dick really see the Blockbuster case as an extension 
of the mystery of those 21 dead men, Batman wondered?
	"I just don't like to see you this run down.  We've got a family to think 
about, and -"
	"I know.  Just a few more nights.  It'll be over soon."
	"He'd help, you know."
	A snort.  "Bruce?  He's busy.  And he's got a family to think about now, 
too."
	Batman slammed on the keyboard, stopping the playback.  He stared blankly 
at the screen, although somewhere his mind registered that the file he had 
opened was dated early a.m., August 14.  He scanned through his memory.  When 
had he last spoken to Dick?  Monday, maybe?  The 13th.  A curt exchange, he 
remembered.  Nightwing had asked if Batman could track down a lead in Gotham, 
and Batman, mindful of Dinah waiting at home, had put him off.  
	Dick had gotten the information from someone - the Gotham link was in a 
file dated August 15.  It was a vital clue.  If he had gotten that a day 
earlier...?
	Batman settled his shoulders, his mouth firming into an even grimmer line.  
	Blockbuster was going down.

*** 

August 18, 1832h

	Tim stabbed the meat thermometer at the frozen roast and swore as the tip 
glanced off the crust of ice.  He didn't know why the hell he was making a roast 
when most of the people in the house wouldn't even eat soup.  He just knew that 
everyone was underfed and overstressed and a good dose of protein would do 
everyone good.
	He opened the spigot and shoved the handle to the left, heating the water 
coming from the pipes.  He picked the slab of meat up from the broiling pan and 
dumped it unceremoniously in the sink.
	The hot water melted the ice almost immediately and sluiced off the meat 
in pink-tinted streams.
	Tim stared at the lump in the sink.  It almost looked like...  It almost 
reminded him of...
	Tim dropped to his knees, the room suddenly spinning in mad, dizzying 
lights and sounds.  Blood pounded in his ear, reminding him of blood running 
over the rooftop.
	He'd waited.  He'd stayed away, precious seconds, minutes even, waiting 
for Dick to lecture Spud in private.  If he'd only moved sooner.  Gotten there, 
stayed silent through the lecture, he would have been there, he would have been 
able to make things-
	His forehead pressed against the cool linoleum, Tim rolled to his side, 
gasping for air.  He thought of the roast in the sink and heaved, but there was 
nothing to bring up but bile, because he hadn't eaten, either.  A chill screamed 
through him, leaving him shivering.
	"Tim!"
	He knew that voice.  It was a good voice.  If only he could remember.
	He felt like he was floating.  He was in a dream.  Everything was dark.
	Then, something cool and damp touched his face, wiping away some of his 
disorientation.
	Cass.  The voice had been Cass.  She was here.  She was pressing a damp 
cloth against his forehead.
	"I'm-I'm fine," he croaked, barely able to form the words with dry lips.
	Cass shook her head affectionately.  "Stupid Tim."

*** 

August 18, 2014h

	Batman stood on the edge of the Gotham Cathedral.
	He didn't move a muscle, yet he registered everything around him with 
every sense he had available.  The shift in the wind.  The tread behind him.
	"Where's Robin?"
	Batgirl shrugged.  "Need sleep," she said succinctly.  "I help."
	And Batman knew that another soldier had fallen.

*** 

August 18, 2152h

	Batman crouched across from the Bludhaven PD main precinct, his lenses 
focused on one window.  After a moment, he nodded to himself in grim 
satisfaction.  Addad knew what he had.  He was already on the phone, presumably 
calling some of his trusted officers. 
	 Blockbuster was going down.
	His mission accomplished, he shot off a jump line and swung up to meet 
Batgirl on an adjoining rooftop.  "Good work," he acknowledged as he dropped 
easily beside her.
	She shrugged.  "Distractions easy.  Learn from Tim."
	"Let's get back to Gotham."  He moved to depart, then hesitated when he 
realized Batgirl was not joining him.  "Batgirl," he growled.
	The growl never worked on her, he remembered as she merely continued to 
stand still.
	"I cover Gotham.  You stay here."
	"Staying here will only create problems for the police."  
	Cassandra's body language implied frustration at him.  "I cover Gotham.  
You stay here," she repeated stubbornly.
	"How will you get back?"
	"Borrow Wingcycle.  Dick not mind."
	Batman felt his expression darkening.  "He will," he intoned angrily.
	Cassandra stepped forward lightly, putting her hand to his shoulder as she 
still did from time to time when she felt he wasn't understanding her.  "You 
tell him, then.  I go."
	With sudden, lithe grace, Batgirl dove from the roof.
	Batman followed, and she let him catch up.
	"*We're* going back to Gotham."
	Batgirl shook her head.  "*I* go back to Gotham, check Tim, do patrol.  
*You* get car but stay here."
	"This is not -"  He stopped, his audience lost to another swing between 
the rooftops.  This time she did not let him catch up until they had reached 
Nightwing's warehouse lair.  She was already straddling the Wingcycle and 
strapping on a helmet when he finally dropped down beside her again.
	 "Enough," he began, stalking up to her.
	She responded by looking past him to the still disordered corner where 
STAR labs had transported a make-shift operating theatre three days prior.  The 
medical equipment was all gone, but the five gallon pails where a small crowd 
had sat and waited for word still lay scattered where they had been left.  She 
turned her face back to Batman.  "*I* go to Gotham.  Bruce Wayne stay here," she 
insisted.
	She turned the ignition on the Wingcycle and revved the engine.  A touch of a button opened a 
garage door for her.  Then she shot one more look at him.  "Stupid Batman," she muttered, and then she 
was gone.

*** 

August 18, 2205h

	"Breathe for me, Dicky," Leslie coaxed, almost surprised when the young 
man that she and Alfred supported did exactly that.  It was a shuddering breath, 
turning into a gasp as his expanding rib cage pulled at the stitched muscles and 
skin of his abdomen, but it was a response.
	Leslie was glad she had followed her gut and decided to make this trip to 
Bludhaven.  As much as she did not relish another three hour round trip after a 
full day at the clinic, her heart had told her she needed to be here, and when 
Dick began fighting the respirator, she was glad to be the one to disconnect him 
from the machine.
	"Again, Dicky," she prompted, her stethoscope resting against his back.  
No response.  Had the first reaction been a fluke?
	She tried again.  "Come on, Dicky.  I know it hurts, but one more."
	She was rewarded, although this time the breath was more tentative.  
Alfred looked to her past Dick's bowed head, his eyes hopeful.
	Leslie kept herself focused on her work.  "Good job, Dicky.  Let's get you 
settled back down..."
	They lowered him gently back into the pillows, and Leslie noticed relief 
cross his pinched face.  With gentle fingers, she brushed aside tears that were 
streaming down his cheeks.  "Go wake Barbara," she directed Alfred, her eyes 
never leaving her patient's face.
	"It's okay, Dicky," she murmured in comforting tones as Alfred exited.  
She spoke for her own benefit as much as his.  Her physician's eye told her that 
this might be it - might be all the more recovery they could reasonably expect 
from Dick Grayson, given the massive blood loss and high fevers.  There was no 
telling how much brain damage he might have sustained, and although he was 
presently responsive to simple stimuli, there was no guarantee he would improve 
beyond that.  Aside from these breaths he had just taken, his reactions had been 
reflexive or instinctual, no more than one could expect from an infant.
	Warring against her medical training was a deep bond to the little boy 
this man had once been.  It seemed impossible that Dick Grayson could just be - 
gone.  But searching back, she could not remember ever seeing him cry for pain.  
Frustration?  Yes.  Anger? Absolutely.  Exhaustion?  Heck, she'd joined him in 
weeping on that count. But pain?  Dick's stubborn pride bore every injury in 
pale-faced stoicism.  His tears tonight were surely just a product of the 
friction of the tube against his throat as she drew it from his trachea, or 
maybe only reaction to the wholly unexpected stab of what was a very painful and 
severe injury when he sought to obey Leslie.  It was jarring nonetheless - 
almost more disconcerting than his eerie stillness as machines kept his body 
alive.
	She caught his right hand lightly, giving it a little squeeze to be 
rewarded by a return pressure.  What if this were the only communication he ever 
shared with the world again?   She wanted to think that the Dick Grayson she 
knew was hovering there, beneath the surface, mustering strength that his body 
was now using to mend itself.  For now, they could only wait and see.
	The door burst open, suddenly, and Babs wheeled in, her face still pillow 
creased.  "Leslie?  Dick?  Is he -?"
	"Breathing on his own," Leslie confirmed, making her face into a smile 
more reassuring than she felt.
	"Thank god," Babs breathed, pulling in beside the bed into the place 
Leslie vacated.  She put her hand to her husband's face.  "Dick..."
	He nuzzled into her hand, just as he had been reacting to the same 
stimulus all day.  An early, reflexive response, the rooting instinct of a 
newborn.  Leslie tried not to think about it.
	Babs turned to her, smiling, her eyes a little glassy from tears and lack 
of sleep.  "He'll wake up soon, right?  Any minute now -"
	Leslie put a hand on Babs shoulder and offered her a small, tight smile.  
Then she leaned over and kissed Dick's forehead in a motherly gesture.  "Dicky, 
Barbara and I are going to let you sleep now, okay, sweetie?"
	She wanted there to be an answering nod, but there was only a faint 
relaxing of his features, and she was not entirely convinced she hadn't imagined 
it.  She quietly led Babs from the room.
	They didn't speak until they reached the kitchen, where Alfred had laid 
out a small platter of cheese and crackers.  Leslie picked up a wheat cracker 
and a small slice of gouda, eating mechanically as she waited for the inevitable 
questions.
	Babs mirrored her gestures woodenly, then looked seriously into her face.  
"What is it, Leslie?"
	Leslie sighed.  "Barbara-"  She stopped and sat down at the table, feeling 
the stress of the last week pulling at her.
	Unexpectedly, Babs took her hand, offering a kind of comfort in her firm 
grip.  "Leslie.  He's my husband.  I need to know."
	Leslie shook her head.  "It's too early to tell anything yet.  It's just - 
I don't think it would be wise to pin your hopes on him waking just yet."
	"Just yet, or ever?" Babs asked cautiously.
	"I don't know."  
	The reply was a frighteningly resigned sound.
	"Barbara!"  Leslie snapped, looking the younger woman seriously in the 
eye.  "I don't know.  That's not a no.  If you would have asked me 9 years ago 
if Bruce Wayne would have ever walked again, I would have said I didn't know.  
Or if Tim would have survived the Clench.  There are things that are beyond my 
power as a doctor to predict.  But I do know that Dick is a fighter, and he's 
got Bat in him, and if anyone is likely to recover from what he's just been 
through - "
	"But he might not," Babs finished.
	Leslie studied the downcast face of one of the strongest women she had 
ever met.  "Barbara, you need sleep.  You need to be strong for Spud and for 
Dick - and as much as he is persona non grata around here right now, for Bruce."
	Babs eyes snapped sharply to Leslie's face, a hint of fury in them.  But 
she only nodded mildly.  "You're right."
	"I'm going to have Alfred take me back to Gotham.  You get sleep.  You can 
set your monitors to wake you if his condition changes at all."
	Babs nodded with a distracted air.
	"You know you can always call me, and STAR Labs can still send someone via 
transporter in an emergency.  Is someone coming back tomorrow?"
	"Yeah, Dinah said she'd come by."
	Leslie reached out to squeeze Babs' hand.  "Hang in there.  He's 
stubborn."
	"Ain't that the truth?" Babs replied with a weak smile.
	They sat for a long moment, then Leslie stood, nodding toward Alfred who 
had entered the kitchen.  
	"Miss Barbara," Alfred said softly, "Master James is sleeping soundly for 
the moment.  I will call you in the morning?"
	"Thanks, Alfred.  And Leslie.  I'll talk to you tomorrow."
	Alfred opened the door for Leslie, who paused to say good night.  Alfred 
waited a moment longer, his eyes settling somberly on Babs.  "Good night, Miss 
Barbara." 
	Babs nodded her farewell, and as Alfred closed the door, Leslie thought 
she saw her lean her head down into her hands on the table.  
	Leslie sighed wearily.  "Let's go home, Alfred."

*** 

August 18, 2230h

	Bruce sat in the car for a long moment after he pulled into Dick and 
Barbara's driveway.  A light burned in the kitchen, but otherwise the house was 
dark and quiet.  The Bentley wasn't there - Alfred must have returned to Gotham, 
perhaps taking Leslie with him.
	He closed his eyes, steeling himself.  That was a mistake.  As had been 
true every time he closed his eyes for the past three days, his head was 
immediately filled with nightmare images of Dick lying still and lifeless on 
that rooftop.  Except they weren't nightmare images.  He only wished they were.
	Again, he found himself tapping the strength of the Bat to make his limbs 
obey him, to open the car door and stand and head for the front door of the 
Grayson home.
	He hesitated on the stoop for the briefest instant, then his fingers 
reached into his pocket and pulled out an electronic key.  He had it for 
emergencies, although he made a point of never using it.  He knew that both Dick 
and Barbara would be more than a little annoyed if he just entered their home 
without the niceties of knocking and announcing his presence.  Tonight, he'd 
risk their aggravation.
	He listened as the locks snicked back, then entered the house in perfect 
silence.  He took a second to ensure that all the locks were secured again 
before he went any further.
	Barbara was in the kitchen, but if she noticed him, she gave no sign.  She 
was at the kitchen table, her head pillowed on her arms, and after a moment, 
Bruce realized she was sleeping.  He thought about waking her, then changed his 
mind.  She'd find him there when she found him there.  He'd deal with it then.
	He stuck to the shadows, slipping into the darkened hall.  He paused for a 
moment when he reached the door to Spud's room, listening intently.  The quiet 
was punctuated by the beeping of the cardio monitor in the master bedroom, but 
there was no accompanying hiss from the respirator.  Instead, he could pick out 
murmurs from Spud, the familiar tones of a young boy hovering on the edge of 
nightmare.  Should he wake him?
	No, he decided.  Sometimes exhaustion forced the nightmares back, he knew, 
and if his adopted grandson was finally getting some rest, he would leave him 
be.  There was no excuse to keep him from Dick.
	The door to the master bedroom was ajar, likely so any change in the 
steady heartbeat and the shallow breathing could get an instant response.  He 
suspected that Barbara had the room well monitored - was likely even wearing a 
signaler in her ear to wake her.  The last few days could not have been easy for 
her.  For any of them.
	He took a deep breath and pushed the door open further.
	Dim moonlight filtered into the room from gaps in the curtains, giving 
enough light for his dark-adjusted eyes to see a little.  With the added 
greenish glow from the monitoring equipment, it was not hard to see Dick's quiet 
form on the far side of the king size bed.
	His hearing had been accurate - the respirator was gone.  Bruce pushed 
aside his annoyance that he hadn't been told, relishing a moment of relief.  He 
wasn't sure he could bear to look at Dick's face through tubes and medical tape.  
Seeing him so ungodly still and pale was not particularly easy, but it was 
better.
	 Now, though, Bruce suddenly couldn't bear to be so far away.  He slipped 
around the bed to the chair he knew would be there, pulling it close to the bed.  
He settled quickly and reached out to lift Dick's right hand from where it 
rested on top of the sheets.  He twined his fingers with the younger man's, his 
eyes intent on Dick's face.
	"It's okay, now, chum," he murmured.  "Blockbuster's done in this town.  
And I'm here."
	As if in response, the hand in his tightened its grip.

***