Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers: Many vague and not-so-vague references to
assorted toonverse episodes and tie-in issues.

Summary: Isn't that the way it always is? Between
fathers and children?

Alternately: Batfamily, Batfamily, and Batfamily.

Ratings Note: Sexual content which does and doesn't
dovetail with the content some readers may find
disturbing and/or crack-addled.

Author's Note: I've wanted to write some version of this
for years. It's not -- quite -- the story I originally wanted,
but I think it might be a better one... such as it is.

Acknowledgments: To Jack, Petra, and Betty for audiencing,
encouragement, helpful suggestions, the occasional
*killer* joke, and Jack found me the title, too.

*

The Cave is -- really fucking crowded. That's the first
thought in Tim's head, and most of the second, third,
and fourth ones, too.

He wouldn't have thought that just *doubling* their
numbers would make things -- *could* make things --
seem so crowded, but...

There it is.

Part of it's gotta be that everyone's trying to stay as far
away as *possible* from... well, from their others, but --
wait.

Tim narrows his eyes and focuses in on a patch of shadows
near the free weights -- there was *something*, and
that's -- well, they kind of *need* to have as good an idea
as possible of what's fucking going on, and --

He catches the batarang aimed at his head reflexively. And
shudders, because it's one of the ones that are sized for
*his* grip.

And, well, for... his grip. Over there. And he can't really --

"Okay, that's just freaky," he says.

His other smirks, and it feels like a mirror, or maybe like
getting his own face yanked -- he's smirking, too. "Glad
*someone* noticed."

Which -- yeah. "Heh," he says, and eyes the other in more
than just a few glimpses, and doesn't learn anything new.
It's him, only over *there*, and while Tim's in his tights
and shorts and boots, the *other's* got the tunic and
gauntlets and cape.

They both have the mask, though, which is pretty --
interesting, as these things go.

And the other is eyeing him, too.

"So how come you get the *pants*?"

Good fucking question, but -- "Well, I'm *older*. Tim."

"Robin," the other says, and it's just as much of a threat as
it should be. "And are you *sure*? That you're older, I
mean."

And that's -- another good question.

*

It's kind of what Dick's been telling himself for *years*
now -- before he'd left and after he'd come back --

If you live in an asylum, you're *going* to have a crazy
fucking life. And that's -- well, to be honest -- to be
completely and *totally* honest -- he doesn't mind it all
that much.

There are worse things than... this, whatever this is going
to turn out to be, and he's lived all of them and then
some -- some of them *long* before Bruce freakin' Wayne
showed up to whisk him away to his new life.

He seems healthy to himself, and, unlike the Tims over
there, he's fully dressed. He doesn't really remember buying
these jeans and the leather jacket is -- he thinks he
remembers *wanting* this jacket...

It doesn't matter. He looks like he's in *way* better shape
than the guy over there with his face all scrunched up like
no one will be able to tell with that stupid-assed 'v' mask
over his eyes --

He feels way better than his *other* looks, and there's no
reason to hang around. Let the crazy people figure it out,
right?

Right.

*

"Wait," she says, to the guy -- to *Dick* -- before she can
even think to stop herself. It's not the first time she's
found herself *thinking* that to the man's -- damnably
attractive -- back, but it feels a lot more useful to say it
aloud than it does *just* to think it.

Barb can't really --

She can't really even *think* about the -- the *other*
behind her, and why in God's name had she -- they? --
ever thought those boots were anything but wildly
impractical?

She can't think about it, but, at the very least, it's *way*
too soon for them to be scattering to the four winds.

Dick looks back over his shoulder -- just a little too flexible
for anyone normal -- and looks *her* up and down. "Why
should I?"

Barb crosses her arms and glares at him.

"Oh, please, Babs -- stow the librarian, will you?"

She's not going to punch him, even though her father
would almost certainly sympathize. He'd *taught* her
those punches -- no, someone had -- *Batman* -- Barb
shakes her head.

"C'mon, hurry it up, will you? The night is young and so
are --" Another look. "Well, *I* am."

Out of the corner of her eye, the others... the *others* are
grouping together *just* like children who've somehow
forgotten that Halloween is only *one* night out of the
year. "Dick," she says, lowering her voice a little for effect,
"we don't even know what just -- happened."

"Mmm... I'm guessing, we all just split into our component
bits," says the other, bright and high as a Barbie doll on
speed. "Do I get a prize, Babsy?"

She *hates* that name.

Though, to be fair, it's entirely possible that the *other*
doesn't.

"Sounds about right to *me*," Dick says, and starts walking
again. "Call me if you figure something useful."

Well --

"And mm, Babsy. *Nice* cardigan," the other says, smirking
like the lipstick smeared on her face makes her look like
anything *other* than just a miraculously healthy cheap
whore --

And Tim -- the Tims -- are snickering. The one who's naked
from the waist *down* is -- sidling. Up to her other. "*I*
could give you a prize..."

"Not much of one, by the looks of... it, kiddo, but maybe --"

"*Batgirl*," she says, and feels something tear in her mind
like tissue paper, only -- it's gone. "That's a *child* --"

The other -- the *others* all turn to look at her, and the
ones who smirk are so much better than the ones who are
*just* looking. Dick -- Dick is gone. Nightwing just looks
right through her, and Batman is already at the console.

She represses the shiver, and wishes, briefly, that she had
her Dad's gun on her hip just to *pet* it, and wonders,
maybe, if Dick hadn't had the right idea. Still. "We have to
figure this *out*," she says, and knows there's a flush
showing on her face by the way her other smirks *just*
that much wider.

"You're absolutely right, Barbara," Nightwing says, even
though it still seems as though he's looking at something --
small and vague -- just behind her back. "However, we
*also* need to patrol. Gotham's not getting any better,
and since you're not -- particularly useful, at the moment..."

She doesn't rear back, and she doesn't use any of the blunt
instruments to hand to pummel the man into behavior.
She's better than that. "Do you *really* think --"

"It's a moot point," B -- *Batman* says. "Nightwing is
correct. This... situation is just going to have to wait."

"Batman, really --"

He turns, and the look on his face -- well, it shouldn't *be*
so obvious with a cowl that makes her other's look flimsy
and pointless. He seems... appreciative. "However, I
would be grateful if you *would* look into it, in your free
time. You're welcome to use my records remotely... or to
use the computers here if you wish to stay, of course."
And he... smiles.

She can see one -- no, both -- of the Tims rolling their eyes.
Which one of them *is* Robin? She shakes it off, nods, and
watches the four of them... *them* head toward the cars --
the Tims split a second uniform between them as they go.

Her other is actually *skipping*.

Barb shakes her head one last time and goes to pull up the
codes as one of the cars and two bikes peel out. Remotely
will be *just* fine.

And she's just about to go --

"Er... excuse me?"

She doesn't jump, even though... God, she'd forgotten
*Bruce*.

It doesn't seem possible to *do* that when she does look
at him. The man is huge, of course, and, for some reason,
is wearing a very brown suit with a pale yellow shirt.

"Yes...?"

"I... I'm afraid I'm a little confused, Barbara. What's going
*on*?"

Oh... dear.

*

The basics, of course, Bruce understands. It's all a little
unreal, of course, that there should be someone running
around with his face and his -- well, everything, and also
dressing like a giant Bat, but, well.

There had *been* that business with the Mad Hatter several
years ago, and he's had some *time* to come to terms
with certain aspects of himself.

Certainly, Alfred seemed to think he should've done it years
ago, but that's neither here nor there.

It is, of course, not at *all* strange to see Nightwing,
Robin, and Batgirl... though he isn't at all *sure* why
neither Dick, Tim, nor Barbara is remotely willing to... well.
He isn't sure.

They haven't even had *dinner*, though, and that's...

Bruce frowns. It's correct that Barbara is invested in
puzzling all of this out, almost certainly with a mind to
getting things back to... well, whatever 'normal' has
come to mean, for them, but...

Still.

It seems very wrong to be all alone in this great broken
*cathedral* of a place. It's not where he belongs and, at
least, his children -- and Barbara -- are intelligent
enough to know that it's not where they belong either,
even if none of them had seemed willing to use the
perfectly adequate stairs.

He shakes his head and goes up, and stops.

Perhaps Tim would prefer something more casual than
Alfred's usual sort of meal, though he should check with
Alfred first.

*

Tim takes the passenger seat of the car because he gets
there first, but the other Tim had been really obnoxious --
quietly, because Nightwing was giving off "gimme an
excuse to be an asshole" vibes like crazy, but still -- about
getting to ride on Batgirl's bitch seat.

Which, now that he's thinking about it... damn.

Next time, they fight for it.

"You're quite sure *both* of you are... Robin."

"Hunh?"

"I can't use you if --"

"Oh, yeah, *that*? Yeah. He's Robin -- you saw him with
the batarang, I know," Tim says and puts his feet up on the
dash. He hasn't gotten much chance to stretch.

"And so are you. Interesting."

"Uh, hunh. Not really surprising, though."

"Hmm," Batman says, and gives the poor civilian driving a
minivan a heart attack as he swerves around to get in
front -- and, incidentally, take point from Nightwing.

"Nice one."

"I thought you might appreciate it."

Tim grins -- and feels it freeze on his face, because, really,
the *last* time Batman felt like showing off --

"Don't worry. I have no intention of getting us messily
killed."

-- it was really Bruce. Or -- somebody. Whatever. Good
enough. Tim relaxes, then relaxes deliberately, then slips
out of his restraints enough to *plant* his feet and use his
thighs to lift him off the seat and, incidentally, stretch the
fuck out of his neck.

"Mm."

"Yeah, Batman?" Only it's more of a punched-out breath
than anything else. God, he loves this position.

"We won't reach the r-point for at least five minutes at this
speed."

Tim uses his body to -- kind of -- nod, and waits for
whatever thing comes after that that'll make it make
sense.

And waits.

And -- "oh holy fucking *shit*," he says, and bucks hard
enough into Batman's -- fucking *gauntlet* to actually
*hurt* his neck, a little.

"I don't suppose you mind...?"

Batman's got his other hand on the wheel and his eyes on
the *road* and -- "fuck, *no*, I don't -- don't -- oh *Jesus*,
yes --"

"Hmm," Batman says, and twists his hand under Tim's
shorts and tights and jock and works him like -- like they
have five minutes for Tim to get off, recover, and look
Robin-respectable again before it's time to kick a little ass.

No way the other Tim's having this much fun on the bitch
seat.

*

The loft is just -- all wrong.

Like walking into a part of the Cave with actual *walls*
instead of just rock, but the walls aren't an improvement
so much as a lie.

Dick kicks the sterile little coffee table a little and frowns.

It's not like he wants to spend his night shopping for
furniture, but... damn. No one could possibly expect him to
live here. How *had* he lived here?

He turns around and hits the streets, instead, and once he
angles out of the silent and depressing little warehouse
district and into *Gotham*, he feels a little better.

Just -- people, and life, and *movement*. Like the whole
city was just a really badly-organized circus, or...

He doesn't know. His father had hated cities except for
what they could give him. His *mother*, on the other hand...

Dick grins and heads toward a bar with music spilling out
into the street. Something you could dance to, just like the
story she'd always told about being danced right out of the
city (which one? He'd never known) limits and into a trailer
by a man... a lot like the man he was supposed to grow
into.

The grin's getting some attention, though.

He can almost -- almost -- feel his father nodding in
approval.

A woman with a ponytail about as long as his own offers to
buy him a drink. A woman who could be -- but isn't -- her
buzzed-scalp twin watches him drink.

The music's in his blood already, and there's no reason not
to dance them both someplace interesting.

*

She doesn't, actually, hit the computer right away. She'd
forgotten that her father always, *always* tried to be home
by seven on Thursdays, no matter what she was up to, and,
well, this time he'd succeeded.

And so had *she*, of course, and it's --

His smile makes her feel as warm and safe and good as
ever, and even though their refrigerator is really profoundly
empty, there are a ton of great take-out places nearby.

They eat out of Styrofoam containers with plastic forks, and
her father gives her a beer, and they watch two terrible
sitcoms before it seems as though every channel on the
television is demanding they watch the *news*.

Her father hates the news.

"Hmph. Maybe we *should* get cable, Barb."

Barb burps behind her hand. "We never did watch those
movies you rented..." Last week. Really? What had she
been *doing*?

Her father blinks and scratches his mustache. "You sure you
have time for that, hon? I know you're busy, and, well, it
was kind of a silly idea for me to rent them, anyway --"

"It *wasn't*," she says, and it's a little too loud with just the
two of them in the house, and maybe also a little... wrong.
Or... not wrong.

Her father is frowning, just a little.

"I mean..."

"You sure you're okay? There's not anything you want to
talk about, is there? You know you can --"

"I'm *fine*, Daddy. Really." Maybe for the first time in years.

"Well, okay, then! Hitchcock or... more Hitchcock?" Her
father scratches his mustache again, a little embarrassed.
"I'm afraid I don't really know what kinds of movies you --"

"Hitchcock is just fine," Barb says, and settles herself back
against the couch.

If the others can't seem to stop -- fooling around out there,
then there's no reason *she* can't have fun, too.

She should get some popcorn from the store, tomorrow.

*

"Master Bruce..."

Bruce looks up from the mountain of WE paperwork he'd
apparently just been letting *grow*. "Yes, Alfred?"

"Ah, if you're -- you realize, of course, that the... others are
not likely to return for some time?"

It's after *eleven*. And while tomorrow *isn't* a school-day
for Tim... Bruce shakes his head. "I do know, Alfred. Still,
it seems as though there should be *someone* waiting up
for Tim -- for both Tims -- other than... that Batman fellow,
don't you think?"

Alfred... the expression is very curious, really. As though
the man had taken a bite of a lemon *peel* that had,
perhaps, been laced with something moderately
hallucinogenic.

"Alfred? Are you all right?"

"I --" Alfred blinks rapidly. "Yes, of course, sir. I don't know
what came over me. Would you like for me to brew some
tea?"

"Oh, that would be wonderful, Alfred, thanks! I *do* have
a lot to catch up on."

"Very good, sir --"

"Oh, and could you set aside some... milk and maybe
sandwiches or something for T -- the Tims? I just can't
quite *picture* the *Batman* remembering that the boys
need to *eat*."

"I -- of course -- sir..." Alfred blinks again. "Will there be...
anything else?"

"No, I don't think so," Bruce says, and smiles. "Why don't
you get some rest for a change?"

"Perhaps... perhaps I'll do that, yes."

*

Nightwing spends the first couple of muggings doing all the
take-down action while Batman and Batgirl watch. Tim
doesn't really get it, and neither does the other Tim, but
Batman has no problem keeping a grip on them, and Tim's
willing to just wait and see for at least a little while.

Both of them are.

He starts to get it when they come upon an armed robbery
and Nightwing just kind of *gestures* -- after *you*,
ma'am -- at Batgirl.

The grins slides onto her face like it had never left, like it
never *could*, and stays there as she swings into the
bodega whooping and kicking and kicking *ass*.

She gets the attempted rape, too, and -- yeah. It's a good
thing the boots are designed to wipe down easy, though
Batgirl doesn't seem inclined to take care of all the blood
just *yet*.

They're checking each other out. Making *sure*.

He looks over at the other Tim just in time to catch the little
nod.

Their turn, next.

It's a gang using prostitutes as drug-runners, which is
disappointing -- the gangs who *do* that are almost always
the ones who use nearly as much as they sell -- but it can't
actually be *boring*.

They tumble in together. The other Tim takes left, he takes
right, and there are just enough *smart* bangers to drive
them in to the center, back to back and moving, *doing*.
He drops into a sweep just as the other Tim does a
roundhouse kick over his head, and then they switch, and
switch again, and the place is starting to burn all around
them, but they do the job -- and having the other Tim
means that it's *easy* to carry out all the unconscious
people, even the big useless guys.

They slap palms after dropping the last on the pile, shoot
their grapples together, and tumble onto the r-point rooftop
together, panting just a little, one after the other after the
other.

"Fuck, that was awesome," he -- no, the other Tim says,
and Nightwing steps out of a shadow to glare.

"Showy. Destructive."

Because, of course, Nightwing doesn't need to use sentences
or anything like that. He can feel the other Tim rolling his
eyes, or maybe it's him.

"Effective and *fun*," Batgirl says, "so pull the escrima stick
out."

One of them makes a little choked noise, and both of them
work on looking good and Robin-ly.

"Batgirl --"

"Quiet," Batman says, soft and final and kind of purring,
too, and it makes Tim's dick twitch. "You are, of course,
both correct."

Nightwing doesn't snarl with his mouth so much as he does
with his whole body. "There was no reason to let the fire
get out of control -- not with two of them."

"No, there wasn't. Save, of course, for the fact that the
building was already condemned, but not scheduled for a
desperately necessary demolition for another six months.
People could've been -- *would've* been -- hurt if we'd
simply driven the gang out."

Hunh. Cool. Tim crosses -- both of them cross their arms
over their chest and do not say 'nyah' to Daddywing.

"Neither of them were aware of that, Batman."

"And both of them got the job done, Nightwing," Batman
says, with a really serious edge of 'and that's final.'

Nightwing just kind of... *looks* at Batman, and Batman
looks back, and... hunh. It's hard to say. He checks to see
if Batgirl maybe has another opinion, but she's just kind of
perched on the balustrade. Looking for something to *do*.

They play the next one -- *their* next one -- an armed
robbery, a little straighter.

Nightwing doesn't say a word, after.

Batgirl tickles the backs of their necks with her gauntlets.

It's Batman's turn, next.

*

The bed is boring -- blue sheets, what a shock -- but it's a
King-sized.

Ponytail and the not-twin fit just fine, and so does he.

After, not-twin pulls a flask out of her suitcase of a purse.

Ponytail pulls a vibrator out of hers.

All *he* has to offer is the escrima sticks Nightwing keeps
in a panel behind the headboard, but the girls don't really
complain.

*

There's no dishes to do, save for rinsing out the beer bottles
for recycling. Barb does that, and shakes her father awake
so he'll go to bed.

The files are waiting for her, but...

But it feels kind of wonderful to just crawl into bed in the
pajamas she hasn't worn in -- she doesn't know how long.

She'd gotten into the habit of just falling into bed in a
t-shirt and panties, and not doing *that* until dawn --
assuming it was still early enough not to just crash at the
manor like some homeless person.

And, sure, the bed is kind of frilly and ridiculous -- the
whole *room* is -- but her father had picked it all out for
her himself, and that's good enough for *her*.

She'd left school after her sophomore year. There's not...

It wouldn't exactly be *hard* to finish her criminal justice
degree, especially since there's yet another message on
her answering machine from Mr. Evans at the Gotham
Public Library all but begging her to come back.

There's just -- there's this whole *life* for her, and maybe
it's not one *some* people would find exciting, but that
doesn't mean it wouldn't be a good one -- a *worthwhile*
one.

Her father --

If she told him she was even *thinking* of going back to
school...

Barb shakes her head and sits up in the bed, hugging her
knees. She remembers feeling small and awkward --

She remembers feeling small and girly and too *small* --

Five years ago, she was too small for the police academy,
but the rules are different, now, and it's not like she
wouldn't be *good* at it --

Five years ago, she'd cried herself to sleep more than once
because she couldn't be a police officer like her father, like
the best man in the *world*, but even then, she'd also felt
a little...

Like something was freeing up inside her, like there was
room to do other things, *be* other things -- especially
since no one really wanted who she *was*.

That's different now, too.

Five years ago, she'd been a child who thought playing
dress-up and fighting bad guys under her father's *nose*
was a good idea, a chance to get back at -- everyone. Or
something.

It would be wrong to tell herself she didn't *understand*
that... that *creature* in her cowl and her lipstick and her
stupid little heels (her father had bought her heels exactly
*once*, and then -- she knows -- only on the decidedly
questionable advice of one of his female officers) and her
stupid little attitude problem.

She *does* understand.

But Batgirl is just another kind of trap.

Isn't she?

*

He doesn't hear the boys come in, but he *sees* the bike --
Batgirl's -- peeling out again. Bruce doesn't know where
Dick has gone, and he's quite sure that the Batman is
lurking somewhere in his big, blast-scarred shrine to
obsessive-compulsive behavior, but...

Well.

He finds the boys in Tim's -- *their* -- bedroom. Their hair
is damp and their cheeks look terribly wind-burned --

It's after *three*, and they're already asleep -- they
*should* be asleep, of course, but it feels like a cheat. Like
the Batman had... taken something, though he isn't sure
what it is.

Of course these boys are Robin -- they couldn't ever be
simply children, or the Batman wouldn't have...

It's just that there ought to be *something* he can do, if
only to let them understand that they don't truly *need* to
go out there every night and just *fling* themselves on
the world's problems.

He can give them so *much*, if they just...

Bruce frowns to himself and strokes their hair, bending over
the bed --

He can't tell which of them woke up first. Perhaps it was
simultaneous.

"B -- Bruce," the one sleeping on the left says.

"Hi," says the other, and they both smile.

And *reach* for him.

And that's wonderful, of course, even though they should be
sleeping. He sweeps them both into a hug, squeezing
tighter when he feels hands digging into his sides -- both
of them.

One of them grunts against his chest, the other hums,
and -- maybe it will be all right. Tim is -- *they* are -- his
sons, and he realizes that he's done a terrible job, but
there's no reason that that has to continue --

There's a strange tickle on his neck, and another at his
waist, but really, the boys both need haircuts and at least
one of them needs something of a manicure, and the hug
is --

The hug has moved to his pants.

The hug is trying to move *inside* his pants --

"Oh dear, boys, what are you --"

"Mmm, you smell like Batman --"

"-- only, you know, *not* --"

"*Boys*!"

"Right --"

"-- here --"

It takes a moment to disentangle himself without injuring
them, and involves him falling off the bed and onto the
*floor*, and also scooting backwards because the boys
seem inclined toward *pouncing* --

Bruce scrabbles to his feet, pulls his clothes back in order,
and glares. "That's *very* inappropriate, Tims!"

They stare at him.

They -- oh my. "Has -- has the Batman been... oh, boys, is
he *hurting* you?"

The Tim on the left blinks. The other coughs.

"Please, you have to tell me, because we can --"

"No," they say, together. "Nothing like that."

"We just --"

"-- it seemed like --"

"-- you smell so *good*, Bruce --"

"-- Dad. I mean, Bruce. Um. *Ow* --"

The one on the right has elbowed the one on the left in the
ribs, and that's -- well, now they're kind of... fighting in a
manner both horrifying and obviously *trained*, and it
would be rankest cowardice not to break it up.

He grabs them both by the shoulders -- challenging while
holding one's hips firmly out of range -- and tugs until
they stop. They're mussed and glaring at each other.

"*Boys*. That's inappropriate, as well. You need your
sleep, and you're -- you're *brothers*."

That makes them blink at each other and stare at him.

Perhaps... perhaps some family counseling would be in
order. Leslie would know.

*

Dick wakes up sticky, sore, and alone -- well, these things
are relative.

"What. Did you do."

*Nightwing* is glaring down at him like the world's worst
roommate. Dick rolls his eyes, stretches, and gets out of
bed. Might as well take a shower.

"Dick --"

"Jesus, figure it *out*, Nightwing."

"I was hoping you'd give me reason to believe my
conclusions were entirely too pessimistic. I -- did you even
*know* her? No -- *them*."

Heh. Dick grins over his shoulder. "Thoroughly."

"That's unacceptable --"

"No," Dick says, and turns the water on. "What's
unacceptable is you letting it fucking *atrophy*."

Nightwing follows him, just as grim as -- heh. Of course.

"Look, here's how I see it -- are you paying attention?"

"I'm all ears."

Right. Dick snorts and steps in the shower, hissing a little
when the water hits the scratch marks. And the bite
marks. "Mm. Anyway, there's nothing to stop you --
*either* of us -- from doing our own thing. If you want, I'll
grab some cash out of the account and get my *own*
place."

"Hm."

Dick soaps himself up and wonders what this city is like
during the *day*.

"I..."

"Yes, Analwing?"

"It occurs to me that this -- situation is, quite possibly, the
best possible way to protect my secret identity."

Or something. Not that he wants to be seen in public with
a guy who seems to think it's a good idea to dress like a
damned figure skater. "Sure, whatever, go with that --"

"Keep your nose clean."

Dick snorts so hard it's a good thing he doesn't have his face
in the *spray*, really. He tips Nightwing a salute and starts
in on his hair.

Sometime between the first and second lather, Nightwing
bails.

He wouldn't think the guy *could* find a way to blend in
when the sun was actually out, but it's not like he actually
cares or anything.

*

She wakes up with an embarrassing sound that gets
muffled by the *gauntlet* over her mouth.

The --

Batgirl.

Barb glares and considers biting, but, well, the material of
the gauntlet is far sturdier than it looks -- no thanks to
Batgirl herself, of course.

The -- the *creature* grins at her and shifts, smelling like
smoke and blood and God only knows what else.

Her suit is actually *torn* in a few places, and her hair
looks exactly as dirty as it should. She's -- crouched over
Barb like an *animal*.

"I don't have a place to stay. Babsy." The smile on her
face -- is even worse when she licks her teeth.

And this is her problem how, exactly...?

"Of course, I could just go ask *Daddy* nicely --"

Barb shoves the creature *off* her -- and there are
gauntleted fingers held taut and still against her neck, just
like that.

She can't -- she doesn't really remember what that move
*is*, but the look on Batgirl's face fills in *enough* of the
details.

Barb doesn't shudder. "Fine," she says, and doesn't try to
scoot away. Much. "You smell awful. Get cleaned up and
there's -- there are places in the Breyfogle Avenue branch
of the library where you can... bed down, or whatever you
need to do. Why aren't you just back in the *Cave*?"

Batgirl wrinkles her nose. "Too fucking *quiet*," she says.
"And Batman didn't want to play --"

"Please don't share -- and *not* my problem. Just get out
of *here*."

"Aww, Babsy! We can play -- you can be my baby sister and
we can paint our *toenails* and..."

The hand on her breast is just... just. She can't even...
"What's *wrong* with you?"

The last word comes out wrong -- Batgirl is playing with her
*nipple*. And she's also just --

Barb has never, ever been fond of the sound of *snickers*,
no matter who they were aimed at. The weapons of an
unsubtle mind, and just -- "Move. Your. Hand."

"Like *this*...?" And now Batgirl is *tugging* at her nipple --

And then she's on the floor, because Batgirl might be Batgirl,
but *Barb* learned how to fight from the entire tenth
precinct.

Though her knuckles feel broken, now. All of them.
Ow. She's going to have to do better -- not that she has
time before Batgirl has her by the throat.

Dammit, they're going to wake up her *father*.

"So... just to be clear, was that foreplay or just you being
mean?"

"Go. With. The latter."

Batgirl stares at her for a moment, *studies* her like she's
the bizarre creature on the bed -- and then she snickers.
"This has *got* to be the best thing that ever happened to
me," she says, and kisses Barb on the mouth before
shoving her back against the headboard and uncoiling
herself from the mattress.

"Glad to hear it. Really."

Batgirl grins back over her shoulder and perches in the open
window. "Later, Babsy!"

Maybe she'll trip on one of those ridiculous heels and snap
her spine.

Barb gives up on sleep and takes a shower.

*

It's just dirty pool to make Tim go places before eight in
the morning on a Saturday, but he has to admit that it's a
good strategy.

He's still barely fighting back snores when they get where
they're going, and the other Tim isn't really fighting much
at all. This is the only possible way that Bruce could've
gotten them to the freaking Serenity Hills Family Therapy
center -- there *are* no hills in Gotham, and there's even
less fucking serenity -- and Bruce totally knows it.

Just -- Bruce!

Tugging at his *tie* and keeping Alfred between himself
and, well, them. Both of them.

"You've got to be shitting me," the other says, and edges
back toward the car.

Alfred closes the door.

"Language, Tim, and -- oh. We're going to have to pick
another name for... one of you," Bruce says, and tugs on
his tie again. "For now, at least. Though they seemed to
be willing to believe that I'd discovered a long lost twin...
anyway. Which one of you wants a different name, and
what will it be?"

"You -- you sound like you're asking us about flavors of
*ice* cream," Tim says, and edges toward the other side
of the car.

"He should be Dexter," the other says, out of *nowhere*.

"*What* --"

"You're always going *right*."

Bruce blinks and kind of *yanks* his tie -- Bruce *dresses*
right -- "D-Dexter? Wouldn't that make you... sinister?"

The other smiles. "Not *really*, Dad."

And now *Alfred* is edging away, and Bruce looks a little
like maybe the other is perfecting those hypnosis
techniques Batman had been teaching him -- them --
whichever -- on him --

And the other reaches back with one fist, and points one
finger out of it.

Then two -- oh, yeah.

Three and they *break*, left and right -- of course -- and
Alfred's way too slow, but Bruce totally isn't. *Damn*.

The other is *that* close to getting snatched, and -- and
it doesn't seem like --

Tim isn't sure how it'll *work* if they're separate. He's
slowing down even though he hasn't told his legs anything
of the *kind* -- wait.

"Tim! *Up*!"

The other leaps for a streetlight, and he does, too, and the
good thing about it being this damned early in the morning
is that the only people on the street not them are people
from the clinic in ratty-tatty looking robes smoking
cigarettes and looking drugged. No one will believe them.

Bruce is strong and fit, but he *can't* climb in those shoes --
Batman could, of course, but it doesn't matter.

From the lights, they can grab for window ledges, lintels,
brick-work -- up and up and *up*.

"Boys, please! We can work all of this *out*!"

"See you later, Dad!" the other shouts.

Or maybe it was him. Hard to tell with the echoes.

*

The trick is to find a neighborhood where people *live*,
because it's way too early on a Saturday to get *anything*
from anywhere else.

He finds a street-market full of women and children,
tired-looking and a little strange. Or -- they don't seem
strange. It's just that it's the kind of scene that feels like
it should be out in the open, dust beneath your feet and
sun beating down. There's too much plastic here, and too
much glass and metal and finished stone. It's --

His father would've hated it, and his mother... Dick isn't
sure.

It's just a lot of *missing*, a lot of *out of place*, and
maybe that's why he winds up buying a handful of apples
just to juggle them, just to toss them to the wild-eyed and
too-dirty-for-cities kids he can see on the edges --

"Mommy, look --!"

And he doesn't know where that came from, save that it
had to come from one of the cleaner faces.

One of the --

Everything is eyes and open mouths and *rightness*, all at
once, and that's how he knows he's walking on his hands,
how he knows he's making his feet wobble and kick a little --

"Oh, is he gonna *fall*?!"

Really not, but he makes his way to the dashed line -- good
of them to block off traffic like this -- and pretends he's on
a *line*, not a beam, nothing so steady --

"Oh -- oh, look!"

One arm out and up -- the toddler is small enough that he
can chuck him under the chin, and drop the last apple
into his overlarge sweater --

"Mommy, mommy --"

And it's just as it should be. They're making a space for
him, making a *stage*. He wobbles and wavers and they --

-- gasp when he flips to his feet, and down to his hands,
and to his feet again. He spins and grins and does it from
the back, and he couldn't have planned it better if he
tried -- a really very excitable woman tosses her groceries
in the air, and he's not really *perfect* at juggling with
his shins and feet --

But it's not like bunches of celery and a couple of eggplants
are all *that* challenging.

"Wow, look --!"

"Oh my God, *look*!"

Yes, just -- *yes* --

And the woman isn't so good that she catches the veggies
when he kicks them -- lightly -- back, but her kids jump
and reach for them like *gifts*.

The applause is perfect, the coins and bills kind of
irrelevant -- the vendor with the worst-quality fruit had had
the fattest fanny-pack, as ever, and his jacket has a
*lot* of full pockets.

He gathers it up -- most of it, you always have to leave a
little, always have to be a little careful about cities,
which'll eat *you* if you're too greedy -- and bows, and
smiles, and winks at the woman with the -- slightly --
bruised eggplant and slips away and gone and --

Gone.

The alley reeks of rotting vegetables and the unwashed
flesh of whichever poor bastard was sleeping here last
night, and he can't even --

That isn't why he can't breathe.

He covers his mouth to stifle the laughter -- gotta keep the
*mystery*, right, Dad? Can't disappoint the -- the fucking
*townies* --

"Any time you're ready, kid -- I'd *love* a minute of your
time."

The knife taped to his arm isn't really -- it's one of
Nightwing's fucking *kitchen* knives, of all things, and
maybe he could've hung around the freaking *Bat*cave a
*little* longer --

And then the face that belongs to that voice slips out of the
shadows, and Dick grins. Because -- of course. Of *course*.
Bruce Wayne can't ever do *anything* by -- heh -- halves.

"What can I do for you, Matches?"

*

It's not that spiking her windowsill with nails will really stop --
the goddamned *Batgirl* from invading, but it makes Barb
feel better, even though it does cut into the time she'd
*planned* to spend shopping and picking up paperwork
from various local colleges.

She remembers --

Sometimes, her father wouldn't get home from work until
long after Barb had gone to bed and gone to sleep. There
were so many nights when she woke up -- *almost* woke
up -- to the smell of cigar smoke and other things, outside
things, *police* things.

Her father would sort of half-sit, half-perch on the little pink
chair (just *her* size) next to Barb's bed and talk, quietly,
about how Gotham was no place for a little girl, or anyone
else, but there were good schools. *Great* schools, some
of them even affordable, and how she'd always, always
have the best.

She had, of course -- her father never lied about
*anything* -- but somehow she'd just started forgetting to
take it, to *have* it.

And it's not better that her father understood, that he kind
of sort of *knew*, as much as he could ever let himself...
no. It wasn't better then, even though she told herself it
was, and it's surely not better *now*.

There's a great deal at the Foodiemart on deli meats, and
she splurges on a platter they were just finishing up for
display when she gets there.

It only takes twenty minutes to get to Central at this time
of day, and her father is *beaming* even before he sees
the food.

She can't really tell what Bullock is saying -- most of a
roast-beef mini-sandwich is pouched in the man's jaw like
a particularly large and healthful block of tobacco -- but
Renee grins at her.

"Your Dad always *said* you were the best kid in the
world," she says, and Barb doesn't blush or anything,
because her father's already doing that thing where he's
pretending not to look worried, and also because she
*really* needs to talk to Renee about the academy.
And --

Why wait?

She sits on the old and ripped up suspect-chair by Renee's
desk and pretends to just be eating her own ham
sandwich until her father's phone rings and he slips back
into the office.

"So what can I do for you, Barbara?"

Renee is brilliant, of course. Barb covers Renee's hand with
her own. "Barb, really -- I prefer it, and my father always
speaks so highly of you."

That makes *Renee* blush, which is just... well. It *is*.

"I wanted... to talk to you about something, actually."

"Sure thing... Barb," she says, and grins at her.

She has remarkably pretty eyes, now that Barb thinks about
it. All... dark and big and intelligent. "Renee, I... well, I
know you're busy. What time do you think you'll be getting
off tonight? I know your shift ends with my father's, but..."

Renee's grin turns rueful. "Well, hon, that's just it -- my
shift ends *with* your Dad's, but if you want to meet
me for a coffee or something later... um." She's blushing
even harder now, for some reason -- oh. Oh.

Well... oh. "I think that'd be wonderful, Renee," she says,
and gives her hand a squeeze. "Do you have my cell
number?"

*

The therapist Leslie recommended turns out to be a very
personable young woman, and obviously quite intelligent.

And sympathetic over his... inability to get the boys to come
*with* him.

Of course they were probably embarrassed about the
whole... incident. He really shouldn't have just sprung this
whole thing on them. They'd... well, of course, they'd been
living with him for quite some time, but they'd been
*alone* for quite some time before that.

And even when they weren't alone....

Yes, well, these things are understandable. He just has to
make sure that the boundaries are *clear*, and also...

Also get them to come with him.

"Do you think..."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

"Oh, please, Dr. Withers, call me Bruce --"

"Bruce, then."

"Yes, I -- I was wondering... I mean, I don't mean to
suggest that I would attempt to bribe my own children, of
course, but... well. Maybe if I suggest -- in a boundaries-
friendly manner -- that if they don't... flee quite so
vigorously, I would also take them to a ball game? Of
some sort?" What sports *do* they like? Do they like sports?

The doctor pats his hand. "Often we have to make... well,
often we can't be as subtle as we might prefer in the
interests of improving family relationships."

"Oh -- yes! That's it, *precisely*. Maybe... I've been looking
at getting them dogs, too. Do you think...?"

"One step at a time, Mr. -- Bruce."

"Of course."

*

It takes longer to get back home to the Cave than it would
if they weren't staying under the radar -- just because
Alfred can't follow them on *foot* doesn't mean he isn't
ready, willing, and able to use the car as, like, a freaking
hunting hound.

Still, though, they get there, one after the other down the
chute that only *looks* like an outflow pipe over the cliff.

The other tumbles to a stop by the Two-Face trophies, he
aims himself more toward the equipment, which is why he
*gets* stopped by Batman's leg and boot.

"*Ow* --"

Batman grunts, and it's kind of a loud grunt for the hit, but --

"Holy -- *damn*," the other says, and Tim kind of has to
agree.

It's not like he *hadn't* spent a fair amount of time trying
to figure out how Batman plus Batgirl would look, and
certainly the whole 'Batgirl bent over a vaulting horse' thing
had been a favorite, but -- holy fucking *damn*.

And he'd already *gotten* a taste --

He catches the batarang before it would've dented his skull.
"Easy, jackass-other-Tim --"

"How come you didn't *tell* me this one was fun?"

Tim snickers and lets himself fall backward -- from this
angle, he can *see* Batman's dick sliding right *in* --

"Just --"

"No, really, you gotta --"

"Robins. *Quiet*," Batman says, and it's really impressively
coherent, considering the fact that Batgirl's reaching back to
*claw* at his hip and ass --

"-- see this," Tim says, *quietly*, and then the other is
crawling up beside him --

"Wow."

"Uh, hunh."

It's a really *good* view of a *really* good show until
Batman starts moving faster and Batgirl starts *belting*
out these growling little *screams*, and Tim reaches --

And the other Tim reaches --

And they pause, because, well, they'd both reached a little
*too* far.

"Masturbation?"

"Incest?"

"Whichever," one of them says, because --

Because it's fucking *good*.

*

It's a crappy little apartment in the kind of neighborhood
that's too crowded and poor and *hungry* to ever shut up.

There's music in three different languages Dick can discern
leaking through the walls and spilling into the open window,
and the staircase leading up here couldn't seem to decide
whether it wanted to smell like cabbage or deep-friend
plantains.

All that and it's obvious -- really obvious, but still -- that
Matches hasn't been here that long, and it *still* feels a
thousand times closer to *home* than that sterile little
shrine to Swedish minimalism he'd left back in the
warehouse district.

"Get comfy, kid. Mi casa, etcetera."

Dick grins and throws himself back on a couch that was
new sometime when his parents were still alive. "Gotta
beer?"

Matches grins and rolls the match from the right corner of
his mouth to the left. "Not something a little stronger?"

"Only if you have designs on my *virtue*, Matches."

"Uh, hunh," he says, leaning back against the wall and
eyeing Dick *really* obviously.

The color of the paintjob is only a fraction as awful as any
one of the colors of the man's jacket.

"Now correct me if I'm *wrong*, kid, but if that's not a wad
of ill-gotten filthy, *filthy* lucre in the inside left pocket of
that jacket..."

"And it bothers you?"

Matches takes the little namesake out from between his
teeth and rolls it between two big, blunt fingers. "Oh, yeah,
kid. I'm *worried* about the state of this nation's youth."

"Hunh," Dick says, and throws his feet up on the cracked
and scarred little coffee table. "Good thing I'm not that
young, then."

The look he gets this time is even more obvious, even...
*more*. It kind of makes Dick want to grab for himself
and squeeze, but...

He *isn't* a kid.

The match goes back in -- with a flash of teeth.

"So... what can I do for you?"

"You oughtta be careful with those open-ended questions --"

"Should I?"

The move is brutally fast and brutally -- brutal. The couch
tips over and hits hard enough that the surrounding
apartments go quiet for just a moment before everything --
music, televisions, arguments -- gets even louder than
before, and Dick's got one leg bent over the front -- now
the *top* -- of the couch and the other splayed out next to
them.

"Just as flexible as you looked out there, aren't you?"

Dick shrugs, because it's awkward but still easier than trying
to talk with that big, meaty *paw* around his throat.

Matches grunts a laugh and lets go, kneeling up over Dick
and... looking. *Measuring*. "I could use you, kid."

"That so?"

"Oh yeah," he says, and rolls the match back to the left.
"That's *so*." And now those hands are flipping his jacket
open and stroking over his chest. "Mm. Been taking care of
yourself."

"I could -- say the same -- *fuck* --"

He could usually take or leave nipple action, but Matches
was kind of *prepared* for that -- it might as well be
another attack, except for how it's making Dick's hips buck
and his face flush.

"Jesus -- is this business or foreplay or *what*?"

"Funny you should ask, kiddo. Funny you should ask..."

*

The address Renee had texted to her turns out to be a place
which can't seem to decide if it wants to be a diner or a
bar. The decor is kind of Confused Americana, and the
clientele seems mostly made up of families which couldn't
find a Friday's.

She finds Renee at the bar easily -- she's the only woman
there who's alone -- and climbs up on the stool beside her.

Renee isn't that much taller than she is, but she *does*
have longer legs.

"Hi," she says, at the same time Renee says,

"Sorry, I --"

And they laugh a little, quieter than the noise-level is worth.
"Sorry, go ahead, Renee."

"I was just going to say..." And Renee ducks her head and
shakes it a little, halfway between a 'no' and an 'I can't
believe this.' "Anyway, this is *not* my usual kind of place."

Right about now, Barb is guessing that Renee's 'usual place'
has a few more women. Not that she *knows*, but...
there's nothing wrong with playing, a little. "No...?"

It makes Renee look up again, over the rim of her glass of
beer and *right* into Barb's eyes. "*My* kind of place... it
occurred to me that it might not be the kind of place for
the Commissioner's daughter."

And that's... right *out* there, isn't it? So to speak. It's the
kind of thing the girl she used to be would giggle at, but
Barb doesn't really feel like giggling. "If you're sure about
that," she says, and sets her purse firmly on her lap.

"I -- Barbara --"

"Barb. And I wanted... well. It's hard to be sheltered if
you're a cop's daughter, Renee. Not *that* sheltered,
anyway," she says, and meets Renee's eyes again.

"Why don't you tell me what you wanted to talk to me
*about*, Barb...?"

"Actually? I'm thinking about going back to school... and
then going into the Academy. I wanted to get your point of
view."

"Right. Because -- *right*." Renee laughs, and knocks back
about a third of her beer. "Why don't we forget the part
where I was --"

"But I already told my father that I'd be late tonight, and
there's no reason we couldn't talk about... other things."

"-- hitting on you. Um. Barb?"

Renee is smart and solid and down-to-earth and *solid*.
Some part of her would be bored silly... but that part is
nowhere around. Barb smiles. "We could start by finding a
place with fewer toddlers."

"Sounds good to *me*," Renee says, and slips off the
stool, absently patting her side where the shoulder holster
is hidden from all the civilians.

Maybe Renee will let her try it on.

*

He's almost done with the paperwork he'd convinced -- it's
possible the word 'cajoled' wouldn't be too strong a word,
or even 'wheedled,' but Bruce is choosing not to think
about that -- Lucius to let him take home with him when the
boys return from...

He's not thinking about that, either. They're *here*.

Bruce smiles. "Boys. Have you had dinner?"

"Oh, we ate --"

That makes the one on the left elbow the one on the right,
and Bruce frowns, but they don't decide to escalate, this
time. The furniture is possibly sighing in relief. Or possibly
that's him. "I know Alfred could whip something up if you
*are* hungry," Bruce says, and comes around to sit on the
front of his desk.

"Um -- we --"

"We could eat. Bruce --"

"-- Dad?"

"Stop calling him *Dad* --"

Bruce clears his throat. "It's all right, you know. I mean, I
understand that it hasn't been very long... well. There's no
such thing, of course, as getting over the death of your
parents."

They stare at him. It's really almost basilisk-like, now that
he thinks about it.

Bruce clears his throat again. "I just want you to know that
I'm *here* for you, and I'd like to... well, I already think of
you as my children, of course."

"Uh... right. That's --"

"-- what we wanted to talk about. With you."

"You wanted to *talk*? Oh, that's wonderful --"

"Bruce, we really didn't --"

"That whole thing with your dick --"

"-- just kind of a reflex --"

"-- and when you think about it --"

"-- we're going to blow up the clinic if you take us there
again."

"-- just not a good idea."

Bruce blinks. The boys are looking at each other a little
narrowly, but it doesn't *seem* as though actual violence is
in the offing, so... no, no, really, it's important --
boundaries. Boundaries have to be *firmly* established. He
clears his throat one more time. "Boys, human sexuality is
a complicated and *important* issue, and I just want to
make sure that --"

"We're not going to jump you again. Dad. Er."

"We promise. Dad."

"Really."

"We can -- um. We masturbate regularly?"

Bruce doesn't -- he's not *really* tempted to dive
backwards through the window. These are his *boys*. And
that's... that. "Um... boys?"

"Yeah, and we -- er. Really, it was just --"

"-- a mistake."

"Yes. A terrible -- mistake."

"But we'll really blow up the clinic, Bruce. Dad."

"Really, really. Dad."

"I..." If he clears his throat again, it's possible he'll cough
out a lung. "I'll let Dr. Withers know -- er. Well, not know,
but -- shall I just tell her that we found someone the two
of you like better?"

They -- the only word for it is 'beam,' really.

He can't help smiling back. "Dinner?"

They're looking at each other again, questioning, perhaps,
but Bruce can wait -- oh --!

"Oh, I have tickets to the Knights game tomorrow, if the
two of you would like to join me?"

They... well, they look a little pained.

"Or perhaps another time." The doctor had also used the
term 'baby steps.'

"Dinner is good, Dad."

"Yeah, dinner. And... um. We won't fight?"

"And maybe... we can try... the hugging? Thing. Again."

The one on the right seems very *close* to elbowing the
other, but, well, Bruce knows an opportunity when he sees
one.

It's probably a bit below him to hug them tightly enough
that they can't move their arms, but -- boundaries are
important.

*

Tim had been wondering, idly, where Nightwing had
*gotten* to when the signal comes on and he can't really
do anything but *fly*.

They're almost there before Batgirl curses quietly over the
comm --

And the next thing Tim knows he's getting yanked off his
line and Batgirl's got him --

"The *hell* --"

She doesn't hush him so much as hiss in his ear, while
they're *falling*, and then she shoots another line and
swings them into an alley.

The landing isn't the best, but it *does* result in him
getting slammed against a wall by the armoring over
Batgirl's tits, and there might be bad there, but *he*
doesn't know what it is.

Well, except for how all the mashed potatoes Bruce had
insisted on *watching* him -- them -- eat are kind of
making his stomach angry.

Batgirl *shoves* against him, though, and worrying about
oxygen is better than worrying about yarking. And then she
pushes off, and stares down at him with a finger pressed to
her lips -- and Tim gets it.

One Batman, one Nightwing, one Batgirl, and *one* Robin.

Right, okay, fine, whatever.

"I could've just veered off *myself*, you know."

"Like it *wasn't* more fun *my* way," she says, and grins,
and shifts --

She's stretching, maybe, but not in any pattern Tim can
figure out. It's more like she's deliberately making all the
armor and leather creak.

Which... yeah. Fine.

Definitely more fun.

Even if the other *is* getting all the 'lurk on the balustrade
of Central and try to make the Commissioner shudder' kind
of fun.

"So... what? We wait for the others to take off again and
follow?"

"Mmm... no," she says, and pulls him close and shoots her
grapple *again*.

"Batgirl --"

"We almost never get to *play*, anymore," she says, and
loosens her *grip* --

Tim grabs her with his thighs and hangs on.

It feels -- it feels *weird* to be moving farther and farther
away from his other, but not fatal or anything.

*

The outfit --

Well, Dick *wants* to say that only Matches could've picked
something out with rhinestones *and* chaps *and* tassel-
pasties, but that would involve not being able to
*remember* some of the outfits Batman had put him in
back in the day.

(He can't remember why, exactly, he was in those outfits,
but that's not the point.)

Then again... it's hard to tell what Batman would be up to
with Matches over *there*.

Right there -- and Dick could point if he actually wanted to
blow this -- in the closet, with only the micro-camera's lens
poking out of the open doorframe.

And *closet* --

"Oh, God, just tell me your *name* ---"

-- is kind of a great word, when you think about it. Dick
grins, throws his head back, and lets himself kind of *slide*
down onto his knees. This hotel has great carpeting, so long
as he avoids rubbing the chaps against it too much -- static
electricity, he has learned, makes the pasties feel a little too
much like torture --

"Please, just -- *please* --"

The head-toss is ridiculous, even for him, but since his hair-
tie is still sitting on the Senator's erection -- where Dick had
tossed it a few minutes ago -- it's just the right kind of
move.

The Senator -- what *was* his name? Doesn't matter. --
thrusts up into empty air, sending the tie flying.

He's sitting on his hands like a *good* boy, though, so Dick
lets his hair fall over the man's thighs once, twice --

"God, did you want -- I'm wealthy, I have *friends* --"

And if he didn't, he wouldn't be there. *They* wouldn't be
here, and that's just --

It's maybe a little out of *character* for him to laugh like
that, like *this*, but the Senator is just far gone enough
that he only stares as Dick slides and -- yeah, *wriggles* --
back up, and up, and onto the man's lap.

"Just -- your *name* --"

"Does it matter?" And Dick leans in and bites the man's ear
before he can even *maybe* think about coming up with an
answer, and grinds, and bends himself backwards -- enough
to let his hair tickle the man's bare, sweaty feet -- and
thinks about it.

And then Dick rears up again and grabs the man's hand --
the left one -- out from under his thigh, and turns his head
just *so*, and sucks the man's fingers.

Especially the one with the wedding ring.

The camera doesn't click, of course -- this is the age of
*video* -- but it *feels* like it does --

"Oh my God, *yes*!"

And that's plenty good enough.

Later, Matches works on the blackmail letter while Dick
showers.

He pauses, naked with his hand reaching for the bathroom
doorknob, and then goes back and puts the chaps back
on before heading out to join his... business partner.

And leans over the side of the chair. "How's it looking, big
guy?"

"Well, if the good Senator *doesn't* pony up, I know some
people who could get you one hell of a career," he says,
and his hand *pauses* when he reaches back and feels
the suede of the chaps, but it doesn't stop.

It doesn't -- "God -- *fuck*, Matches."

"I know how you like to pull in the *big* crowds, kiddo."

It -- Matches' finger feels just as huge as it should teasing
the bare and suddenly really obviously naked -- more
naked than *before*, somehow -- cleft of his ass. "I -- I --"

"Mmph, c'mere," he says, but he's already tugging Dick
into -- *over* his lap -- "Yeah, like that," and Matches is
stroking him like an oversized cat, like --

Matches has one hand planted between Dick's
shoulderblades and the other stroking and *tickling* Dick's
cleft. "Fuck -- fuck, come *on* --"

"Didn't I say something earlier? Something... oh, I know, I
was gonna make it up to you for making you wax your
chest and belly for those rhinestones..."

"Yes -- I -- *God* --"

"Just me, kiddo," Matches says, and works the thumb he'd
shoved in *deeper*, twisting it and --

*Twisting*, and chuckling, and still -- still fucking *petting*
him --

"Yeah, that's right... Just like that."

"M -- Matches --"

"Stick with me, pretty boy. We're gonna make some
*noise*."

*

It's a little silly to be using the ladies' room -- *this* ladies'
room -- to have Renee help her put the holster on,
considering --

"God, I -- the *looks* we're gonna get walking out of this
stall..."

Barb raises an eyebrow. "Do you care?"

Renee raises it right back. "See any of Gotham's finest out
there?"

Good point. But really... Barb frowns, a little.

"What's up, honey?"

She likes that 'honey' quite a lot, all things -- including the
way Renee's hand is still resting over her ribs -- considered.
However. "I think that's a bit backwards, don't you?"

"What is...?"

"That you feel that you have to be even the *slightest* bit
subtle about your orientation. You're one of the best cops
on the force -- possibly *the* best, according to my father,
and if you try to tell me that you haven't had to listen to
all the *men* go on and on about their sexual conquests --"

Renee's fingers are a little rough against Barb' mouth,
sweet with all the drinks they've been nursing not-all-that-
slowly, and sharp, too.

If she were to cross her eyes, she'd be able to see the grey-
blue stain of blowback on Renee's hand -- she'd been at
the range yesterday, or perhaps the day before. She can
still *smell* it if she concentrates...

And Renee kind of -- grunts. And laughs. "Listen to me,
honey-girl, Barb, honey -- God, I'm drunk -- but *listen*."

"I am," she says, just a *little* muffled by those fingers.

"Here's something I picked up -- thank God -- *before* I
arrived at the academy. Call it free advice. You need to
decide if you want to be a *cop* -- or if you want to
change the world. Because *I* can only help you with
one of those."

And Barb -- she doesn't really *want* to frown this much.
She doesn't want to break the *mood*, not really, not with
the leather almost cupping her side, her breast --

Renee's nothing like Batgirl.

"I -- shit, Barb, it's not like I don't *hear* you, you know?"

And cops don't get to change the world. Not really.

If she was another person, she'd growl, and pout, and --
and do silly, childish things in silly, childish *costumes* --

She isn't.

She *isn't*, not anymore, and so she kisses Renee, instead.

There are other people who can change the world, and...
and there's plenty of world left over for Jim *Gordon's*
daughter.

*

Alfred brings Bruce tea in the drawing room, and then leaves.

No, he starts to leave, but returns --

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Really, Master Bruce, I -- I assume you do intend to keep
to your schedule tomorrow?"

"Well, I know it'll be -- it *is* a Sunday, but those ladies
and gentlemen at the R&D lab hardly keep *banker's*
hours."

"And... nor do you. Still, I feel it would be wise for you to
get some rest."

As opposed to, of course, waiting for his *boys*. He -- he
can't. But. "I... I don't suppose you have any idea where
Dick might have gotten to...?"

"As opposed to his alter ego, sir? No, I'm afraid not. I'm
sure he's quite all right, though."

Bruce nods. Dick has always been very resourceful, of
course, and he'd... well, he'd left once for two *years*, and
while there's a part of him which is rather screamingly
insistent that he hasn't been *back* long enough...

At least, this time, he hadn't *driven* Dick away.

Bruce sighs quietly and pours himself a cup of tea.

Alfred pats his shoulder, and... pauses. "You know, sir,
I've given the matter some thought --"

"You *do* know where Dick is?"

"Sadly, no. I was referring to your thoughts about acquiring
a pet. For Master -- the Masters Timothy. I've begun to
think that it *would* be a good idea, though you'll of
course have to prepare for the inevitable moments at
which the young sirs forget that the animal will have to
be *trained* --"

"Oh, that's *wonderful*, Alfred! I was reading the society
pages earlier -- the Braithewaite-Whistlers are throwing a
hunt next month -- they had to put it off because one of
their prize mastiffs has had puppies!"

"A -- a mastiff, sir? You're aware that mastiffs can grow to
be quite --"

"Well, we'll have to get two, of course," Bruce says, and
squeezes Alfred's arm. "Oh, this is wonderful!"

"I -- of course, Master Bruce. I'll just... have every stitch of
carpeting removed from the manor. And contact the
insurers for... every objet d'art... oh, dear."

"Hmm...?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

*

It's one thing to start a fire -- accidentally, of course -- but
it's another thing entirely to jump *into* one, but Batgirl
had seen a flash of something in one of the upper
windows of the tenement building that *looked* like a
person, and their suits *are* pretty flame-retardant.

His *face* isn't, but --

It's not like he can do anything but follow once Batgirl lets
out that whoop and dives right *in*.

She takes out most of the window with her boots, Tim gets
the rest.

The floor rumbles and creaks beneath his boots, and Batgirl
is just another flash of flame and shadow ahead of him,
once the smoke starts blackening up her suit -- no.

When she *grins*, she's completely visible. White teeth
against a little piece of *Hell*, but Tim's been in worse
conditions.

They've been on their own since Batgirl kidnapped him, and
they've...

Well, patrol is patrol, and it's not like the others couldn't
reach them if they were needed.

They find a cat screaming under a bed, and, behind the cat,
a kid.

Batgirl hands him both --

And Tim has just enough time to mostly cover them and
himself with his cape before the window in *this* room
explodes *in* --

He's pretty sure the only reason he doesn't go flying is
because he's short *and* his boots are melting to the floor,
and Batgirl --

He looks up and sees her tumbling, yelling -- *laughing*.

She got blown out the door.

She --

She tucks herself into a ball and tumbles *backwards*,
deeper into the *fire*, and he has to go after her --

No, he's got the victims -- and one of the victims has *him*,
and he may never get the smell of singed fur out of his
nose -- and he has to get *out*.

Tim growls to himself, coughs, and heads for the window --
the firefighters have finally arrived, which is great, but they
haven't even *begun* setting up the net, and it takes too
fucking *long* to get them down, even rappelling fast
enough to wrench the fuck out of his shoulder.

Incredibly -- *annoyingly* -- one of the firemen actually
tries to *stop* him. Tim elbows the man -- lightly -- in the
jaw, hands off kid and cat, and heads back in, going low,
*staying* low, and if he had a cowl he wouldn't be able to
smell his own *hair* starting to burn, and --

And he stops, because the lower floor is just *gone*.

It's just a pit, edged in *fire*, and down below is even
*more* fire -- no, red.

Red *hair*, and that's Batgirl, spinning and moving like --

She's *fighting*, something or someone, and a giant piece
of the ceiling just *barely* manages not to hit her --
"Batgirl! Come *on* --!"

"*Arsonist*," she yells, and then laughs and -- disappears
into smoke and black.

Tim drops down and in -- and *drops* because it's hot
enough that the decel frays and snaps before he makes it
to the -- thankfully stone -- basement floor.

He lands in a roll and when he comes up he can't see
*anything*. He's not the genius in this family, but even
*he* knows it's a fucking problem when the smoke is this
thick in the *basement* -- when the fire had been started
at least two floors up.

Flash of red -- there --

He runs, and finds Batgirl just *hitting* the bastard. He --

Tim can't even tell if it's male or female anymore. There's
too much blood and too much smoke --

There's Batgirl's *grin* and the groans and crashes of the
*building*.

"Batgirl, you've got him, let's *go* --"

Nothing. Just -- nothing but the meaty thuds of her *fists*,
and the laugh, and the --

"Batgirl -- Batgirl, *please* --"

She looks at him.

She -- she *winks*.

And her shoulder pulls back for another hit --

And the tranq dart catches her right in the *neck*, which is
good, because if it hadn't, she actually would've made it
*to* him when she charged -- and that was one of the
*sharpened* batarangs in her left hand.

He can't -- he can't even *jump* when a big piece of the
first -- or hell, maybe the *third* -- floor lands behind him.

He grabs the 'rang, and Barb is dead weight and Tim's
shoulder is *screaming*, but the arsonist (*was* it?
Really?) is still alive *and* just too much.

Tim hears himself making a sound, shoots his grapple --

The hook falls with another chunk of building. Fuck.

He doesn't wait. He shoots it again, feels it catch *enough* --
feels it *slip* when they start up out of the pit and wishes
he could think of something to pray to --

He tosses Batgirl as far as he can over the lip of the pit,
watches her start to slide *back* --

And then he's leaping, twisting, *reaching* --

And he drags them both out as the last bits of the first floor
fall out from under them.

This time, the fire-fighters are too busy to worry about
him -- there's at least one more person trapped on an upper
floor --

And the arsonist. (Maybe?)

He grabs for someone wearing a captain's hat and points
at the basement. For some reason, he can't seem to get
*words* out, but --

"Another person down there, kid? *Alive*?"

Tim nods and uses the arm he's not holding on to Batgirl
with to try to shove. He can't. He -- His lines are all burnt
and Batgirl needs to -- he has to get Batgirl to the *Cave* --

"We'll do our best, Robin," the man says, and it sounds so
much like "fuck it" that he thinks he could scream.

If his throat wasn't fucked.

It's crazy enough on the street, at least, that no one is
paying attention to the half-melted kid dragging the
three-quarters melted woman into an alley.

Tim toggles the comm, chokes, vomits all over the ground
and Batgirl's boots, and gives the double-tap, instead.

*

They hit a club -- but it's not the kind of club *Dick* was
looking for.

This one is full of big, dark-haired men in tackily expensive
suits and there isn't a dance floor to be seen.

Dick looks at Matches.

Matches looks at *him*, and it's a little -- impossible not to
feel it. Blue eyes over sunglasses, and if anyone thinks that
the shades are there to protect those eyes as opposed to
the rest of the world...

They're pretty much too stupid to live.

Dick can wait for his kind of fun. At least for a while.

Especially because they're pretty clearly not here for the
ambience.

Matches leads him over to a table inhabited by some older
guy whose face *kind* of tickles at a few memories, but
mostly doesn't. The guy is bracketed -- *braced* -- by a
couple of other guys who look to be made of at least as
much muscle as, like, blood.

Matches pulls a chair out -- and gestures.

Right. Dick sits down, crosses his left ankle over his right
knee, and shifts over just enough for Matches to loom
over him, the table, and the restaurant -- *social club* --
too.

"Matches. Long time no bleed from the eyes from your
sartorial taste."

The muscle chuckles on cue.

"What can I say, Antonio? A guy's gotta be *unique*."

This is punctuated, as near as Dick can tell, by the passage
of something thick and envelope-shaped under the table.

The older guy -- Antonio -- nods once, and *then* actually
looks up at them. No, not really. He spares a *glance* for
Matches. The *look* is for him.

Which... not unexpected, all things considered. Dick looks
back.

"So who's the kid, Matches?" Antonio isn't looking away.

"Well, there comes a time in a man's life when he's gotta
settle down... and track down what his bitch of an ex did
with the kid."

Everyone at the table's laughing, but Dick's a little too... it's
okay *enough*. That's not the kind of thing it's his *job*
to laugh at, right now. He rolls his eyes, instead.

"That's just beautiful, Matches, really. Like Norman Rockwell
hit up Goodwill."

Matches shrugs, spreading his hands... and leaving one of
them on the back of Dick's chair. "What can I say? I got a
bleeding heart."

"And a line into something interesting, by the feel...?"

Even Dick knows that was a little too obvious for this kind of
deal, so it's not a surprise when Matches just smiles.

Antonio nods, once. "I'll take it that the kid's bringing you
luck, and leave it there -- for now."

"For now sounds good, Antonio. And -- don't be surprised
if you see more of the kid around, hey?"

"Surprise is bad for my digestion, Matches. You know that."

And that's as much of a threat as anything else, tonight,
but Matches just stands. "I sure do, Antonio. C'mon, kid.
Night's wasting."

Dick dips his head to Antonio like a good -- *son* -- and
follows Matches out onto the street and into a Caddy the
same shade of gold as -- some of -- Matches' favorite
jacket.

"So," he says, when Matches just drives.

"So what?"

"Do I get an explanation for that?"

"You saying you need one?"

Yes and no. Dick puts a foot up on the dash and thinks
about how to express it -- and then doesn't, because
Matches has a hand on the most important seam of Dick's
jeans, and that's -- damn. Dick rocks up into it a little.

"Look, kiddo -- if it's the passing you off as my kid thing --"

"Definitely... that's definitely part of it --"

Matches -- Dick can see him grinning out of the corner of
his eye, and he can *feel* him just...

It's only a tease because it's him, or them, or something.
Matches is right back to petting him, like -- like some --

"There's certain things that don't play in *our* part of the
city -- not for a man in my position. Not yet."

"Planning on -- changing the world?"

Matches laughs, and squeezes him. "Owning a tidy chunk
of it, maybe." The squeeze turns into a good-bye pet, and
Dick bites back a groan.

"Jesus, Matches --"

"You're sticking with me, kid. *Dick*."

"I --"

"None of that. You're sticking with *me*, and the two of
us..."

"Are gonna 'make some noise...?'"

"That's just right, pretty boy. That's *just* right."

"Yeah, well --" He doesn't really stop so much as *get*
stopped. The hand on his jaw isn't painful, or even very
hard.

It's just -- pointed.

"Yeah?"

Matches shifts his grip to something that lets him tap
Dick's cheek with his fingers. "You think I don't know how
to keep you entertained? You think I don't know *you*?"

Dick snorts, twists away, and ignores the nagging ache in
his groin. "You want I should call you *Batman*?"

And he's expecting -- he isn't sure what, exactly, but it's not
that big hand trailing through his ponytail gentle enough to
pull out a few tangles. The laugh is closer, though.

"Well?"

"Whatever turns you on, Dickie."

*

It's not that sounds he'd never heard before freak Tim out --
much -- but ones that come directly from his comm
absolutely do.

Especially when Batman and Nightwing both *jerk* like they
heard it, too.

"What --"

"Emergency signal. Pull your palm-top and get the
coordinates of the others."

It's the Nightwing voice -- it always is now, of course -- so
he's doing it, but it's still better when Batman nods.

He rattles off the coordinates, Nightwing says "West Side,"
Batman grunts, and they fly -- just far enough away from
the docks that the car can catch up to them on reasonably
well-ordered streets.

The back seat was never made for anything but making
people who *had* to ride in the Batmobile uncomfortable,
but he's small enough to make it work -- even though the
way Batman's driving is making him wish the restraints
were the kind that it was *safe* to put on yourself.

It's not like he's going to have time to pull his Boy Wonder
escape routine -- fuck. "Are they --"

He cuts himself off. He knows as much as any of them do
about Batgirl and the (*his*) other Robin, and asking if
they're okay is pointless and young and stupid.

He didn't cut himself off fast enough to avoid a look from
Nightwing, but when Tim just looks at him like maybe
there's nothing behind his mask but another mask,
Nightwing turns right back around again, head swiveling on
his neck like the robot he is.

Like -- Tim shakes it off, and watches out the window like
a --

Tim shakes it *off*, and checks to make sure his belt is as
stocked as it can be, this time of night, and pulls his
gauntlets on a little tighter.

The car's too well soundproofed for the sound of sirens to
make it through unless B -- Batman fucks with things a
little, and he doesn't. The lights are enough. The *smoke*
is enough and --

Jesus. That's not a fire, that's a fucking inferno --

"Nightwing --"

"I'm taking east, Batman," Nightwing says, and half-jumps,
half-rolls out of the car before it comes to a stop.

"South?"

Batman frowns at him for a moment. "Can you -- is there
anything you can *feel*, in terms of your other?"

And that's -- that would be *helpful*, but he hasn't really
felt much of anything -- he hasn't really felt *right* since
Batgirl had flown off with the other earlier. He shakes his
head. All he knows is that the other isn't right *here*,
where he can reach out. "I -- sorry, Batman."

"It's all right, Robin. Take south. I'm going to spiral in on
the fire itself."

Tim nods and goes, and tries to --

He doesn't even know. Is it *reaching* if you're not using
your arms or anything you can feel?

No. He's not -- he's not going to *panic*. It's -- it's *him*,
or them, or however anyone who gets to know anything
*like* the truth wants to put it.

And if he had to hide, for whatever reason, then there's no
way he'd do anything but head for the alleys.

The *alleys*, after all, belong to him.

Ten minutes later, he has to stop and be fair -- Nightwing's
pretty good at alleys, too, or maybe his Nightwing sensors
had buzzed nice and loud in his pointy fucking head -- he
found Tim's other first.

And Batgirl, who... who's gotten one fuck of a bad haircut-
via-fire, by the looks of it.

And Nightwing is just standing there *staring*, even though
Batgirl's unconscious on the ground and his other is --

He can't. He --

Tim moves -- *shoves* past Nightwing and crouches next
to his other, using his cape -- the other's is melted right up
to his shoulders -- to hide their hands from... well, from
Nightwing.

It's not like Batgirl's gonna have anything to say right now.

And just --

"What *happened*, Robin?"

The other shakes his head, opens his mouth... and nothing
comes out but a painful-sounding whistle.

"He can't report, Robin," Nightwing says, and the look on
his face makes Tim wonder if he's even *blinking* behind
there. Does he -- does he have eyes?

He doesn't shudder.

"His throat has been damaged, most probably by the
smoke."

"Well, *yeah* --"

"However, as near as I can tell, Batgirl sustained no
*serious* injuries from the fire." And now Nightwing is
*staring* at his other again, like he maybe thinks *he*
did... whatever to Batgirl.

Or.

What had *Batgirl* done?

Tim squeezes the other's hand, nods at Batgirl, and looks
back into the other's mask.

He gets the whistle again, and another, and then the other
shakes his head violently.

Something. Something *bad*.

He squeezes the other's hand again. They can just -- they'll
wait for Batman.

*

The cab drops Barb off right in front of her apartment
building, of course. Renee is dozing in a really attractive
manner, and...

And her father's shadow fills the front window in a way that
suggests that she shouldn't use her tongue to get that last
bit of lipstick off the corner of Renee's mouth.

She makes sure the driver has Renee's address, instead,
and walks in just as steadily as she can.

"Girls' Night Out?"

Barb nods and nods and remembers to stop nodding. "I
mean... yes. We had a lot to talk about, Daddy."

Her father coughs a little, and shifts on his *feet*... and
Barb *had* been sure she'd gotten her sweater buttoned
and the shirt under it on the right way -- her pants? No,
they're zippered.

But then... her father is *Jim Gordon*, and that's... well.
"Um... Dad, I --"

"Now, listen, pumpkin --"

He hasn't called her that in *ages*. Barb fights back the
blush as best she can. "I -- yes?"

"I know -- I know you're proud of me, and you have no idea
how much -- well, how much it *means* to me that you
want to follow in my footsteps --"

"Of course I do!"

"It's just that I never wanted -- you deserve *better* than
a cop's life, sweetheart. That's all I'm saying. And I -- I saw
that you brought home those brochures, and I'm *glad*
you're thinking about going back to school, but I just. I
just think you should think even *more* about entering
the Academy after you graduate. I mean, there's all kinds
of things a smart girl like you can do with a Criminal Justice
degree."

Oh. Well. Oh. Hmm. "Dad --"

"Now, I'm not saying -- I wouldn't *forbid* you or
anything," and her father has his hands up like... like a
*suspect*.

"Daddy, really --"

"I *remember* that silent treatment the last time I said
*anything* -- well, that's all past now, and anyway, I just
want you to know that no matter *what* you decide, that
you'll always be my little girl."

And that's -- she hugs her father, just as hard as she can,
until he makes that little 'oof' sound he used to make when
she was little and would run at him at full-tilt just to be
caught and lifted into the air...

It really *doesn't* matter.

"You know, Dad, Renee wasn't all that -- I mean, she didn't
exactly *encourage* me."

"What? Oh, I --"

"Just in case you were planning on glaring at her until she
shrank two inches shorter tomorrow."

"Pumpkin! I wouldn't ever -- you say she *didn't* encourage
you?"

Barb laughs and gives her father another squeeze. Really,
even with everything frustrating and disturbing and just
plain *wrong* in the world...

Well, there's nothing so wrong that family can't cure,
right?

*

This isn't a club, either.

It's more of a *bar*, and even the fact that there's music
playing -- good and *dance-able* music isn't really enough
to excuse --

Matches' hand on his ass is big, warm, possessive -- and
more of a slap than a caress.

Dick balances automatically to keep from rocking on his
high heels. "Matches --"

"Make me proud, sweet thing," he says, right into Dick's ear,
and --

And the last time he'd tried anything remotely like this, he
hadn't really been... well, remotely *himself*. It had been
for... some damn thing for somebody's idea of justice --
Batman's, and...

And he wasn't wearing a red dress, red high heels, and a
little red collar too thin to hide anything about his throat.

He *had* been wearing falsies.

Dick doesn't look anything like a woman, even though
Matches had yanked the tie entirely for the night, because
this isn't a club -- it's a *bar*, and a specific kind of bar at
that, and the man he's meeting likes his women to have
penises.

Dick snorts to himself and sashays over, letting himself be
a little awkward, a little unsure...

It's just another performance, this time because there's one
part of the city Matches has *never* been able to get a
foothold in, and... well.

The fact that his contact -- mid *or* high level dealer, and
no one seems to know for sure -- doesn't so much greet
him as grin so wide the top of his head looks like it's gonna
fall off is, he thinks, a pretty good sign.

"You're stunning."

Dick smiles, tasting cheap red lipstick and leaning back a
little -- just enough so anyone paying attention could tell
what he has under the very, very tight dress. "I'm taken."

"Oh, darling. Not the thug by the bar...?"

Dick tosses his hair over his shoulder and just...

This one isn't anything like the Senator. He's fit, he's young,
and he looks like he has -- something of -- a brain behind
his stylish little green shades.

It's just that the *eyes* behind the shades are the same --
hungry enough to make Dick want to sweat and *need* to
do...

Everything he already is. He smiles a little wider.

He leans in, crossing his arms just enough to call attention
to the size of his hands and to let the top of the dress gape a
bit.

"The thug by the bar, as you call him, has a proposition."

"And thinks I'll get softened up by a pretty face...? You
shaved a *little* too close for that, gorgeous."

Dick shrugs, and cups his own smooth cheek. "What can I
say? I'm vain."

"Tch. Uneven stubble can be such a *trial*... but honey.
Cut to the chase. I'm too busy for you --"

"*Because* I'm taken?" Dick uses the length of his legs to
stroke the man's thigh a little with the toe of one cheap
little shoe.

"Are you trying to tell me that's negotiable...?"

Is it? It's a good enough question that he turns to give a
look to Matches -- doing it slow, letting his head roll and his
hair fall in a little flood over his collarbone.

It doesn't matter that he can't see the man's eyes. He can
*feel* them.

And, after a moment, he can feel Matches' too. Right
through the shades. Right through his *skin*. "Mm, don't
think so. Still --"

"And really, sweetheart, forgive me --"

"Anything," Dick says, starting to smile long enough before
he turns that it's nice and broad and *slick* by the time he's
facing his contact again.

He gets a quiet little choke out of it.

Nice.

"You're not -- I was going to say you're *not* Matches'
usual type."

No, that *would've* involved falsies. And a gaff. And a
much wider collar -- Dick leans in *close*, letting the man
smell the perfume that cost more than everything he's
wearing -- including the perfectly-balanced hunting knife
strapped high on his thigh. "Tell you a secret...?"

"I'm all ears, gorgeous --"

"And I'm -- his son."

That gets a better choke, and it's a good thing being
obvious under the dress is, well. A good thing. Even with
how fucked-*up* it all is, or maybe *because* it's so
fucked -- Matches knows him.

"Matches -- *Dad* -- thinks you might have had the wrong
idea about his... attitudes, for all these years," he says, and
leans back again. "He just wants to make *sure* you
understand... that he's not a very *narrow* sort of guy."

The man is blinking now and -- blushing a little. Eyeing him
differently. He's *embarrassed* now, like he just got
caught making eyes at someone's --

Dick gives up and laughs -- but still makes sure it's nice and
throaty and low. "So maybe you two *can* do a little
business, someday...?"

"Oh... Lord above. Don't you worry your pretty little head
about it, darling. I -- and my business associates -- are
always looking for broad-minded individuals."

Dick smiles. "I was hoping you'd say something like that."

"But..."

"Yes, sugar...?"

"Do us a favor and take the man *shopping*, would you?"

*

The tea Alfred gives him tastes horrible and makes him
cough so hard his throat actually *bleeds* a little.

Tim not only *can't* talk after drinking it, he's not sure he's
ever going to want to, again.

And, when he's done puking, Batman *and* Nightwing are
standing there waiting for him. Staring at him and staring
him *down* -- he gets it. Time to explain.

The other is waiting for him at -- *on* -- the console, and
it's enough of a relief to walk into friendly territory that he
can type up his report without wanting to puke again.
Much.

Because they're... who they are, Batman and Nightwing
actually wait for him to, like, proofread and *print* the
thing -- two copies -- before they look it over. And that
gives both him and his other time to check on Batgirl.

The other doesn't miss him checking the restraints he'd
managed to insist on via signs and gestures -- and checks
the ones on *his* side of the gurney.

The other looks at him -- and it's a question, but even if he
could talk he wouldn't really have an answer.

They wait, and --

"She was out of control." It's Nightwing, and it's not a
question at all.

"Hm. The man had set the fire --"

He gestures -- he gives up and crosses to Batman, thumps
him right in the armor, and points at Batgirl.

Nightwing is the one who nods. "She *said* it was the man
who'd set the fire, and -- have there been reports of his
status?"

Tim cuts a hand over his own throat. The building had gone
down minutes after he'd gotten Batgirl out. He's not even
sure if all the *firefighters* had gotten out all right.

Nightwing nods, and that's -- that's *good*. He's *always*
good at stepping in when one of them -- any of them --
steps *out* of line.

But Batman...

Batman's still frowning at the paper like maybe Tim had
fucked the *grammar* up too badly for him to understand
it.

"Batman," the other says, moving up on Batman's other
side. "Batman, this is -- we need to get this *fixed*."

And Batman grunts and sets the paper down, and *looks*
at Batgirl...

And then just looks at her, not soft, not *right*, but kind
of...

Nightwing's the only one in this room not thinking of her
bent over a vaulting horse, Tim would lay *money*.

"I'll take care of it," Batman says.

"But --"

"I said I'll take care of it," and he waves the other *and*
himself off like nothing. Like the whole *night* was
nothing.

And the fact that Nightwing's got that dead fucking stare of
his aimed right *at* Batman, now, doesn't really make Tim
feel any better.

*

Bruce hadn't realized he'd dozed off until after he feels small,
hard hands -- three of them, to be precise -- shaking him
awake.

He sits up as quickly as he can, peels the form authorizing
Lucius to raise funding to WayneTech R&D off his face, and
does a good job of not jumping out of his skin when he
sees the boys.

Which is good, because *they* look...

Hmm. "Boys? Is everything okay?"

It's almost natural to see them look at each other before
responding to anything like a substantive question, now,
even though Bruce supposes that they'd really ought to
*know*...

He shakes his head -- internally. Everyone needs
reassurance, sometimes. "Please, tell me."

"Well we --"

"-- can't. Exactly. But. We just."

"-- you like spending time. With us."

Which is -- well, of course, and Bruce is moving before he
can think about it, pulling his chair far enough away from
the desk to make room, and -- but. "What's wrong with
your -- *your*," he says, reaching for the one on the right
and touching his throat. "You've been *hurt*."

The boys don't -- the one on the *left* looks to the other,
to Tim, who's been hurt, but the hurt one --

None of the ways to distinguish between them feel correct,
or, if he's honest, anything but shameful, *limiting*.

Bruce shakes his head and pulls them both close, trying to
remember the ways his father had touched him when
he'd both hurt himself and had no way to express how.
But... he's not a doctor.

"Tim, please -- I mean, Tim-who-can-still-*talk* --"

"There was a fire tonight, Dad. Bruce. Dad -- I can't do this."

"No, please -- is everyone -- was it the smoke? Boys, Tim,
please tell me --"

And it's worrying that they don't do anything but hug him
tighter, but... but it's also right, isn't it?

No, it *is*.

They -- they're *boys*, and he's their father, and it's his job
to make things *okay* for them. And that's. "You know,
boys, you don't *have* to -- it's good that you're Robin,
and the city does -- the city is so much better for having
you, both of you, but that doesn't make it your
*responsibility* --"

They don't make a sound. Just -- *stiffen* in his arms, and
Bruce can feel nothing but muscle and bone and *tension*,
just as though he's... he's touching them *inappropriately*.

And holding them tighter just makes it -- worse.

Bruce bites his lip and lets go...

And watches them each take a step back, and remembers
the sight of them scrambling *away*, running and
climbing --

God, at least they'd been *laughing*, then.

"Boys, I -- please let me help."

And for a moment there's just -- nothing, but then.

They smile, small and quiet and perfectly in time.

"Boys...?"

They reach for him -- they start to reach, and stop, and
look at each other, and the smiles on their faces are --
there's something desperately endearing about how
*rueful* the smiles are.

Or -- how they would be, if they were for anyone but
themselves.

"It's okay. We're -- we just. Needed a hug."

And the one who can't talk in anything but a rough
*grate* -- nods, and smiles fractionally wider, and --
mouths. "Thank you."

And there's nothing in their stances which would suggest
that he *couldn't* hug them again... except for how there
is.

Bruce nods, dumbly in what feels like *every* possible
definition of the term, and watches them go --
presumably -- to bed.

*

Barb never would've guessed that cooking bacon would be
so challenging -- certainly she wouldn't have guessed it
would involve quite so many tiny, grease-intensive *burns*.

Granted, none of them are serious, but perhaps next time
she should acquire an apron of some sort. Perhaps made of
*leather* --

Or nothing of the kind.

And really, some of the challenge probably has a fair
amount to do with the fact that she'd consumed rather a
lot of alcohol the night before, but *that* had been...

Well. A Girls' Night Out, like her father said, though --
undoubtedly -- a rather more...

Barb smiles to herself, covers the frying pan with the first
cover that looks big enough to fit the thing, and decides to
let the bacon cook without her interference. She can't
change the nature of bacon, either --

And that's an amusing enough thought that she laughs, a
little.

Her father is moving around upstairs. He'll want the
newspaper, and certainly some coffee, as well. And --
there are still those files she'd gotten from the Batman...

She can check those later.

*

"You *know*, Matches --"

"Yeah, kiddo...?" His voice is actually almost absent, and
Dick can tell that he's more focused on wherever he's
leading them to than on anything else.

Which is fine, because *Dick* is still in the stupid little
heels -- and everything else -- and he needs to focus a
little, too, just to keep from getting his toes crushed by
any of the people in *this* -- different -- bar. Just a
little, though. "If you *are* gonna want to do business
in this part of town... we probably are going to have to
do something about *your* wardrobe."

"You think so...?"

... and apparently *really* focused, and now they're turning,
and the bar's crowded, but not that much. "Uh -- well,
*yes*. You want these people to take you seriously, don't
you?"

"'These people,' Dickie? Tch. Somebody sounds
*insensitive*."

"Oh, don't even --"

"Here," Matches says, shoving him a little toward an
unmarked door, which, when it opens, turns out to lead to
a darkened little closet of a bathroom.

"What --"

"*Right* here," and Matches doesn't so much shove again
as *move* Dick inside with the entirety of his body, and
then he closes the door behind him.

And locks it. "Oh, you gotta be --"

'*Kidding* me,' he was *going* to say, but now he's bent
over the sink -- and it feels clean *enough* under his
hands that this must be the *employee* bathroom -- and
talking is a little more difficult.

"*Fuck*, Matches --" as opposed to cursing. He can still --

Fucking *yelp*, because the slap to his ass was both hard
*and* a shock --

The next one isn't, and neither is the feel of the dress
sliding up over his ass -- halfway up his *back* --

"M -- Matches --"

"Look at it this way, gorgeous -- it's not like I could do this
in the *other* bar. You're my *son*, after all --"

"Oh, you fucking -- I can't *believe* this --"

"Can't you?"

And those are his boxer-briefs sliding *down*, and why did
he even bother *buying* the things for himself?

"C'mon, baby -- answer me."

"I... just --just fucking hurry *up*, Matches!"

"Aww, and here I got us this fine and *private* little place..."

It makes something ping and flare and -- disappear in
Dick's mind, something important enough that Dick feels it
going and wants to reach for it -- "*God* --"

And can't, because the slick is warm -- Matches must've
had it in his *pocket* -- and there's *enough* of it -- but
'enough' isn't a real concept when considered against
Matches' big fucking *fingers*, blunt and pushing and --
*twisting* --

He's up on his toes and gritting his teeth --

"You okay, baby? Baby boy... oh, you're so fine I can't
*stand* it --"

He's sweating down the center of his spine, and the dress
is -- *sticking* --

"Just so -- *beautiful*. Perfect little thing, *pretty* little --"

"Don't -- God, don't -- *fuck* --"

Harder now, faster -- he knows it's not going to feel like
he's being fucked a few dozen thrusts from now, but
*right* now --

"Don't what? Don't love you, baby?"

"Matches -- *please* --"

"See, I can't -- I --" The grunt is low and deep and
*growling* --

And nothing against the *stretch* inside him, to the -- fuck,
Matches is making *room* for his dick -- right -- right
inside --

"It's because I *do* love you, baby -- and I'm gonna show
you how much."

"I -- oh -- oh, fuck, Jesus -- God I --"

Dick hears himself -- feels himself -- hissing, *spitting* out
a breath, saliva on his face and --

And the *light*.

Bare bulb above them, swinging and yellow and *harsh*.
And the mirror --

The mirror is the cleanest thing in here. The mirror smells
like -- like cheap fake pine --

He doesn't care what it *smells* like.

It's just --

It's him, wide open mouth and wide open *eyes*, and he's
gotten his lipstick a little smeared --

And the next thrust makes him bite his lip, makes him stick
his tongue out and pant --

He's --

He's right there.

"You see, baby?"

He sees.

"Nobody loves you like -- heh -- *Daddy*."

*

Tim wakes up to the feel of the bed shifting, dipping --

Tim smiles and stops and doesn't reach, because Bruce is
their *father*, no *really* --

And then the other makes a sound he knows from the
inside, knows in his *dick* --

And that's when Tim feels the brush of the cape along his
chest and side.

"Batman --"

"Wait -- your turn."

And that wasn't really a hesitation so much as what could
only *be* a lick, *Batman* licking -- tasting --

And then the mattress is moving again, and these sounds --

These are different, but not -- not *really*.

They're the same sounds he'd be making if Batman was
sucking and licking -- and *biting*, he'd have to be --

They're the same sounds, only filtered through a truly
*fucked* up throat. His other still can't talk -- and neither
of them will be going to school tomorrow, so it's possible
that this makes sense.

Except for how Tim had *thought* everyone had agreed
that this -- this wasn't for the *manor*, as opposed to the
Cave. Or.

Maybe...

Tim holds himself as still as he can. He's *waiting*, and
maybe if he waits long enough someone will explain when
and how the rules changed, or if the rules were ever
really there.

He thinks about saying something about how if Bruce
*does* catch him -- them -- then Batman will have to do
something really disturbing to keep the man from turning
*Batman* in --

But he doesn't, because Batman knows that. Right...?

He starts to turn, and -- stops. It's not like he can *see*
anything, and right about now he kind of regrets not letting
Alfred give him a night-light when he'd first moved in --

That sound would be a scream, he thinks, if Tim -- if his
other could --

And the mattress is moving *rhythmically* now, really --
really *obviously*.

He doesn't need a night-light, and he doesn't really --

The hand on him -- is a hand, not a gauntlet. It's *his*
hand, only not, because things are kind of crazy right now --

It's the other's, and it's kind of -- reaching and scratching
and *grasping*, and Tim takes it in his own and holds on.

And waits his turn.

*

It's everything he's ever wanted, up to and *including*
how *cold* the gauntlets are on his hips, and the scratch
he's going to have over his ribs from the cowl.

It's -- it's *Batman*, and no one else, nothing confusing or
strange or impossible to understand, and his legs spread
just that wide, his knees press right *up* against his chest --

He can *do* this, and he is, and if it's better that he can
hold the other's hand, too --

It *is*, and he's not thinking about what is -- isn't -- under
that cowl, and he's not tasting the blood in his mouth
from all the screaming he shouldn't even be trying to do --
it's just a *little* --

And then the other *squeezes* his hand, really hard, and
he doesn't understand --

But then he smells *smoke* and *leather* --

"Which one of you good good *good* Robins got me out
of that big nasty fire, tonight, hmm? Who gets the reward?"

And the other is squeezing his hand again, and the smell is
gonna choke him, and Batman's so huge and he's not --

He's not *stopping* --

"Oh, like I actually *care*," Batgirl says, and hums, and
moves --

And Batman doesn't make a sound, but he makes it really
*loudly* --

"Aww, bunny, you showered so much you barely even
smell like *boy* --"

"Oh *fuck*," the other says, and he can't --

He can still squeeze.

And he does.

*

"Say hey, honey-girl. What are you doing for lunch?"

And Renee sounds... mm. That's exactly what she sounds
like, especially since *behind* her voice is the precinct, all
alive and bustling -- her father is back there, somewhere,
and Barb smiles. "I wasn't planning anything special," she
says, and that's entirely honest --

"In *that* case... there's this little diner I know that, now
that I think about it, is about as close to directly between
you and me right now as you can get without a map and
a ruler. How 'bout it?"

Really *very* honest... especially since Barb can't seem to
remember what she *had* been planning, or doing, or...

She's still in the robe she put on this morning, and her
pajamas are still under it.

She's -- she was at the kitchen table when the phone rang,
just like how she was when her father had left.

How very *strange* --

"Barb? Still there? Or --" Renee laughs. "Oh, I'm doing the
lesbian joke thing, aren't I?"

"*Who's* a lesbian, Montoya?" And that's Harvey, obvious
in the distance.

"*You* are, Bullock. Why don't you go munch a little
carpeting -- you look hungry!"

And then there's laughter, and -- her father must have the
door to his office closed. Barb frowns.

"*Anyway* -- now that I've scared you off but not off the
phone -- I can hear you breathing -- what do you say?"

"Oh! Sorry, I was just thinking -- no, I'm *not* doing
anything for lunch. Just -- give me the address?"

"You okay over there?" Renee's voice is quiet and the
particular kind of 'concerned' that only a police officer --
*real* police -- can get, the kind that on anyone *else*
would be suspicious.

It makes her think of bringing home dates for her father
to meet, and Barb smiles again. "Oh, I'm fine -- but I'm
going to need a little time to get ready."

Renee laughs, quiet and private. "Yeah, you should've seen
me staggering in this morning -- *ay*. Anyway, why don't
we try for two or so?"

*Two*? But that's --

The clock on the stove says it's almost twelve-*thirty*. Her
father had left -- how...?

It's not important. "Two's fine, Renee."

"Great! I'll see you then."

"Mm-hmm."

Barb hangs up, and pauses -- there was... wasn't she
supposed to do... something? She doesn't know, and it's
possible her father would, but he won't be home for hours.

It can't have been very important.

*

Tim wakes up and feels --

The other is awake, too, or now, or something.

"Morning," he tries to say, and gets out 'mor' and
something that sounds like a puppy being strangled by
Batman.

"Yeah, don't try," the other says, and groans.

Tim nods. If he could, he'd groan, too.

The sheets -- the *room* --

"God, this place is -- shit, is Bruce gonna try to wake us up
for school?"

Tim's out of the bed just like that, and never mind the fact
that it feels like his thigh-muscles were being used to string
a guitar last night. He heads for the window and yanks it
open, pulling the curtains back, too for maximum air
circulation --

"Ow, God, I *hate* the sun --"

Yes, they do. But --

"I know, I know. Blech, which one of us *bled* on the
sheets?"

Tim looks himself over -- and points to his chest. He's
actually gonna have to disinfect the wound from the
pointy little Bat-ear of doom.

The other looks at the wound, and at the sheets, and
frowns.

Tim shrugs.

The other holds *up* the sheets -- and that's an impressive
amount of blood. Tim points at the other and raises his
eyebrows.

"Just some scratches and bites -- and yeah, I'll disinfect,
*too*, but..."

He remembers, just before passing out, getting shoved to
the side and mostly on top of the other, so that Batman
and Batgirl could --

"Oh... man. Eugh. *They* should be cleaning up."

Tim makes his own face, and shrugs again.

"Yeah, I know. Still."

They bundle the sheets into a pile... that immediately
unscrunches and is obvious and also reeks. They yank the
pillowcases off, too -- the one spattered with little blood
droplets...

Well, they're little, but still there.

"I say we set fire to the whole set."

Tim punches the other's fists and goes to find some clothes.

"But -- we also."

That's not all they have to do. Tim clenches his fists at his
sides.

"I mean. You know. It *works* --"

Except for how it really doesn't.

"I mean, I didn't even *see* -- what Batgirl did."

He's dead. There's a dead man, and it's their fault.

"Shit. What do we -- *who* do we even call?"

He knows. *They* know. And... and Tim gives up and
looks at the other over his shoulder.

The other nods. "It's just... how do we do it *and* keep --
*Batman* from --"

Neither of them shudder, because neither of them have to.

"Yeah, okay. So we do this... quietly."

They can do quiet.

*

It's still not the kind of dancing Dick wanted to do, but it's...

Well, it's Matches, and he's starting to *get* that the guy
has just a few kinks and is just a little serious about them.

A little.

The music might as well have come out forty -- *sixty* --
years ago, it's so slow and sweet and...

No, he has to stick with sweet.

Just the kind of thing for a guy and his -- *girl* to sway to,
nice and slow. Dick rolls his eyes and --

And the pinch to his hip is a reminder, an acknowledgment,
and a *pinch*.

"I'm being good."

"You always are, beautiful. You always are."

Right. Dick gives up and throws his arms around Matches'
neck -- and the smile comes from over the shades *and*
the man's mouth. And --

The hand on his hip moves around -- a little -- more. Just
enough to cup his ass and squeeze.

"Too bad we got a little more business to do tonight."

Dick grins, and grins more when the flush he can feel on
*his* face makes those eyes get a little sharper and a lot
more -- focused.

It could be a lot worse, all things considered.

*

Bruce finds the boys waiting for him at the breakfast table,
which is so much of a surprise he drops his briefcase.

He hadn't even *planned* to have breakfast, really. He'd
had... trouble sleeping, and he was already running late,
but --

"Alfred didn't think you'd be able to, but --"

The other -- he still can't really *speak* -- points to the
empty place setting between them, and --

And they smile.

Bruce smiles back. "I don't get the head of the table...?"

The boys look at each other -- and then each move their
chairs *away* from the place setting between them. And
look at him again -- *hopefully*.

It's terrible that the move is something of a relief, and it's
terrible that they feel -- "Of course I'll have breakfast with
you. Lucius is -- well, distressingly accustomed to me
being late, and -- and that's neither here nor there." Bruce
sits down between them, and smiles at them each in turn.
"So what *is* for breakfast this morning?"

"Alfred said something about eggs, and --"

Bruce knows the pause well enough to look to the other,
but the other just shrugs.

Neither of them seem... remotely interested in food as more
than fuel. Bruce frowns a little, and resists the urge to
stroke the other's hair -- he's *hurt* -- and then he doesn't
resist.

And -- the *other* bumps Bruce's arm.

And is smiling when he turns.

There's an odd pain in his arm -- in both of them, actually,
now that he thinks about it.

Hm. He hadn't had the chance to play squash yesterday...

Was it yesterday?

He...

"Sorry, Dad."

The other grunts with what sounds like...

Like... something.

He's really very tired.

*

"Miss? Miss...?"

Barb blinks to herself, clutches her purse, and --

And she's in a diner. How... strange.

"Miss, did you want to order something...?"

"No, I -- I don't --"

And then the bell rings, and Renee walks through the door,
and Barb remembers, and smiles.

"Sorry, I --" She checks the waitress' name tag. "Sorry,
Marie, I was just woolgathering. The woman I'm having
lunch with has arrived. Could you bring us another menu...?"

Marie nods, and eyes her a little -- but just a little.

"Sorry about that, Barb -- but *you* know how it goes."

She does. Her father tended to count every meal he
*wasn't* late to as a personal victory in a very obvious
manner. "It's really okay, Renee. I wasn't waiting long." At
least, she doesn't think she was...

It's all right.

Barb smiles.

"God, you've got this..." Renee shakes her head and laughs
at herself. "You know, I never would've guessed you could
ever have a soft smile, you know? I... probably sound like
an idiot."

"You really don't --"

"I blame the great sex," Renee says, and raises her
eyebrows in a laugh that apparently only gets to be offered
aloud... in a different sort of place. Or when they're alone.

Barb smiles and looks down at her hands. *Batgirl* probably
wouldn't spare a moment's thought to the *normal*
reasons a young woman might want to keep her nails
trimmed neatly.

"*Anyway*... I was gonna say. That smile -- the one on
your face right now? It actually reminds me a lot of your
Dad, when I think about it -- oh, God." And Renee covers
her face with one hand. "Great sex and not a lot of sleep."

Like her father. Yes, she likes that. "And liquor. Quite a fair
amount..."

Renee snorts, and drags her hand back down from over her
face. "That, too. Right. Look -- I just wanted to say. This --"
She waves a hand between them -- "*We* can be anything
you're cool with. But I'd like to make sure we *are*, you
know?"

Barb -- well, it seems a little silly to smile again, but she
almost has to.

There's just -- something so strong and sure and *normal*
about Renee, when the past several years have been
anything but.

"I'd like that," she says, and reaches across to take Renee's
hand in her own.

It's really... well, *Renee* reminds Barb of her father, too.

And eating lunch is awkward when you're holding hands,
and having anything like a *conversation* is awkward
when you're trying to eat fairly quickly -- Renee, of course,
has to get back to *work* --

But it's the sort of awkwardness that's right and... and
*perfect*, somehow.

Just like the sound of her voice, so soft and gruff and
*secure* against her throat, and her stomach...

And then the bell over the door rings again, and it
*wouldn't* be enough to distract Barb --

Except for the fact that it's Tim. Both of them.

"Oh... damn."

"Barb? Is something wrong?" And Renee looks around
immediately, of course, and eyes the boys. "Shouldn't they
be in school?"

"Almost certainly," Barb says, "but..."

"You know them?"

Yes. No. "I... yes. I know their... father, actually." Just as
they know *hers*.

"Well, it looks like they want you for *something*."

Barb sighs, and frowns, and...

And remembers. The files. She hadn't really -- there are
*two* of them when there *should* only be -- why hadn't
she... she shakes it off. As much as she --

No, she can't shake it off *too* much. "I -- there *is*
something I should talk to them about."

"Random maternal instincts...?"

Barb laughs hard enough to -- almost -- cough. "Not --
even remotely."

Renee's smile is rather more of a grin. "Glad to hear it,
honey... and I should be getting back to work, anyway."

She slides out from the table, leaving enough money on the
table to cover both of their meals (of course), and looks
the Tims *over*.

There's a part of Barb which has the vague idea that it's
something she should -- or, at least, could -- be concerned
about, but it really is vague.

"Well...?"

"We need to talk to you someplace more -- private than
this."

And she *doubts* that, but -- but should she? Really?
There's... And it's strange that the other one didn't say
anything as opposed to simply nodding.

Well, it *has* all been very confused. And so has she...
hasn't she?

"Babs? You in there?"

She waves him -- them -- off and stands. It's not like she
had anything else to do.

"Though -- you don't happen to know where Dick is? He's
kind of... off the radar."

"Why would I know that?"

*

The rest of their business had taken them to a motel just a
little too shady even for *him*, but, well, it's not like you
wanted to do your kneecapping -- if that's even what
happened, and certainly *he* doesn't know a *thing*,
officer -- at the Hilton.

Still, even once Matches had sent their -- contact -- off to
go forth and sin no more with *their* money...

It's funny to think of it as theirs, as opposed to his.

Funny, but also -- not, and --

He wouldn't want to sit down on any of this furniture in
*Matches*' clothes. Not that he has all that many of his
own -- the dress just doesn't count -- but...

But...

"Restless, gorgeous...?"

"Disgusted, more like -- Jesus, Matches, how much longer
do we have to stay in this pit?"

"The individual we had to meet with this fine evening did
not have a vehicle of his own --"

"But we do --"

"And, despite our best efforts to the contrary, said individual
just may be wearing a little of our DNA -- or vice versa..."

"I'm *not* taking my clothes off in this hole --"

"*And*, pretty boy -- it'd be just a little *importune* for the
two of us to be in range of said contact before *he* gets
back home and... well, you gotta hope he's gonna *behave*
now," Matches says, and stretches on the bed, arms and
legs and chest.

It makes him seem... larger than he already is. It shouldn't
look that *good* with the man wearing a suit with more
colors than his old... than that old... he doesn't know. Either
way --

He *also* has a point.

And if he walks on his hands in this room, he'll wind up with
hepatitis of the palms or some shit -- "Fine. Just --"

"Just what, baby? Bored already...?"

And -- "Yes. And --"

"Disgusted. Yeah, I got that." And Matches sits up, fast and
smooth and dangerous, shifts down to the foot of the bed
that's probably leaving more genetic material on his clothes
than any *beating* could, and... crooks his finger.

Dick makes a face. "I already said I wouldn't strip here,
*Dad*."

"Who says I need your clothes off? Come here. Let me...
heh." The smile on his face is knowing and -- irritatingly --
private.

"Why should I?"

"So I can look at you, baby. Yeah. Turn around like that --
we should get you some tighter jeans. Maybe..."

"God, Matches --"

"Take your jacket off? I'll hold it for you, I promise."

It's over and down his shoulders just that fast, and the back
of Dick's neck feels... warm. *Watched*.

He hands the jacket back without turning, and stands, and
just...

"What do you want, Matches?"

"What do I want? I've got everything I want right here...
except maybe for some music. I know you like to dance."

"I -- I like --"

"I know you like to *move*," Matches says, and there's a
sound, leather on fabric -- "No. Don't turn around. You --
you need to *feel* this."

And Dick's face -- he can feel himself flushing, but. Matches
can't see it. Not like this. "Feel... feel what?"

"Just this," Matches says. "Just me."

Watching -- no. *Seeing*.

"Yeah. I can't --" The laugh isn't private, at all. It's large,
and rueful, and open --

"Matches..."

"I can't take my eyes off you. You know that, right? You've
always... no, forget that. You know it *now*."

It's not -- he's been on worse floors, and it's just his hands --

And Matches moans, just a little, when Dick drops his legs
into a split, and spins on his hands --

It's not really --

"Just -- just like that. I'm *never* letting you go, baby."

*

"There's a stack of bodies in our bedroom. I think -- I think
that's a sign of something a little fucked, Tim."

Two bodies don't make a stack, even if they *are*
unconscious.

"Yeah, I *know* it's only two, but... still." The other Tim
frowns, and *stops* in front of the clock.

"We have to," Tim says, only it comes out like something
between a growl and a wheeze.

"God, I -- Jesus. How come *Batgirl's* throat isn't all
fucked?"

Probably because she wasn't having a panic attack and,
you know, hyperventilating in the smoky inferno of death.
Tim shrugs.

Enough of that comes through that the other Tim nods. "It's
just... we're about to -- what we're about to do --"

Feels like a betrayal. Tim nods again, and looks at his feet.

"And maybe -- it's not like --"

They aren't scared, or anything. Neither Batman *nor*
Batgirl will see this coming. They've been well-*behaved*.

"But still. You know... even after we get them all together,
we still have to figure out --"

What to do with them. Except not, because that's what the
*League* is for. God -- had Batman even told them...
anything?

"Fuck it, maybe I *am* a little scared, but you can just shut
the fuck up -- you're not the one Batgirl fucked up the ass.
And that's when she was *happy*."

Tim blinks, and looks at the other -- and *looks*, because
he can tell by the feel that the look on his face isn't the
same.

"Just --" The other crosses his arms over his chest, and
looks at the clock again, and --

And it's not about Batgirl -- or any of the others. Not really.

And of course if he puts his hand on the other's arm, it'll
just leave him open for about six different punches -- and
eight different strikes -- none of which he needs right now,
so he just *moves*, instead, pushing close and pushing the
other against the clock.

After a minute, the other stops tensing and hugs.

And laughs. "Bruce has been good for us. In a way."

Tim snorts.

"And yeah, well. I can't even remember which of us came
first --"

It was him. Maybe. Or -- he doesn't know, either.

"It'll be -- different. Without you."

Tim nods. Because it doesn't really matter that they *won't*
be... without each other. Not really.

And the other pushes off, and goes for a throat-strike that
won't be. He knows it, and tilts his head back, and the
other touches his throat, just for a second.

And then they open the clock.

They get maybe halfway down the stairs before they really
*have* to stop again, because Batgirl is naked and --

Batgirl is naked, and not actually fucking Batman, who's
right there, but she's naked, and there's no cowl, and she --

Well, maybe it was stupid to think she *wouldn't* have
eyes, since it's *her* cowl, but... still.

It's the same face as the one on the unconscious woman
upstairs, only showing a lot more teeth.

There's way too many almost-fresh burns and -- thread
coming out of her back?

"Batgirl. You *need* stitches."

"It *hurts*. I don't want to. I want to -- I'm only bleeding
a *little*!"

The other stops him from pulling the tranq gun he's had
strapped to his back since this morning -- Alfred couldn't
get the shoulder-rigs to sit right under any of their clothes --
and... yeah.

Maybe --

Maybe Batman...

In any case, not *yet*.

They head further down the stairs carefully, a little slower.
It's not that they haven't already (probably?) been seen, it's
just that Batgirl's holding one of the explosive batarangs,
and -- yeah. Time to be a little cautious.

"Batgirl," Batman starts, and moves a step closer.

Batgirl *growls*.

"Unacceptable. If you don't get stitched, I can't let you have
any of your spare uniforms, and you won't be able to join
us on patrol."

Seriously? *Seriously*? That's *it*?

And the other pokes him in the side again, but --

Tim shakes his *head*. That's just -- Batman *has* to see
Batgirl isn't *street*-ready --

"Clayface," the other says, soft and quiet and clear.

Tim bites his lip. It's not that he was going to -- it's. It's.

"*Clayface*."

Tim closes his eyes and nods. Batman doesn't *have* the
same kind of hard and fast -- anything that Nightwing does.
It's what makes him *easier*, more *fun* --

"It's not. It's not better," the other says, and it's kind of like
a soundtrack to everything else, now, because Batman has
that no-teeth smile on his face, like maybe his eyes -- does
he have eyes, too? -- are *blazing* behind the cowl, like
it feels when Freeze shoots you and you have to tell
yourself that you're *not* burning.

That it's -- the opposite --

"Batgirl. Let me stitch you."

"*No*!"

"I don't take 'no' for an answer," Batman says, quiet and
reasonable and *moving*, closer --

Batgirl drops into a ready-stance that has her about two and
a half moves from something that'll maim, at least --

"You *know* that," and then they're --

It's too fast to see and that's *good*, because it's too
fucking *harsh* to watch.

It ends with Batgirl's head bouncing off the floor of the
Cave once -- *twice* --

And Batgirl's legs are splayed -- spread --

And it's still not now. It's still.

"That's better, Batgirl. That's -- mm. Let's just..."

And, by rights, Batman *shouldn't* be able to flip Batgirl
that easily, not from *that* position, but enough of the
fight's out of her that -- that.

Tim swallows.

The other does, too. "At least he's... doing the stitching."

Tim nods, and they wait, and they *wait* and they
*watch* --

"You should be practicing, Robins," Batman says, and that's
absolutely a *threat*, but it's a coherent sentence, *and*
he's still stitching up Batgirl's fucking *wound*, even
though --

Even.

"This is why he's Batman," the other whispers, and it's so
hilarious Tim thinks he's going to puke.

It's still not -- there.

The first uneven stitch might be -- *might* be -- just a
mistake, but they *move* on the second, tumbling down
from the stairs instead of leaping for maximum momentum.

"You really shouldn't -- mm -- try to distract me when I'm
*working*, Robins --"

He pulls the gun first, aims for the little bit of thigh showing
on the left -- and waits -- and shoots Batgirl just in time for
the other to take Batman in the jaw when he moves his
hands to protect his thighs.

Batgirl *grunts*, but that's not a sign of anything, and he
isn't dead *sure* what the other is doing, but he flips and
*moves* --

And *hears* Batman coming up -- it takes *too long* for
the sedatives to take effect, *because*, in retrospect,
they've all had to shoot the man way too many fucking
times in the past --

And he flips and *dives* and doesn't know why until he
sees the batarang that would've taken a piece of his ear
stick and shudder in the mats.

It doesn't matter. Batman's staggering -- the other's gotten
him at least twice more in the face -- and *he's* got
another shot loaded.

Too much armor on the chest, and the only clear face-shot
he gets would take out the lens and maybe *blind*
Batman --

But, well, his dick is still hanging out.

Tim shoots, winces, whirls in time to *catch* Batgirl's
fucking explosive 'rang, doesn't panic, doesn't panic --

And then the other takes it and uses a code *he* doesn't
know to deactivate the thing, and they breathe.

Well, the other does. "What code *is* that?" he says, and
never mind that it fucking hurts and wouldn't make sense
to anyone who couldn't read lips.

"First time Batgirl got laid in the suit," the other says, and
shrugs. "Total guess."

Which... okay. He remembers that story, because he got to
*hear* it the first time --

"It used to be a lot more fun to remember her shoving me
to my knees and cock-slapping me with that dildo."

It really did. She'd carved a little bat on it and everything.

"I just... you're right," the other Tim says, and whips out
his zip-strips.

Tim whips out his own and raises his eyebrows.

"We've gotta get that *back*."

Totally yes, Tim thinks, and nods, and works on restraining
Batman --

*Starts* to work on restraining Batman, because there's a
very *specific* kind of 'rang currently pinning his strip to
the mats.

Tim has just enough time to think "shit, *Nightwing* --"
before the flying kick makes everything go *really* fucking
bright.

*

The apartment seems old and stale and abandoned when
they get back, like they'd been gone for weeks instead of
just the better part of the last two days.

Still, the look the landlady had given Matches said the rent
had maybe been paid up for the next -- *ever*, and the
smell of cabbage on the stairs felt like --

Well, it felt like home.

Just... something about all the lives going