Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are five words that keep Bruce up at night in the days (weeks, months) following the moment they were said to him. Five words that never leave him alone, that are on constant repeat in his head, louder than even the gunshots that took his parents from him. Five words seared into his memory, burned into his mind, utterly incapable of being yanked out.

I'm so fucking tired, B.

He knew Dick wasn't—okay, recently. He knew Dick was off, but it was understandable. On top of all the other responsibilities he has, he also just lost someone under his command. Lost a friend. Neither of which are easy things to deal with, and when they overlap it's all the worse.

So Dick being a little off—it's part of the job. Something to be watched, yes, but unfortunately it's not all that out of the ordinary. Losing people...it's part of the job. And with how dedicated Dick is to maintaining this lifestyle, he's certainly no stranger to loss, nor to the knowledge that much more loss will come in the future. And he handled it extremely well in the debrief, especially compared to the despondence of Artemis and the others.

So Bruce had checked in, very briefly, and now he—God does he regret that brevity. Dick is so much more like Bruce than either of them is fully comfortable with, and part of that is the practicality that comes with leadership. But he must've misjudged, he must've missed a sign, because Dick seemed to be getting worse instead of staying the course and then—

I'm so fucking tired, B.

Bruce didn't know what to say. He was—stunned, faced with the sheer exhaustion on his son's face, the deadness in his eyes, the dull quality to his voice. Like he wasn't all there, like something had broken off, and Bruce missed it. Somehow he missed Dick losing a piece of himself, only catching on when it was too late. And unable to find the words to help fix it even with the problem slapping him across the face.

Too late, always too late.

Because it's less than eight hours later that Dick disappears.

First, Dick doesn't respond to a check-in over comms. It isn't all that unusual for one of them to do that, if they're in the middle of a fight or in a position where they have to stay silent for some stake out or another, but it has a pit forming in Bruce's gut nonetheless.

The following fifteen minutes—the procedure wait time, after a missed check-in—are some of the longest of Bruce's life, and despite how he tries to keep himself calm he can tell that Tim is aware of it, and probably sharing in his anxiety.

Then Dick misses the follow-up check-in too.

Then, when Bruce pulls up his tracker, he finds it offline.

The anxiety shifts to fear, and Bruce is instantly in motion, heading towards the last known location of the tracker as fast as he possibly can. Only a tiny fraction of his attention can acknowledge that Tim is right by his side, that Alfred is in his ear. All he can think about is Dick being offline and unresponsive, and those five words. I'm so fucking tired, B.

Yesterday night, Tim came to Bruce, concerned. He shared that some of the things Dick said during their day together felt like a goodbye. And Bruce can't help but fear the worst, that maybe Dick really did fracture. That maybe he—took a drastic step to escape the pain.

Not another son. Dear God, please, not another boy dead.

The tracker's last location brings Bruce to a quiet alley, and his hackles are raised, weapon in hand on instinct as he scans the area for any clue, until he pulls up short suddenly, breath catching at the sight before him.

There are three men lying on the ground, in varying stages of unconsciousness, all beaten bloody. One is so covered in abrasions and blood that Bruce can't even make out any of his features, and he immediately crouches down to press his fingers to the man's neck, testing his pulse.

It's thready and weak, and this close up Bruce can hear the wheezing of his breaths, the thick quality that implied something obstructing his breathing in some way, and Bruce knows that it's an injury that would eventually kill him.

He makes the call for an ambulance on autopilot, mind whirling. This is Dick's last known location, but that...doesn't make sense. Because these men—they've been...

But it does make sense. Beneath the brutality he can see Dick's skill, can see the power Bruce taught him even if it lacks the control that's supposed to go with it. He can see that Dick did do this, even if it's nothing like Dick. Even if it's so much more—vicious than the boy's ever been, than Bruce ever taught him to be.

Though if anyone can understand what it's like to lose control a little, to become brutal in such a way against criminals because of trauma, it's Bruce. He'll never forget the way he acted after—after Jason. The way he was spiraling, the destruction he was causing...Yes, Bruce understands all too well.

But Dick. Dick. Dick was supposed to be better than him, was supposed to be above that. He was supposed to be safe from the downward track Bruce almost got lost in. Dick wasn't supposed to...

God, what's happened to his son? And how did Bruce miss it?

And where is he now?

"Batman to Penny One," Bruce says, activating his comm, just barely suppressing the emotion that wants to come out in his voice. "Any sign of where Nightwing went from here?"

There's a momentary pause, and then Alfred says, "Negative, Sir. It appears that all of the cameras in a five block radius have been blacked out for the hour before and after the last timestamp of Nightwing's tracker at your current location. I shall expand my search, but with that timeframe and distance..."

It's very unlikely to be able to locate Dick from there.

Blacked out cameras? That means Dick actively working to conceal his destination from them.

Fuck, at least that greatly lessens the probability of Dick having done something to himself, even if this is concerning in another way. Because at least blacked out cameras means he's alive. At least covering his tracks means there are tracks to cover. Bruce won't be finding a dead son tonight.

He has to close his eyes for a moment and breathe, allowing the relief to run through him before he bottles it back up and refocuses. They still have to find Dick. His son is out there somewhere, and Bruce is going to find him.

A week passes, then another, and another.

Bruce searches everywhere. He scours Gotham tirelessly, and then once more for good measure. He scans the camera feeds for some sign of where he might've gone. He interrogates every criminal he can get his hands on, just in case this was an abduction and not a conscious choice on Dick's part (not that he thinks any of the Gotham underworld is clever enough to manage the camera blackout, at least none of the ones currently on the street instead of locked up).

He checks with each and every one of Dick's friends, both currently on the team and not. And then when none of them seem to have a clue where he is, he looks into them just in case, knowing each and every one of them would do their best to hide Dick from him if that's what Dick wanted.

Bruce doesn't know why Dick would want that, but he has to consider it a possibility. He has to consider everything a possibility.

But surveillance shows no sign of any of them interacting with Dick past a couple days before he disappeared, and even Clark—who has been the person Dick has gone to in the past, when he and Bruce had their problems—swears up and down that he hasn't heard from the boy.

I'm so fucking tired, B.

Every night, Bruce dreams about those words, about the look on Dick's face. When he actually sleeps, that is. Despite the best efforts of Tim and Alfred—and Barbara, even, though she keeps her distance a little more since they're not that close, their connection mainly through Dick and training rather than anything personal, at least at this point in time—Bruce can't tear himself away from the search for very long, dedicating as much time as he can to finding Dick.

He didn't find Jason until it was too late. He didn't find his little boy until his body was already cooling, the warehouse smoldering around him. He failed Jason, failed his son, his Robin, and he can't—he can't do it again. Dick can't be dead. He can't be dead.

More and more time passes. A month, then another. No sign of Dick.

Bruce has branched his search to criminals out of state, looking into leads that have to do with Dick's work with the team rather than just Gotham or Bludhaven. He makes himself a thorn in Luthor's side, and Savage's, and Queen Bee's; anyone who Dick has seriously pissed off in the past. But unfortunately that's a long, long list—a mix of Dick being good at his job and being one to jab verbally at his opponents has made him a lot of enemies—which makes checking them all quite difficult.

The others start to lose hope, Bruce can tell. They're trying their best to keep going, to match Bruce step for step and find their missing family, friend, leader, teammate, but it's hard to keep the belief that they'll find him when three months go by and they still haven't found a single sign of where he might be.

They all have other responsibilities, anyway, and their own troubles to handle. Aquagirl's death is still so fresh, and Tempest leaving the team a month after that—and Wonder Girl's introduction shortly thereafter—only serves to rock the boat even further.

All of them are still just kids at the end of the day, even if a good amount of them have entered their twenties. There's only so much heartbreak and change they can handle in such a small period of time without needing a minute to step back and regroup. Which means they simply don't have the energy to keep up a nonstop search.

Bruce doesn't either, really. He can feel himself starting to approach running on empty, and the impending crash is one he knows won't be particularly pleasant. But he can't get himself to stop. He can't just abandon Dick. Not even when a fourth month ticks by.

But time drags on and on, and problems continue to arise that he can't avoid. The Light is still making moves they're only half aware of, and that organization isn't their only enemy in the world, with more and more popping up every day. Four members of the Doom Patrol are killed, Deathstroke gets himself a sidekick, Trigon makes another play at rising, Ted Kord dies in an explosion.

The world keeps spinning, keeps hitting them, despite Dick's absence. Despite one of the best people in the universe being gone, everything keeps chugging along, no matter how it feels like it should end.

Bruce's world almost stopped with Jason's death. And it feels on the edge of doing so again.

He throws himself into other cases, and pretends like he can't sense the relief of those around him. None of them have stopped being concerned about him, but they consider it progress that he isn't solely obsessing over Dick anymore. He pretends he doesn't want to scream at them all for giving up. He pretends everything will be alright if he can save other people, if not Dick.

I'm so fucking tired, B. The look on his face. The deadness in his tone. Bruce, speechless, not a clue what to say and unable to stop Dick from turning and walking out.

How he wishes he stopped him. How he wishes he grabbed him, shook him, made him tell him what was wrong. How he wishes he'd done something, anything, anything at all.

Regrets won't help anybody, least of all himself. Least of all Dick. But he can't help but be stuck there nonetheless.

Five months pass since Dick's disappearance. Bruce works case after case. He looks into the Light's dealings, tears apart what he can. Discovers that Deathstroke's connection to the Light is deeper than they thought, and tugs on that thread, looking into the mercenary to try to unravel more of the sinister organization's plots. He researches the man's new sidekick 'Renegade', hoping for a potential lead there.

And then, five and a half months after Dick's disappearance, a month after Renegade's first appearance, footage surfaces.

Footage of Renegade and Deathstroke in a fight, on a contract in Germany.

Footage that involves Renegade's half-cowl mask getting ripped backwards off his head by someone wildly trying to get the upper-hand against an opponent who has far superior skill.

Footage that shows Renegade's face.

Bruce watches the video ten times before it actually sinks in. Before his mind can make sense of what he's seeing, can connect Renegade to Dick's face. And then it's a whole new battle to reconcile these two facts, to actually accept what's in front of him. That Dick is—because he couldn't possibly be—

Because he wouldn't join Deathstroke. Dick wouldn't—he couldn't actually—there's no way—not Dick, not ever. He wouldn't betray them, he wouldn't join a mercenary, wouldn't join the Light. It's just impossible. There has to be another explanation here.

He locks the footage down as tightly as he can, preventing anyone else from viewing it. Those who already have are just as incredulous as he is, locked in disbelief, sure that there's some kind of mistake. That it's a trick of some kind, a cruel joke, a distraction. There are outright refusals, silent stubbornness, resolute words. Because Dick is—is the best of them. He just wouldn't...

(All of them can't help but think, though, of how Dick was before he disappeared. The steadily growing aggression, his reclusiveness, the flatness to him, all of that building something that they all wrote off. They can't help but wonder, even in their disbelief. They can't help but imagine what Dick was going through that they didn't notice, what they could've said to maybe stop this—)

Bruce throws himself into the case of Deathstroke and Renegade, and Deathstroke and Dick—because they must be different, a connection for sure but not the same, not a chance—consuming all the information he can find.

He learns about the apparent fascination Deathstroke had with Nightwing, the overtures he made, the offers for another kind of life if Dick ever wanted to leave being a hero behind. He learns about Deathstroke's contract in Gotham all those months ago, the same night Dick disappeared. He learns about how Deathstroke has been seen far less than usual in the four months following that event, before popping back up as if nothing changed but this time with an apprentice at his side.

He learns about the twisted fondness Deathstroke directed towards Dick during their fights, the praise, the respect, the open door if Dick ever wanted a taste of different training, of a different life. The details Dick never put in any of his reports, details only to be found in the private log he buried deep, deep down in a private server, the details his friends just barely managed to drag out of him and reluctantly share with Bruce now.

The more Bruce learns the more he despairs, because Deathstroke was apparently always very clear that Dick would have a ready place at his side if he ever wanted it. And Dick—

I'm so fucking tired, B.

It can't possibly be true. It can't...No, Bruce can't believe it. Not a chance.

Once again, Bruce searches tirelessly, if in a different way than before. Deathstroke and Renegade are ghosts, just as hard to track as the mercenary always has been, if not more so. Like Deathstroke is trying even harder to stay away from their attention. Like playing keep away.

It's towards the end of September when Bruce finally manages to catch up to the pair, closing the two-step gap between them that's been there for the last month, ever since the footage surfaced. He's alone, not caring to alert anyone about where he's going, not having the time even if he had the inclination.

He tracks down their contract, and strikes hard and fast, using concussion grenades and flash bangs and everything in his arsenal to cause confusion and chaos, and then while Deathstroke is distracted by trying to chase their fleeing target, Bruce tackles Dick, separating the pair as quickly and thoroughly as he can.

Dick engages evasive maneuvers, ones Bruce taught him but—different now, somehow, and Bruce lets him put some space between them until they're facing each other, ten feet apart, closer than they've been in nearly seven months.

His son is right there and fuck Bruce is so desperate, he wants to take him home, to fix this, to make everything better—

"Dick," Bruce says quietly, softly, hands raised in peace. Dick's aggressive stance doesn't shift at all. "Dick, what's going on?"

There's a moment's pause, and then Dick's lips curl up into a hateful sneer, an expression that is so unfamiliar to Bruce that it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

"What do you want, Bruce?" Dick snaps at him, tone cold and vicious and it's worse than even their worst fights, so much more sharp than Dick has ever been, not even in their most intense screaming matches, not even when Bruce threatened Robin's existence and Dick stormed from the Manor, neither of them sure if he'd ever return. This is something else entirely, and Bruce doesn't know what to do with it.

"I want to understand," Bruce says slowly, choosing his words carefully. This Dick is so different from the one he's used to, and Bruce doesn't—he doesn't know how to talk to him, what to say. He wants so desperately to find the right combination of words to get Dick to leave with him, but he's grasping at straws for what that might be. "I want to—to bring you home."

Dick snorts, and then chuckles under his breath, shaking his head a little. He draws the weapons from his back, and Bruce stares at the twin blades in place of the familiar escrima sticks.

There's a gun strapped to one of his thighs, Bruce notes. Dozens more weapons scattered across his body, most of them with a decidedly lethal intention. It doesn't compute in Bruce's brain, even after having seen this costume in the footage a million times.

"I don't want to go back to Gotham, Bruce," Dick says, amused and cruel and angry. "Haven't you gotten the hint? Haven't you seen what Renegade has been up to?"

Yes, yes Bruce has. He's been obsessively tracking each and every job, watched as they moved steadily from guard contracts to thefts to kidnapping to hits. And he compartmentalized all of it, because it just—it couldn't be accurate. It couldn't be, not Dick. Dick wouldn't...

Bruce has been saying that a lot lately, about so many things about Dick, at every stage, despite all the evidence to the contrary. All the evidence that says yes, Dick, yes it's him, yes he's doing these things.

There has to be another reason. There has to be.

But Bruce can't—he can't delude himself, it isn't safe. If all the reports are accurate, if Dick himself is telling the truth—then they've all gained a dangerous new enemy. Because Dick has been one of the best from the first day, and without holding to Bruce's restrictions, with all of Deathstroke's new training...

Who knows what Dick could do?

Not to mention all of the secrets he knows. All of the information he's always had at his fingertips, far more than he ever should've but always found his way to anyway. Are those secrets safe? Should Bruce be concerned about a mass identity reveal? Should Bruce be concerned about all their bases being invaded?

Fuck, there's no limit to the kind of damage Dick could dole out without even lifting a finger.

God, please, don't let this be true. Let this all be a big mistake. Please, please, please...

"Dick, please," Bruce says beseechingly, searching his son's face and body language for any sign of wavering, of falsity, of something that shows his son is still there. "Everything will be okay, we can figure this out, just—just come with me."

"You still don't get it!" Dick shouts, hands tightening around the grips of his blades. "Christ, Bruce, you aren't fucking listening. But, shit, I can't believe I'm surprised by that. You never fucking listened, not to me, not to anyone." He bares his teeth in a feral smile. "Maybe this'll get it through your thick skull."

And then he attacks.

And it is nothing like fighting Dick before all of this.

His precision is the same, as is the way he moves, fluid like water and weightless like gravity doesn't apply to him. There's a grace to him that is nearly impossible to replicate, a speed that is unmatched by any non-meta. All of that is familiar, all of that Bruce knows, but there is so much that is—new.

There's a lethality to him that was never there before, a viciousness, a certain kind of callousness. All that precision, all that fluidity and grace, it's all being applied in such a very different way, intended to truly harm and even—even kill. There is no goal of subduing in the way Dick moves, none of the holding back that Bruce taught him. No, every skill Bruce imparted upon his son has been ramped up and stripped of their mercy.

It breaks Bruce's heart. It—it destroys him, to not only witness his son fight this way but to have it directed at him.

Dick isn't holding back. He is skilled and deadly and utilizing everything in his arsenal to full effect.

"Please," Bruce tries again, more vulnerable than he's been in a long, long time. He's still pulling his punches, and it's doing him absolutely no favors in this fight. "Please, Dick, God. Stop this. Stop."

"No," Dick snarls, coming at him full force. He's so skilled with those blades. Bruce is terrified at the thought of him pulling his pistol. "Fucking hell, Bruce, fight back!"

But Bruce can't, can barely use enough force to keep his son from killing him, and Dick gets him on the ground, Bruce just barely managing to roll out of the way in time to avoid a slash of that sword to his neck.

That would've killed him, if he'd been just a second slower. Dick would've killed him, and his movements didn't hesitate at all. He didn't even think about it.

No, Dick, please, Bruce begs inside his head, even as he forces his resolve to harden. As he forces himself to stop holding back as much, forces himself to fight no matter how badly he wishes he didn't have to, that this wasn't happening, that Dick wasn't—

"Fight me!" Dick demands, something wild in his voice. "Fight me, you bastard!"

So Bruce obliges.

And it's one of the worst experiences of his life.

In the end, despite Bruce's best efforts, Dick gets away.

It's a brutal fight, more intense than most of the ones Bruce has had in his career as a vigilante, and it leaves him bloody and bruised and walking away in an extremely close draw that almost took his life from him more than once.

But Deathstroke returns and tips the balance, and then they disappear like smoke, gone before Bruce can pull himself back together, leaving him alone in the dark and silent building, mind and body both a wreck.

Somehow, he manages to get himself home. Tim, Alfred, Clark, and Barbara are all waiting for him in the cave, their reactions ranging from heartbreak to controlled sadness when they get a look at the state of him, the injuries doled out by the boy they all love.

Everyone is silent as Alfred goes about treating his wounds, each of them trying to digest what's happened, how everything went so wrong, what Dick's become. They can all read the intention behind Bruce's injuries, the way Dick was trying to cause damage, to—to potentially kill.

Bruce was there, Bruce lived it, and he can still barely comprehend that it happened. He can't imagine how hard it must be for them.

"Tell us it wasn't him," Tim says, voice trembling and startlingly loud in the cave after so long of silence. "B, just—tell us it wasn't him. That someone else...that—that anyone else did this to you."

Bruce meets his eyes sadly, unable to grant him that kind lie, knowing it would only be so much crueler in the long run.

Clark releases a slow breath, bowing his head. "I'll tell the others," he says quietly. "They...the League needs to know. If Dick has really—we need to be prepared."

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Bruce nods. He says, "Go. Alert me of any developments."

Clark meets his eyes steadily, the man clearly working hard to hold back the pain he's feeling. He and Dick always had a special relationship, a strong bond that only became firmer when Dick took on the name Nightwing, and this must be killing him. But Bruce can't offer any comfort to Clark right now, not when he's just as broken by everything that's happened.

"You too," Clark says, and Bruce nods again, promising. He isn't usually an open individual, he knows, but he—understands the importance of communicating about this. No matter how badly he still wishes it was all a bad dream.

Silence falls once more after he's gone, and Bruce tries to focus on the pain of his injuries so he doesn't have to keep thinking about everything that just happened. He should be helping Tim, Alfred, and Barbara handle it all, should be providing them with support they desperately need, but he just—fuck, he just can't manage it right now.

Jason's dead. Dick has become a mercenary working for the very enemy he dedicated years of his life to fighting. Bruce failed both his boys, lost both his boys. Two kids who put their faith in him, two kids who loved him and trusted him, and he let them both down.

How much more can Bruce lose before it's too much? How many more people he loves can he fail before he isn't able to keep moving forward?

He's scared the number isn't too much more. He's scared that another confrontation with Dick will shatter that number completely.

December first comes, bringing with it Dick's nineteenth birthday.

It's the first one in a decade that they haven't spent together, and a cloud of thick grief is everywhere Bruce turns. So many people who love Dick, all feeling confused and lost and betrayed and a million other mixed emotions that no one outside of their sphere could ever possibly grasp, ever understand in full.

January first brings with it the second time Bruce is forced to face Dick in battle, and he isn't alone this time but somehow it's all the worse for it. Made only more devastating when his boy sets off a bomb and kills an entire race of Kroloteans.

The last bit of Bruce's hope dies.

Chapter Text

When they land on the bank beside where Mount Justice should be, Bruce finds that ever-present stone in his gut getting larger.

The place is absolutely in ruins, the signs of a large explosion easy to see. It was clearly blown to high hell; if someone was in there when it happened, there's no way they survived.

Bruce left Tim and Barbara here. He left them here, because he thought it had to be safer than where he was going. There was no way he could protect them on another planet, especially not when standing trial. He thought—this was supposed to be better. Their lives are never completely safe, of course not, but they're skilled and have a whole team at their back, and most importantly have each other.

But Mount Justice is in ashes and if they were inside—

Not again runs through Bruce's mind, and he wonders how many times he can think those words before he refuses to let another child wear a cape. Jason, Dick, now Tim and Barbara and every single member of the team that they left to defend the Earth almost completely alone— 

The League stands in stunned silence, all of them filled with terror, all of them imagining the worst. They saw Vandal Savage's warning on Rimbor, they knew Earth had been invaded, knew they had to hurry to get back—

"Are we...too late?" Clark asks softly, voicing the question on all their minds.

Something shifts in the sky. Bruce steps forward, barely daring to breathe.

And then there they are, descending from the sky by flight and in that machine of Superboy's. Not dead, not buried under a mountain turned to rubble. He counts them off one by one, looking for damage, shoving all of the emotions he was just feeling into a tiny box to instead do his job. They need more information, they need to know what happened.

He sees Tim and Barbara as the Super-Cycle touches down on the beach a little bit away, and he releases a slow breath, the last of his anxiety slipping away. Around him, he can see the rest of the League feeling their own relief, the grateful hope now that their children are in front of them; whatever else has occurred, they'll deal with it. What matters is that they're alive.

And then Kaldur'ahm, standing at the front of the Super-Cycle, shifts slightly to the side to better balance now that they've landed, and Bruce sees a person who was hidden by shadows and the Atlantean's body. A person sitting amongst the other young heroes without a hint of malice or aggression anywhere in sight, on any of them.

Diana gasps. Clark rocks back on his heels. Bruce stares.

Slowly, Dick stands up.

He's not wearing the suit he's been seen exclusively in the past year, the one that claimed him as Deathstroke's partner, apprentice, possession. There's no orange, no 'S' over his heart, no half-cowl mask. The uniform he's in now is extremely similar to his Nightwing one, actually, with the tactical elements and armor and hidden weapons. The only thing missing is the splash of blue across his chest, and maybe his escrima sticks as well, since the handles peaking over his shoulders resemble sword hilts far more than anything else.

His expression is completely blank, but his entire body is tense as a live wire. He says nothing, and Bruce can't stop staring.

What is—how is he here? Why is he here? He has weapons on his person, he isn't wearing cuffs, no one is watching him—he's not a prisoner. Barbara sits beside him just as calmly as she ever has. Tim looks—off-balance, maybe, but not angry.

Bruce doesn't understand. Bruce doesn't—he—how?

"...What happened here?" Diana asks, breaking the silence that has Bruce's lungs in a vice grip. Her gaze has shifted to the destroyed Mount Justice, forcibly moving them forward, and Bruce is simultaneously grateful for it and—and the opposite. Because it's Dick, Dick is standing with his old team, Dick is not with Deathstroke. The last time Bruce saw Dick, his son was trying to kill them, his son was defending their enemies—

"Fear not," Kaldur'ahm says, though his gaze is sad when it sweeps over the ruins, "the crisis has passed." His lips thin, and he adds, "Though at a terrible cost."

That could mean so many things, and Bruce can't even imagine all the possibilities, can't even bring himself to care. Not with his son right there. His eyes are stuck on Dick. Dick, who betrayed them. Dick, who tried to kill them. Dick, who has killed people—

"Why don't we go to the Watchtower," Clark says carefully, and it's only because Bruce knows him so well that he can hear the minute tremor in his voice. The other man is struggling with this maybe as badly as Bruce is. "We can discuss everything there. You can—catch us up."

Kaldur'ahm nods, and he looks to Dick, then, as if—as if checking on him, and Bruce doesn't fucking understand what's happening.

"That seems wise," the Atlantean agrees, a few others around him nodding along, and for a moment Bruce is able to tear his gaze away from Dick to look at them all.

They all have such a—weight to them, that they didn't have before. Every young hero standing before them seems to stand taller than when they left five months ago, seems to be so much more grim than Bruce remembers. These months have not been kind—they've seen hell. They've come out the other side.

Dick's blank expression hasn't faltered an inch.

When they arrive at the Watchtower, Bruce stands anxiously in the atrium, watching the zeta platform as he waits for everyone to arrive.

Dinah and Clark are hovering around him; they so clearly want to ask him how he is, want to talk to him, but he can't give them anything, not yet. Not when nothing makes sense. Not when he is still waiting desperately for his children to arrive. Desperately waiting to find out what's happening, what's happened.

Bit by bit, the young heroes trickle in. Bruce vaguely takes note of reunions happening, mentors hugging their mentees, their families. And as soon as Tim steps through the zeta he's barreling towards Bruce, and Bruce doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around his boy, cupping the back of his head and feeling something settle at having Tim in hand, being sure that he's perfectly okay.

Barbara approaches more slowly, but her smile is genuine relief when he lifts his gaze to meet hers. "I'm glad you're back," she says, then her smile falters a little. "And I'm really sorry."

Bruce's brow furrows in confusion, the feeling only rising when for some reason her words make Tim go rigid. He draws back from Bruce's grip and glances back to Barbara, his mouth set in a thin, unhappy line. Then he takes a slow, purposeful breath, letting it out the same way, and says, "You guys did what you had to do. And eventually I'll forgive you for it."

"What's going on?" Bruce asks, and then his gaze flicks past them as the zeta lights up again, heart pounding as he waits for Dick to appear—

And it's just Kaldur'ahm and M'gann.

"You all have questions," Kaldur'ahm says, drawing the room's attention to him, and Bruce tenses because he's starting like they're all here, like this conversation can be had despite them being people short. Dick is not here, and neither are Artemis or Wally for that matter—

"How about we start with why Renegade was standing with you instead of in a prison cell," John Stewart says bluntly, and Bruce suppresses a wince in response to the use of that name, "and where he is now."

"A good place to begin," Kaldur'ahm says dryly. He and Barbara share a look, Barbara offering a small nod, and Kaldur'ahm continues. "I apologize for the deception, but now that everything has passed we can inform you that Nightwing never truly betrayed us; we sent him undercover with the Light. He was working from the inside the entire time."

There's a ringing in Bruce's ears. Everything feels like static.

He was working from the inside the entire time.

"Are you serious?" Oliver asks incredulously. "He was a mercenary! He killed people!"

Dick killed people. Dick stole and kidnapped and killed and fought side by side with their enemies. Dick joined the Light, Dick tried to kill him, Dick committed all the crimes of a mercenary of Deathstroke's caliber, Dick was a mercenary of Deathstroke's caliber—

Dick was undercover. Dick—Dick was always undercover. Dick sacrificed himself for the mission. Dick turned himself inside out for the mission. Dick pretended to ally himself with the Light and kept the secret better than Bruce thought possible. Dick let Bruce believe—for sixteen months he believed that—

"Yes," Kaldur'ahm agrees quietly. There's a depth of emotion lurking in his eyes that Bruce can't interpret. "And it is due to him that we won at all. Without Nightwing in the role he played, I do not even want to guess at how much worse this all could have been."

"We made a decision," Barbara says, and the words are like a sucker punch to Bruce's gut, what she and Tim said before now making sense. Barbara knew. "Too many people were dying, and we were losing. We needed an inside man. It needed to be Kaldur or Dick, and Dick made a compelling argument for it being him."

Kaldur'ahm is the son of Black Manta and he was in love with Aquagirl who was killed. Factors that make him a good candidate for such a mission. And Dick—well.

When searching for Dick, searching for Renegade, Bruce learned quite a bit about Deathstroke's fascination—obsession—with the young hero. The offer the man made Dick to join him. He would welcome Dick with open arms, would jump at the chance to have Dick on his side. And with the way Dick was acting those last couple weeks before he disappeared...

I'm so fucking tired, B.

Easy target for a man like Wilson. Dick made himself into the perfect target.

So yes, both Kaldur'ahm and Dick had easy ins; it was definitely the smart play. It was the exact decision Bruce would've made for himself, as well.

He hates that he knows Dick did more than make a 'compelling argument' for going undercover. He hates that he knows it was Dick's idea, that Dick wouldn't even hear of Kaldur'ahm going in his place. He hates that his son is so very much like him. Because maybe if he wasn't, maybe if Dick was different, he wouldn't have spent sixteen months with the enemy, wouldn't have had to do all the things he did.

Why didn't he tell me? Bruce wonders, the words sounding broken inside his own mind.

But he knows that, too. He can see it all clear as day, what would've led Dick to every decision he made. Not telling him, not telling Tim or Clark or any of the others Dick trusts with his life—it was more than needing to keep the secret. It was needing everything to seem real. It wouldn't work if it didn't.

Bruce would like to say Dick keeping it from him wasn't necessary. He'd like to say that he could've played the role perfectly, that he could've been the desperate, grieving father, that he could've convinced everyone watching that he truly believed Dick had turned against them.

But if he's being honest with himself?

No, he doesn't know if he could've. Not for sure. The way he's acted around Dick as Renegade...could he have shown that same level of—of heartbreak, knowing it wasn't real? Could he have convinced a skilled opponent like Slade Wilson who was watching intently for each and every weakness? Everything could've so easily fallen apart because of him.

But knowing it logically, understanding that keeping it from him was the smart play, doesn't stop it from aching deep in Bruce's chest. Because he's spent so long thinking Dick hated them, turned against them, betrayed everything they held dear. Spent so long thinking he failed his first son just as thoroughly as he failed his second, alive or not. Spent so long grieving for a boy who only existed as a shade of his old self on the opposite side of a battlefield.

And all those things Dick did to keep his cover. All those things Dick did at Wilson's command, at the Light's command.

He was undercover. Bruce's mind is an echo of those words. He did what he had to. He saved countless lives with his actions. Everything would have been so much worse without the intel he passed along, without whatever tasks he completed from the inside. He did what he had to do.

That—does not actually make it much easier to swallow. His relief is all-consuming, overwhelming, but he can't deny the way it settles like a stone as well. And he can't tell if it's horror because of what his son did or horror because of what Dick had to do, what his boy was forced into for the mission.

Dick destroyed himself for the mission. And that...how can Bruce see that as anything other than his fault?

"You should've told us," Barry says quietly, but with none of the rage or incredulity of any of the others. There seems to be something...off about him at the moment. Kaldur'ahm's words about 'a terrible cost' return to Bruce's mind. "It was just—what, just the two of you?"

Kaldur'ahm nods tightly. "Nightwing entrusted us with his plan. Later, Kid-Flash and Artemis were brought in on the secret when we decided it was necessary to have another operative undercover. Miss Martian also became involved when she saw Nightwing's memories."

God, Artemis. That didn't even occur to Bruce yet, a large sign of just how off-balance he truly is right now. 'Renegade' killed Artemis, it was one of the most devastating things in the superhero community; of course that didn't actually happen, with Dick undercover. As for the archer herself...Tigress appeared in Deathstroke's circle not long after, didn't she?

So clever. So very clever.

And these young heroes handled it all themselves.

"We understand why you did it," Dinah says in that purposeful, soothing tone of hers. When Bruce glances over, he sees she has a firm hand on Oliver's shoulder. "We just wish you would've trusted one of us with the secret as well—what if something went wrong? It would've been good to have a Justice League member in the know."

Bruce doesn't care about any of that. Justifications can come later; he's so tired of this conversation already.

He finds his voice. "Where is Nightwing now?"

All the eyes in the room turn to him, but he ignores the looks, the expressions that linger closer to sympathy than Bruce is comfortable with. He instead turns his attention solely to Kaldur'ahm and Barbara, the only two in the room in possession of any useful information.

But they both hesitate.

Haltingly, Kaldur'ahm says, "Nightwing broke off to handle a few final tasks to ensure that everything is as settled as it seems. He will return shortly."

Which is code for we have no idea where he is right now.

Which—no. No. This is not allowed to happen again, Dick is not allowed to vanish again. Bruce will lose his mind if he loses Dick, he will tear the entire goddamn universe apart. He can nearly taste it he's that close to having his son back, and he refuses to allow him to slip through his fingers. He will bring Dick home. He will hold his son again.

Bruce's lips thin with disquiet. He offers a tight nod in response to the words, because there's nothing else to do but accept their answer for the moment. They don't know, can't give him the information he seeks. Snapping at them won't help anyone.

"Why don't we go home?" Tim suggests softly. "You've...been gone a long time."

Something twinges in Bruce's chest. Fuck. Tim. Of course, he's completely ignored his youngest son in the face of this news. Not that anyone could blame him, not that Tim will blame him, not with how monumental the news about Dick is. But Bruce has been gone for just shy of five months; that is the longest he's ever been apart from Tim since taking the boy in by a long shot. He needs to spend time with Tim, keep him close, make them both feel better.

He needs to find Dick. He needs to bring Dick home. He can barely fucking breathe around it, can feel his skin crawling with disgust over his inaction, over the fact that he's just allowing this to stand. How is he allowing this to stand? How is he standing down when Dick is out there?

But there's—there's nothing to be done.

Bruce offers his son an agreeing nod. There's nothing he can do about Dick right now. But he can do something about the anxious, longing look on Tim's face. He can fix that, at least.

Fixing everything else...Well, if it's even possible—if it is, it still will have to wait for later. Wait for whenever Dick allows himself to be found, whenever Dick lets himself be found by Bruce.

Bruce will give him twenty-four hours. He'll leave it be for one day, let Dick do whatever he has to do, let the boy gather whatever strength he needs before he can come home. But if it takes longer than that—then Bruce doesn't care how hard Dick tries to hide from him, avoid him. Bruce is going to bring him home.

But for now, he follows Tim to the zeta platform with Barbara trailing behind them, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that Dick—

Dickwasundercoverheneverbetrayedushesacrificedhimselfhetorturedhimselfhelethimselfbedestroyedforthemissionbrucetaughthimthatwhyohgodwouldbruceteachhimthat—

He tamps down on the storm in his head the best he can, and places a hand on Tim's shoulder, offering a comforting squeeze that the boy melts into.

This, he can do. This, at least, he can fix.

And Bruce so desperately needs to fix something.

Chapter Text

These are the facts before Bruce:

On June 21st at 22:53, Agent Anthony Smith received a message on his communicator from his superior Agent Noah Adams instructing him to leave his post at the end of the hall of cells and go to the cargo bay to help unload a transport that came in. Later when checked, they find that the communicator of Agent Adams shows no such mirroring message sent.

On June 21st at 23:09, Agent Smith reported returning to his original post. His communicator shows he sent a confused message to Agent Adams informing him that there was no unloaded cargo in the bay, and that the agents on duty had no records of one being due, and were just as confused as he was. The cameras do not show Agent Smith returning—the cameras show everything exactly the same as it was when he left.

On June 21st at 23:10, Agent Smith sounded the alarm, reporting that Slade Wilson, AKA Deathstroke, was no longer in his cell. None of this is shown on the cameras, either, or picked up on any microphones.

This leads to one conclusion, that is easily proven once Bruce gets a look at their systems—the camera feeds were looped to no longer be showing accurate feeds. The microphones were turned off.

Wilson's cell was not busted open. There is no sign of breakage at all, everything in pristine condition. When Bruce examines the electronic locking mechanism, he first finds absolutely nothing amiss. He digs deeper, and finds signs of it having been hacked. Artfully done, in fact. Done with all the skill of a professional. And this is not an easy lock, this is the top of the line, Bruce's own creation for high-value targets, only ever used in Justice Leagues bases themselves. No one should know how to get through them.

(He uses them as training exercises, his mind reminds him. When Dick's skills in hacking got too good for normal things, Bruce gave him this lock, let him play, let him get his hands all over it. Bruce watched him do it countless times. He knows Dick's signature. He—Dick's signature—it's—)

Another fact before Bruce is that at 22:49, Nightwing's access codes were used at a zeta platform in Bludhaven with the destination of this base. He is on video exiting the zeta in the atrium, then heading down a hallway. When he turns down the hallway, he vanishes, the cameras from there looped as well. He is not seen again.

Neither is Deathstroke.

Those are—those are the facts. They are not subject to interpretation. Those are the events as they took place. Bruce cannot pretend they're anything else than what they are.

The 'why' is far more subjective. But it can't erase the facts before him.

The facts say Dick came here and freed Deathstroke from his imprisonment, then left with him. The facts show Dick walking in with his head held high and two swords on his back as he makes his way in the direction of the cells and then vanishing, the man he spent sixteen months with vanishing minutes later along with him.

This is the evidence of the night. Bruce knows it's the evidence of the night. He has spent decades of his life analyzing data just like this and putting the pieces together and coming to the correct conclusion. He knows what occurred, factually.

That does not make it easier for him to bear. Not for him, and not for anyone else.

The Justice League is in uproar. There are so many voices that Bruce can barely even hear his own thoughts, not that his thoughts have any level of coherency past a ringing and steadily rising panic. A sense of doom.

He can't stop going over the evidence. Looped cameras. Muted microphones. A false text to remove the guard. Slade Wilson, gone. Dick Grayson, gone. By 23:10, gone.

23:31 was going to be the end of Bruce's allotted twenty-four hours. The twenty-four hours he told himself he was going to give Dick before tracking him down. The twenty-four hours he was trying to use to give his son space, to reconnect with Tim, to wrap his head around Dick's undercover mission. And it was about to be up.

Twenty-one minutes. That's all. Bruce missed him by twenty-one minutes.

This has put everything into question, everything they learned about Dick's "undercover" status. He can hear them all arguing about it around him, hear the angry voices shouting that they got played, that it was a ploy, that Dick was never truly undercover and used their sympathies against them. He can hear how angry Oliver is, and Arthur's chastisements, and Hal's derisive comments about knowing better, but he can't speak up, he can't get himself to say a word.

Twenty-four hours of hope, of wrapping his head around the fact that his child didn't betray him, only for—this. What was the point of the hope, if it was only going to get ripped away? How could he be so stupid? He trained Dick to be the best of the best, and then Deathstroke pushed that even further. Of course he could fool Kaldur'ahm and Barbara if he really wanted to. He's one of the best in the business.

But that's not right, he thinks. No, that doesn't fit. Why turn Deathstroke in at all, in the first place? He sabotaged the entire operation of the Light. Without all the things he did, that summit would have gone a lot differently than it did. Bruce has read the reports—they would've lost completely without the role Dick played. Why do that, if he was loyal to Deathstroke the entire time?

It's all hands on deck for the Justice League. The room is crowded with Leaguers, all in varying stages of dress—Patrick O'Brien's even in his pajamas. The arguing is getting louder and louder. It's making Bruce sick to his stomach.

Twenty-one minutes. If Dick had waited to enact his plan for twenty-one minutes, Bruce would've found him. Would've seen Dick use his credentials to access this base, and would've come running. He could've stopped whatever happened. Could've asked why Dick was doing this in the first place. Could've prevented Deathstroke's escape, and Nightwing's—

Nightwing's what? Defection? Capture? Death?

Bruce was an idiot for letting it go. He shouldn't have accepted Kaldur'ahm's response of Dick coming when he was ready. He should've tracked Dick down immediately, comfort be damned. He could figure himself out in the Manor, with his family in the other room. To hell with Dick being an adult and making his own choices—the boy is nineteen, and spent nearly sixteen months at the side of a psychopath. He could rest under Bruce's watchful eye, under someone's watchful eye, instead of off by himself. Twenty-four hours was a dumb fucking idea.

He wants to strangle himself. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Sentimental goddamn idiot.

"You're deluding yourself." Oliver's voice carries over the din, and Bruce glances over to see him scowling at Dinah. "The kid's fucked in the head, and he just screwed us all over!"

What kind of mental state must Dick be in? Sixteen months is a long time. Deathstroke is...Deathstroke.

"That kid saved all our asses," another voice snaps back from somewhere in the crowd. One of the Lanterns, Bruce thinks. So many voices.

"You call letting a super-powered mercenary go saving us?"

"That's not what he meant, he was talking about—"

"I don't give a rat's ass what Nightwing did before, all we know is he spent almost a year and a half murdering people and then freed his psycho mentor—"

"ENOUGH!"

The voice rings through not only the air around them but inside Bruce's mind, too. Given the way everyone around him grimaces, some knuckling at their foreheads, he isn't an isolated incident.

The room falls dead silent. M'gann M'orzz stalks into the center of the room, eyes glowing white. To either side of her are Kaldur'ahm and Artemis, all of them decked out in their gear—Artemis no longer in green, but the armor of Tigress. Her expression is dead, her gaze not meaning anyone's, just sweeping over the crowd. Kaldur'ahm is more expressive, if you know how to look for it, but Bruce does not have the mental capacity right now for anyone else's pain.

Bruce didn't even notice the three of them come in, despite how the zeta must've announced their arrival. Inattentive, he chastises himself. Sloppy. What good are you to Dick if you can't focus?

"That is enough," M'gann hisses, the glow in her eyes fading, thankfully retreating from Bruce's mind to only speak in the physical world. "None of this is helping. You're all just—bickering like children."

"She's right," Clark says solemnly. His gaze lingers on Artemis, softening, but he doesn't offer any words of condolence before carrying on. "We need to make a game plan. What's the first step in finding where Deathstroke went?"

Hal scoffs. "You mean where Deathstroke and Nightwing went. You think they'll be easy to track? Really?"

"Where would Nightwing go to hole down?" Katar Hol asks, eyes flicking between Bruce and the young heroes.

Artemis narrows her eyes. "We don't have to wonder about where Nightwing would go, because Nightwing is not in command. He's a victim."

There's an awkward silence following her words. Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, pulling in a slow breath. Victim. Everything Dick must've gone through these last sixteen months—how has it changed him? What has it made him into?

"Arty," Oliver says, more softly than he's spoken in a long time. She scowls at him for it. "He's not the boy you knew anymore."

"You have no right to say that!" Artemis shouts. She jolts forward, stalking in front of her friends and glaring at all the Leaguers before her. "None of you were there! I was there! Kaldur and Batgirl and—and Wally, we were there. Day-in, day-out, we were there. None of you could—none of you have the right to say a goddamn word about it. He is our friend, our ally. He is hurt. You don't have the fucking right."

"The question had to be asked," Oliver says, remaining calm in the face of her ire in the way only family can. "There are a lot of questions that have to be asked, Artemis—Nightwing is gone."

"So Slade took him!"

"Deathstroke was locked in a cell," Oliver shoots back. "With an inhibitor collar. He didn't get out of there by himself, not by a long shot. You can't stay blind to this. Nightwing let him go, and then left with him. Free will."

"You have no idea," Artemis says. She's seething, practically trembling with rage, and Kaldur'ahm puts a firm hand on her shoulder. "You have no idea what he went through."

"Explain it to us," Bruce says, and the room falls still.

It's the first time he's spoken since presenting his findings to the League. He hasn't been able to open his mouth, unsure if he could do so without simply screaming. The facts are clear but the facts don't make sense and his son is gone and so is Deathstroke and they said it was all an undercover mission but Dick still freed him, so what is Bruce supposed to do with that? How does Bruce reconcile that? How can he breathe let alone speak without throwing up?

"I—" Artemis begins, blinking rapidly, and then cuts off. She looks at M'gann, and M'gann looks back, and then they both look at Kaldur'ahm, and Bruce wonders if after all these years they still think they're subtle about communicating telepathically.

"It is not our story to tell," Kaldur'ahm says gravely. He squeezes Artemis' shoulder, then lets his hand fall back to his side. M'gann immediately takes it in her own. "But unfortunately...the times call for us to be the ones to tell it, anyway."

M'gann clears her throat, takes a deep breath, and says, "When facing off against D—Nightwing, as Renegade, I went into his mind. There's a lot Kaldur could tell you from having been his main contact during the undercover op, and, jeez, so much that Artemis could tell you about living with him and Deathstroke...But at the core of it are the things I saw in his memories."

"Which would be?" Dinah asks, voice gentle.

Staring at the floor, M'gann haltingly begins to speak. "Whatever worst case scenarios you're imagining, it's worse than that. Deathstroke, he...he tortured Nightwing. He—whipped him, and beat him, and locked him in a room so dark he couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face..." She trails off, eyes a little wide, and Bruce's gut clenches. If she saw these events in Dick's memory, then she likely experienced all of this first-hand. He does not envy that element of telepathy.

She clears his throat again and straightens, squaring her shoulders. "Slade Wilson is a monster who took Nightwing and spent every day putting him through the worst physical and mental pain imaginable to turn him into a loyal apprentice, and if that wasn't enough, he—"

She cuts off again, and looks to her friends beseechingly. With a hard expression, Artemis turns to face the League.

"Deathstroke raped Nightwing."

Bruce's world—shifts, everything going a little topsy-turvy. The room is suspended in stunned silence, and Bruce's vision is blurring as he fights to not throw up. Deathstroke raped Nightwing. Deathstroke raped Nightwing. Deathstroke r—

"Many times," Artemis continues. "As brutally as you can imagine. I can't remember a single instance where Nightwing wasn't covered in bruises or holding back a wince, all because of what happened in their bedroom. And Slade liked that—he liked hurting Nightwing, owning him. He liked that Nightwing was smaller than him and younger than him. He liked that his skill and size and strength meant that Nightwing couldn't do a damn thing to stop him."

"He liked Nightwing fighting back," M'gann says hoarsely, like Bruce's world isn't shattered, like he still exists, like he can handle any more of this. "In—in the beginning. Nightwing's earlier memories of his captivity were..." She shudders, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. "It just—it was constant, can't you understand that? Nightwing was with Deathstroke for sixteen months, and Deathstroke spent that entire time doing absolutely everything he could to break Nightwing down. The fact that Nightwing aided us as much as he did is a miracle."

"You've lost me," someone says. Bruce can't give a single shit right now about who. "You all said this was an undercover mission, that Nightwing went to Deathstroke willingly—why on earth would Wilson hurt him like this? Why would he need to break Nightwing, if he thought the kid was there because he wanted to be?"

"Do you think it would've been believable for one of the leaders of the Team to suddenly give everything up and willingly go join the villains he'd dedicated five years of his life fighting?" Kaldur'ahm asks. "Because we were of the opinion that Deathstroke would just laugh in his face if Nightwing were to attempt that. No, Deathstroke had to think it was his idea. He had to believe he was making this happen, not that it was a plan on Nightwing's part. That's the only way it would work."

The stone that's been in Bruce's gut since he learned Dick was undercover is getting larger and larger.

It was bad enough that he had to accept everything Dick was forced to do for the sake of the mission, bad enough imagining everything Dick put himself through to keep his cover, but now to know this layer? That Dick went into this not only having to act like the perfect mercenary, but having to let himself be molded? The amount of self-control it would take to not shatter, to not lose himself completely...

Why? Bruce thinks helplessly, heartbroken, but he knows why. Dick is like him. Dick is far too much like him. Dick will sacrifice his health and happiness and well-being a million times over for the sake of others, especially on as grand a scale as fighting the Light. He learned from Bruce, in all the worst ways. Bruce taught him the wrong example, and Dick ran with it. What else was he to do?

Did Dick know going in, exactly what it would mean? Exactly what Deathstroke would do to him? Did he know what Deathstroke's methods would be? He had to have had at least an idea, considering his familiarity with the mercenary beforehand, what he knew of Deathstroke's fixation. He had to know. And he put himself through it anyway.

"So he brainwashed him," Oliver says, expression grave.

"No," Artemis snaps, quick to glare at her mentor, but then she falters slightly. "Or—not completely. He...conditioned him. Slade thought his control was absolute—and as we have extreme proof about, he was wrong. Nightwing was still loyal to us and defeated the Light. But it was..." She hesitates, looking at M'gann, who picks up the slack.

"Deathstroke did a good job," she says softly. "He got very deep in Dick's head. The only saving grace was that Dick was allowing it to happen—it let him keep a large chunk of himself separate, had him still fighting Slade's goals and passing info to Kaldur. But now that the fighting's over, now that the Light's been stopped..."

Silence falls, but they all understand.

Now that the fighting's done, now that the mission is over, there's a lot of wiggle room when it comes to conditioning. The brain is a fickle thing. And is one nineteen-year-old boy a match against the sadistic mercenary who had him under lock and key for sixteen months?

"It will not help Nightwing that Deathstroke knows he betrayed him," Kaldur'ahm says. "Deathstroke knows that what he did to Nightwing was not done in full, that Nightwing allowed it to happen to be undercover. I cannot imagine that what he does now will be—pretty."

"Do you think he'll kill him?" someone asks.

It makes Bruce want to vomit, to scream, to start breaking everything in the room, but Kaldur'ahm doesn't flinch, gaze steady and posture strong, ever the leader his friends all picked him to be and followed for years.

"No," Kaldur'ahm says. "Deathstroke is...obsessed. He wants Nightwing with him. He will not kill him for the betrayal."

But he will hurt him, goes unsaid. But he will torture him. He will rape him. He will do everything he did before but a million times worse because the training wheels are off now.

And this time, how much of Dick will be left in the aftermath?

"So we will find him first," Artemis says, looking at them all like she's daring them to oppose her. "We will track Deathstroke down and we will stop him before he does any shit that Nightwing can't come back from. We will be saving Nightwing, not viewing him like another adversary, is that understood?"

What must it have been like for her to be undercover alongside Dick, so long after it started? Artemis "died" in March—three months she spent as Tigress, not only working alongside Deathstroke and Renegade but living with them as well. Bruce has so many questions for her, so many things he wants to know about what she witnessed, what it was like between Dick and Wilson.

He doubts any of those answers would bring him peace, but then, he doubts anything will—Nothing but getting his son back in his arms.

"Understood," Clark says, and when Bruce glances at him he looks—proud. Worried, of course, but proud, too, as he looks at the three heroes in front of them fighting against the entire Justice League to protect their friend. Bruce understands the feeling.

But really, he's just...sick. Sick with himself, with the situation. Sick with the knowledge of everything Dick's gone through, and everything still to come.

But they will find him.

They will.

Bruce has to believe that, or he'll be absolutely no good to anyone, least of all the boy who needs him now more than ever.