Dick's temple was pressed against the cold glass, his hot skin cooling as he watched the hail plummet against the window. Lighting flashed across the sky, revealing his pale face and grim surroundings. The sharp winds cut across the roads and into the metal walls of the bus, making Dick shiver and wrap his jacket tighter around himself. The bus' engine rumbled, sending vibrations through the floor to his feet as it turned a corner and trecked its way down a dark, muddy street. He watched through the transparent material, his breath fogging up the glass as he looked on with tired but careful eyes.

The badge that sat on his chest immediately drew attention, but he tried to ignore the eyes that were peering at him from the back of the bus as he attempted to not fall asleep leaning against the inner wall of the vehicle. He had been too tired to walk home after a long day at work, and he needed some rest—preferably before he slept standing up. But a young man in a police getup, falling asleep on a crappy, eroding bus was an attention-receiving thought, and that was what Dick was dealing with at the moment.

His fever had gone up—he had ignored it for several days, thinking it would have gone away quickly—and he was starting to feel sick to his stomach. He swallowed the bile that started to rise in his throat, a sure sign that he was going to be throwing up later. He closed his eyes, his face scrunched up as an uncomfortable pain passed over him. He licked his lips as the bus driver turned sharply again, his stomach rolling and tying into knots at the sudden movement. If he didn't get off soon, he was sure he was going to vomit.

When the bus finally stopped at a red light, Dick allowed himself to breathe just a little deeper at the same time his phone buzzed in his hands. Blinking away the blurriness in his vision, he turned it on to see a text message from Tim asking him if he was alright, for the teen had been waiting all day for Dick's weekly text that hadn't come yet. Dick zipped up his jacket as he pondered for a right response, then, deciding that he was too sweaty for that, unzipped it again.

The thumb and forefinger of his left hand suddenly arrived at the bridge of his nose, attempting to rub away the exhaustion and migraine that was forming quickly. He unlocked his phone with his left hand, quickly typing up a short "Yeah."

Before he could press send, however, Tim called him up. Dick sighed through his nose and brought the phone up to his ear.

"Hey 'wing, you okay? You usually text once a week to make everything's fine..."

Dick chuckled, trying to make his voice sound less tired and more chipper. "I'm fine, Timmy. You don't have to worry about me."

"... Oh," Tim said. "Okay. Alright. I was just... worried, you know? Just wanted to make sure nothing happened to you."

"I'm okay, Tim," Dick said. When an awkward silence fell over them, Dick realized he should probably end the conversation. Clearing his throat, which was too dry for his liking, he spoke up again. "If that's all, you should probably get back to your life," he suggested. Back to Bruce, you mean, he mentally added. He immediately regretted the thought.

"Right, right." Tim still didn't hang up.

"Tim?" Dick asked, trying not to let his cheerful voice fall—but he could tell that it was slowly starting to crack.

"I just... miss you," Tim admitted. "You haven't been to the mountain or the manor, or in Gotham for that matter... No one talks about you, not even Alfred or Bruce... I know things have been rough, and I know that everyone's angry, but I'm just wondering when I can see you again..."

Dick tried to hold back a cough as a pang of dejection coursed through him. He felt a frown tug at his lips as he thought about what he said. "I'll see what I can do, Timmy," he said gently, swallowing down the mucus that was once again riding up his throat." He took in a deep, shaky breath as the bus made a final stop. "I have to go," he slurred. "I'll talk to you soon."

He heard Tim make a small sound of sadness on the other side. "Alright, see you soon... hopefully."

Tim hung up, leaving Dick to shove his phone into the deep confines of his jacket's pocket. He pulled himself shakily to his feet, his legs sore from another long day as Blüdhaven police officer Richard Grayson.

The bus driver, a woman with thin arms, gave him a worried glance as he stumbled out of the bus' open doors and onto the wet pavement. He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself as he walked forward, his shoes soaked from the endless puddles that invaded the sidewalk. Hail attacked his worn-out figure, while the wind tugged at him and made him stumble.

His apartment was only a few blocks away. He could make it.

Hopefully.

He looked at his surroundings with disinterest to keep his mind off of the darker thoughts that started to poke and prod at sealed emotions he didn't want loose his grip on. It had almost been a month, he had time to recover, he should be fine.

He zipped up his jacket, wrapping his arms around his torso to keep what little warmth he had left with him. As he got closer and closer to his destination, the shadows leered farther out from their habitats and nipped at his ankles. The number of people on the streets he walked on trickled down until there was but one other person—a man with a thick trench coat on and a hood pulled over his head so Dick couldn't see his face.

Dick felt his guard go up and his shoulders tense as he passed by the man who was staring at the abandoned bakery motionlessly. As he finally found the apartment buildings where he was staying, he sighed in relief and felt his phone buzz once more. He ignored it to take his keys out with cold, wet fingers which trembled. He shook as another gust of chilled wind crawled deep into his skin and left bumps along it, his hair raised.

He finally got the key into the lock, entering the lobby sopping wet and quivering like an abandoned dog. He flinched slightly as the door slammed shut behind him before he shuffled down the hallway. His shoes left wet footprints in the carpet, and he winced at the angry look he got from the janitor that was standing not so far away. He pocketed the keys, running the pad of his thumb over the jagged part of the instrument in boredom as he started his way up the many flights of stairs.

He paused once to place his hand on the wall, trying to keep himself from stumbling too badly. He felt like he was drunk, but with the negative effects only and a killer headache. His bloodshot eyes looked up to the clock that was sitting on the wall, alerting him that it was around eleven at night. He couldn't quite remember the day—July 18th, right?

His phone buzzed again, though he ignored it for the second time that day. He could answer it later, preferably after a nap and the next morning with a cup of coffee in hand... Then again, he could have a cup tonight, too. No one was there to stop him.

He finally made it to his door, flipping through his keys to find the right one. When he finally settled on it, he unlocked the door. Or tried to—he ended up locking it. Had he forgotten to lock it that morning?

Shrugging it off, he moved into his small, homey apartment. He peeled off his jacket and shoes, leaving them by the door. He left the phone in the pocket, reassuring himself that he would come back for it later. Shuffling into the kitchen—he noted in the back of his mind the sheet of paper tucked in the corner of the counter space, just barely hidden by a ceramic container full of old (and probably stale) cookies given to him by a friend—he placed his ring of keys onto the marble counter. It made a clicking noise as it touched the shiny surface.

Opening one of his cabinets with difficulty, the loud creaking sound filling the room, he grabbed a mug and made his way to his coffee maker. He already had some left over from this morning—hopefully, it would give him enough energy to last until he went to bed.

As he poured himself some cold coffee, filling the black substance to the lip of the cup, he debated on whether or not he wanted to make something for dinner. It would be better for his health, no doubt, but he was too tired despite the fact that his stomach growled with his lack of food intake that day. And anyway, he could eat in the morning when he was well rested and didn't have to worry about falling asleep while consuming a sloppily-made meal.

Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he moved toward his abandoned keys, grabbing them with his cup in his other hand. He took a few more sips from it, finding that he had already ingested half of the coffee in the mug. He slipped off his shoes and set them by the doorway before placing his keys on the small cabinet close to the entrance, right beside the turned-off lamp. He didn't want to forget them in the morning like he often found himself doing.

Dick paused and froze when he heard his phone buzz again in the pocket of his jacket. His brows furrowed in exhausted confusion before he slowly edged his way to the wet clothing. Still holding the cup in one hand, he dug into the pocket to grab his phone. He immediately recognized Tim's name, the messages he left making his blood run cold for a split second.

Hey Dick, you okay?

We've been hearing rumors here in Gotham.

Just... wanted to make sure you're still okay.

Dick?

Dick, please respond, I'm scared about you. Those rumors weren't pretty...

Dick blinked in surprise. Rumors, huh? He rubbed his eye with his free hand, groaning. The coffee didn't seem to be doing anything for him. If anything, it seemed to make him more tired, which rung a few bells in his head that he probably should've been listening to.

Whatever. He could solve whatever rumors there were tomorrow. He was too tired to look into it that night—especially with how hard it was becoming to keep his eyes from closing. Shaking his head, which ended up blurring his vision, he started walking back to the kitchen. He needed another cup of coffee—when had he drank all of it again?—before he fell unconscious while standing up. He still had a few things to take care of, like taking a shower...

He stumbled and raised an arm, fumbling for some kind of furniture to hold him up. His skin met the cold marble of his kitchen counters. He blinked several times, trying to get the sudden nauseousness out of his system. Everything was spinning, and he held the back of his hand over his mouth in a weak attempt to stop himself from puking if it came to it. He pulled his hand away to see his hand was red, and he touched his face.

His nose was bleeding heavily.

He muttered a curse and tried to walk to one of the taller cabinets, but it was too far away—as was the medicine he was sure was there. It was so, so close, but at the same time, out of reach.

"Interesting. I wasn't expecting it to work so quickly," a voice came. Nightwing blinked wearily as he looked for where the source of the words was coming from, but it seemed to be everywhere.

Dick shuddered as another wave of nausea hit him. His diaphragm quivered as he struggled to breathe.

"And this..." Dick flinched as the figure came into his sight, just out of the corner of his eye. He was holding a piece of paper, one that was thrown to his feet. He recognized it as the one that was tucked away in the corner of his kitchen.

Two words in red were written at the top, a few names scrawled messily beneath.

"The Outsiders, huh?"

Dick groaned as a hand grabbed his head by his hair. In the background, he heard his phone buzzing, as if someone was trying to call him. And then he recognized the trench coat of the man standing outside the run-down building.

"I see that you're just as bad as your mentor with these things."

The words were hissed into his ear, and then the hand gripped his head tightly before slamming it into the side of the counter. The skin split along his brow, and blood flowed down it and dripped to the floor.

His phone, still in his jacket at the entryway, had ended its call.

It buzzed one last time before falling silent.

XxXxX

"Red Robin, I'm sure he's fine," Megan said. "Please stop worrying."

"You don't understand—" Tim tried, but he was cut off.

"It's not that we don't understand, it's that we don't exactly care," Conner said.

"Please, let's not bring this up," Bart said, his voice suddenly tired and sad.

"Agreed," Kaldur said. "This is no way to treat your teammate."

"Some teammate," Jaime muttered.

Tim pursed his lips, trying to not get offended with Jaime's comment, before he dropped the subject. "Yeah... Yeah, okay," he said quietly.

Nightwing was fine. He could take care of himself.

Right?

Tim flinched and brought his hand up to his ear when he heard Batman radio him. Of course, of all times he had to, it had to be then?

"Red Robin, report to the Batcave."

Tim felt his stomach drop to his feet as dread gripped him. He had a feeling he knew exactly what Batman was going to say. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, fearful of the answer. His teammates, originally unconcerned, suddenly seemed tense. They looked at him with anxious expressions, waiting for a reaction. After what had happened recently, no one wanted something big and dangerous to happen—and the fact that Tim had been called in by Batman sounded big and dangerous.

"Nightwing's gone."

Tim felt his face pale as he tried not to think about the fact that the last time they had spoken face-to-face, Tim had screamed that he hated Dick and that he never wanted to see him again.

He tried not to think about how heartbroken he made him look.

"And?" he asked quietly.

A moment of silence greeted him before Batman finally spoke.

"Someone left us a present."

XxXxX

Tim never really saw Bruce ever get worried over Dick. The two—ever since his predecessor, Jason, died—had always had an underlying distaste for one another. Tim loved both of them, but when they thought he wasn't there to hear them, they would fight—and it wasn't pretty. The only reason Tim saw Dick anymore as the years passed and the fighting got worse was because Alfred had all but forced Bruce to invite Dick over for holidays.

Dick would enter through the doorway, tired and pale. He was always tired, it seemed. Tim would rush down the stairs and hug him tightly, and Dick would smile and laugh and run his hand through his hair, just like he liked. Tim would roll his eyes and say that he didn't like that, that it was meant for kids and he was getting too old for it, but they both knew it was all lies and Tim would be happy for him to do it again. Dick would shake his head fondly and say that he was sorry, that he wouldn't do it anymore and Tim was right, for he had grown quite a bit, and he would pretend that Tim was getting too heavy for him as Dick picked him up in his strong arms. Tim would laugh, but tell him—again—that it wasn't funny.

Bruce would watch them from afar, his guarded eyes lightening for just a second as he watched his two sons walk past him. Dick would give Bruce a small, awkward and pained smile as Alfred started up a conversation, asking him how Blüdhaven was going and berating him that he never called often enough, even though he did, at least once a week, but that was just Alfred's way of showing that he missed Dick's presence.

And then they would hang out and enjoy themselves, and Alfred would shoo Tim away to bed when it grew late, but he would always sit by the staircase when Dick was about to leave. And he always listened, silently, as Dick and Bruce talked. Usually it was another argument, sometimes in soft voices and one-sided as the other ignored them. Other times, their voices were loud and pained, and Dick would often slam the door behind him, and Tim would be curled up onto the staircase, breathing deeply because he hated how they fought all the time.

Other times, though, on rare occasions, Bruce would say that he was sorry, and Dick would turn around and hug the man he wanted to call a father for so many years. And Tim knew because he could hear the faint rustling sounds of Bruce's suit as Dick wrapped his arms around the man's torso. Dick would whisper that he was sorry too, and that he loved him, and Bruce would be silent, unable to say the words "I love you too," because they were too painful and he had never been able to speak them when they were on good terms, let alone bad ones.

Batman was always more rough with Nightwing than Bruce was with Dick.

He always turned a blind eye, and Tim never really understood why. When Tim asked if he could join Nightwing on patrol, it was always a sharp "No," for Blüdhaven was too dangerous for Red Robin, too uncontrollable, and Batman wouldn't be there to help him if he got hurt. Tim would point out that Nightwing was there to help him, but Batman would just ignore the hero's name and say no again. Red Robin, frustrated, would tear off his mask.

"Then you come if you're so stubborn!" he would yell, and Batman would turn and stalk off without a word. Alfred, silent in the shadows, would place a hand on Tim's shoulder, and he would flinch as the older man would express that Batman just needed time alone.

Tim would scoff and say, "He's always alone. Look where that got him."

Alfred would fall silent.

When Nightwing got hurt, Batman would usually look to see if he was in life-threatening danger. Sometimes, if he was, Batman would ask Tim to call him to ask if Dick wanted back up. Rarely did he say yes, but if he did, he always said to ask Batman to come to his aid instead.

"I know he can hear me," Dick would say, "so tell him to come over. Tim, you're supposed to be doing that English essay that you complained about last week."

Tim would frown because there was no essay, and Dick knew that, but he would look to Batman and nod to him, knowing that this was the only chance that the two ever got to meet in costume. He would talk to Dick just for a little bit more until Bruce arrived, and Nightwing would crack a few jokes despite the fact that, more often than not, he was in pain. Tim wouldn't be able to help himself, and he'd laugh. The call would end, and immediately Tim would feel guilt clawing at him. He was laughing while Dick was hurt, he was laughing when he should have ran to help Nightwing out instead of letting the Big Bad Bat do it himself.

He would wait in silence, hands brushing over the keyboard of his computer as he waited for something productive to come to mind. It never would, not until he would hear the roaring sounds of the Batmobile. He would jump out of the chair and wring his hands, hoping to every god in existence that this wouldn't be the time he brought his body back. He would watch as Batman leapt out of the car, but there would be no one in the passenger seat, and Tim knew then that Dick must be alright because otherwise the scene would be different. He would release a breath that he didn't know he was holding, thanking the lords above that Dick was still safe.

Batman would retreat back to his original spot, unfazed. He always came back, his grim expression revealing absolutely nothing as he went back to work. Tim would smile and stand next to the bat, ready to be of use. The night would continue on, Batman and Nightwing going their separate ways.

That was how it was.

At least, that was how it used to be.

When Tim teleported to the cave, his first thought was that it was too quiet. Usually, the sounds of Batman typing on a keyboard filled the air with constant sound. But there was none of that as he made his way in front of the giant computer. The light that emanated from the screen lit up his face as he stood next to the Batman himself.

"Bruce," he started, trying to ignore the way his voice cracked, "what's going on?"

The man was silent as he brought up video footage that was being streamed live to his computer. Tim paled as he noted the form of Nightwing, who was curled up in a ball in a dark, cell-like room.

"Someone kidnapped him," Batman answered for Tim, who looked pale and devastated. "I need to track Dick down, immediately. I need you to track the source of the video and where it's being recorded."

Tim said nothing. He just stared at the man who suddenly looked like he cared about Nightwing's safety. And then he realized that Batman referred to him as Dick, not Nightwing, despite the fact that his brother was in mask and costume.

"Yeah," he said numbly, the realization not quite sinking in.

The other man turned to leave for the Watchtower, leaving Tim to his thoughts. He slumped and sat heavily in the large chair as he stared at the computer screen. He wasn't sure what scared him more at the moment. The fact that Dick could be taken out and kidnapped?

Or the fact that even the Batman himself, who never cared, suddenly looked as scared as Tim?

He flinched as the screen cut to static.

XxXxX

When Dick opened up his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that he was in an extremely dark place. He squinted his eyes as he tried to adjust to the different lighting, but to no avail. There simply was no light to see. The second thing he became aware of was the fact that his wrists were cuffed together—and over his head. He assumed, from the smooth surface behind him, that he was chained to a wall.

Blinking away the faint stars that invaded his vision, he licked his swollen lips only to taste blood. His tongue immediately retracted at the coppery taste, and the wound started to bleed again from the touch—a sign that it had just started to scab over. A drop of blood slipped over the curve of his lip before it started to slowly fall down his chin. He internally winced at the uncomfortable feeling, but focused on more important things.

Dick tried to move his fingers and hands to see if he had any broken bones. On his right hand, one of his fingers flared up angrily as he twitched it. His wrist also sent waves of pain down his arm. Dick suppressed a groan at the feeling and tensed his shoulders, his right stinging and sore.

Okay, so let's not do that...

Trying to ignore the pain, he attempted to move his legs, which were numb and had fallen asleep. Clenching his jaw, he struggled to get them out from underneath him. His left leg had been twisted at an uncomfortable angle when he was unconscious, and the knee was obviously sore and mucked up from the position. It refused to work as well as he wanted it to, which was frustrating when he tried to lay his legs straight out in front of him.

Finally in a more comfortable position, he laid his head on the back of the wall he was resting on. He was breathing heavily, not a very good sign for his condition—which he had yet to decide on. He didn't seem to be too bad in shape, but his ribs ached and he tasted blood in his mouth. He hoped it wasn't internal bleeding—who knew how little time he had left if that was the case.

He winced internally, trying not to aggravate anymore wounds, as the drop of blood from his lip slipped down his jaw and neck. The feeling wasn't pleasant, not at all, but it was certainly better than sitting there and doing nothing. Pursing his lips, he scrunched his eyebrows as he felt an itch on his forehead.

That was when he felt his mask.

Blinking in surprise, he moved his good hand—his left—slightly so he could brush his fingertips against his palm. He felt the glove of his Nightwing costume.

He didn't know what to think. His memory was all fuzzy, and he couldn't quite remember how he got there. He was taken by... by...

He groaned as he realized that he wasn't going to find out anytime soon. He remembered going into his apartment after staying double his shift as Blüdhaven police officer. By the time he managed to escape work, he had been too tired to walk all the way home. He took a bus, and then he made it to his apartment, and then...

Groaning again, he tried not to think about all the different possibilities of who could have taken him.

But why was he in his Nightwing suit? He was obviously too tired to go out for vigilante work, so why would he wear it?

Can't have you revealing all my secrets just yet...

Dick blinked away the memory. That was not reassuring, at all.

He frowned and hissed as his side flared up in pain. The stinging refused to fade, and Dick had to clench his jaw tightly to keep from calling out. Breathing deeply, he was suddenly thrown into bright light. It stung his eyes from the pitch-blackness, causing his eyes to water horribly behind his mask. He closed his eyes to keep the tears from leaking out and to protect his eyes. He listened to heavy footsteps near him, presumably stopping a few feet away from him.

"He's awake."

The voice was loud and condescending, making Dick flinch as he felt his side flare up in pain again. When had he gotten so injured?

"We've already contacted the Batman," the man said. "He's aware of the dangers of keeping little Nightwing over here in our care." The man stepped right up to his side. "The League should probably be our next audience."

A pause.

"It doesn't matter to me if he's still recovering from Batman's session. All the more effective to me."

Dick looked up to the man who was standing right by his side, his vision still blurry from the change of lighting. His eyes widened when he recognized the scar that the man carried on his face. His words took a moment to sink in.

So that's where he got his injuries from...

Pain flared in his stomach again, and he finally realized that it was partly from hunger. He had no idea when he had last eaten, if it had been any time soon. He flinched as the man sighed and pressed the device in his ear, presumably cutting it off. He crouched, his face much closer to Dick's as he bore his eyes into him.

"You don't look too great," he said carefully. He pulled out a leather sheath from the confines of his suit, sliding out a sharp, hand-crafted blade into his hands. He turned it from side to side, letting the light shine the polished metal. "You know," he said icily, "you've been a real pain when it comes to our plans. I would rather get rid of you as soon as possible, but I've been... convinced otherwise."

Before Nightwing could ask what the heck he meant, the blade's tip was slashed directly underneath his eye. He cried out in a mix between surprise and pain. Another drop of blood fell down his cheek, and his eyelid was clenched closed, caused by the deep wound that got too close to his eye for comfort. The eyelid trembled as the knife got too close to his face before it was gone.

The man with the scar stood up, leaving Nightwing to remain sitting on the ground. "I'm not one to get my hands dirty," he admitted truthfully. "Not when someone else can do it for me, that is."

His smile was too lax for the words that were coming out of his mouth.

He touched the device in his ear. "Move him to the other room."

The door was slammed behind him, the lights following his exit. Suddenly, Nightwing's head started throbbing—more so than before. His eyes were heavy, too heavy, as was the air... a gas? It was hard to breathe... A gas had entered the room, and it was making him hurt, and he was falling—

XxXxX

"Don't hurt him."

"A little too late for that, Batman."

Dick was stumbling down the hall. He was in his police uniform, and there were hands on wrists, guiding him further... He was tired, his throat was sore, and he couldn't think straight. What was going on? There were voices above him, hissing back and forth until he couldn't figure out who was saying what.

"Put on his suit. We...knowing right off... their identities are..."

"What... tell him?"

"We found... during his patrol."

"And what's... that we... their identities?"

"Because we're not supposed to know."

Dick was thrown in the room, his costume put clumsily on him. He was there, in the darkness for who knew how long. Then there was another pair of hands on him, shoving him into the ground, pulling his arm behind him until it popped out of its socket. There was a voice in the background, saying something as laughs filled the air...

"For someone so heartless, you truly look devastated."

"Don't hurt him."

"A little too late for that, Batman."

There was a boot crashing against chest and head, and he curled up into a ball. A moan left him, because it hurt, and he couldn't even see straight. Up and down seemed to fade into one direction, simply being there, and he didn't know what to think.

His stomach clenched, and so did his hands, and then his throat was burning and he was heaving and—

"Stop."

Batman? Was that really him?

He was heaving again, and he held his arms over his head, because everything hurt and he couldn't breathe and he just wanted to be left alone. His mind ached for answers, his curiosity burning, because that couldn't be Bruce. Bruce didn't care if he was hurt or if anything happened to him, he was—

A flash of pain exploded through him, centering around his ribs. All thoughts were brushed aside as he yelled out in pain, his throat sore.

"Revenge is the sweetest thing. I'm sure you know that."

Dick tasted blood in his mouth, and it was not sweet at all. It was coppery and made his face scrunch up in disgust as he coughed a glob of red spit onto the floor in front of him.

The person who was hurting him waited for an answer. When they didn't get one, they spoke.

"You look worried, Batman."

Dick moaned again and clasped his hands over his ears, because that wasn't right.

Batman never worried about him.

XxXxX

Flash was pacing back and forth. "How long has he been gone for?"

"I don't have a definitive answer," Batman admitted. "A week at the very least, most likely two."

"He could have been kidnapped two whole weeks ago, and you only decided to contact us now?" Green Arrow asked, obviously not happy.

"Don't sound so surprised," Wonder Woman said. "We all know that the bats are stubborn."

"That is beside the point," Superman interjected. "Do we know who is behind this?"

"No," Batman said.

"But they sent you a live recording?" Black Canary asked.

"Indeed."

"Would you be able to pinpoint the location the video was being made?" Hal, one of the two Green Lanterns, asked.

"I would. That is, if I was still receiving live footage. The connection was broken shortly after it was initiated," Batman replied.

"So we have no leads where he could be?" Hawkwoman asked.

"If I may ask," Atom said as Batman opened his mouth to speak, "was he in civilian clothing or in costume?"

"Costume," Batman immediately replied.

"So whoever kidnapped him wanted to get to Nightwing. I hope you realize that you have a decade's worth of villains who want Nightwing's head," Wonder Woman said.

"I am fully aware," Batman responded.

"And yet you still decided to wait to inform us," Wonder Woman said. "You better not be hiding any other information from us, because this will not go unsearched by the League."

Batman sighed through his nose before he spoke. "There was a man in the recording. With Nightwing," he mentioned vaguely.

"And?" Superman asked.

Batman was silent for a second. "While he was—while he was torturing Nightwing—"

"Torturing?" Green Arrow asked in disbelief.

"—he said that "revenge is the sweetest thing." I'm guessing that he held a very strong grudge against Nightwing. I doubt he would go to such lengths without reason."

Black Canary was clearly furious when she spoke again. "And so we go back to who Nightwing could have angered deeply."

"I do not think you have to search any further," Red Tornado said honestly.

"If you could please explain yourself to us," Martian Manhunter said.

Red Tornado looked to him before he finally spoke. "Someone has transmitted a video to my systems."

"What's happening?" Batman asked.

"I cannot tell for sure," Red Tornado admitted. "I cannot pick up what is happening. Audio and visual settings are blocked."

"How can we see what's going on?" Black Canary asked.

Red Tornado fell silent for a few seconds. "The man Batman has spoken of wishes me to upload the video to the Watchtower."

"Why didn't he do it directly?" Flash asked.

"Maybe he couldn't break the code," Captain Marvel said.

"Doubt it," Batman said. "He probably wanted to make sure the video had eyes to see it. If he did it directly, there would be no ensuring any League members would be able to see it immediately."

"How did he hack into Red Tornado's systems though?" Green Arrow asked.

"It doesn't matter." All eyes turned to Wonder Woman. "We need to see what he has shown us. We need leads to Nightwing's location, immediately."

"Batman, you need to pinpoint the source of the video," Black Canary said quietly.

The man stood up and nodded.

"Upload finished," Red Tornado said. A screen appeared in the middle of the u-shaped table the League met at regularly.

Batman clenched his hand into a fist as he realized who he was staring at. The man was no longer wearing his mask, and suddenly, it clicked.

Revenge is the sweetest thing.

"Ah," Vandal Savage said. "What a pleasure it is to see you again. I believe you're looking for Nightwing?"

XxXxX

Tim was exhausted. "Emotionally drained" as he liked to call it. He hadn't had a good night's sleep since Batman had called him to the Batcave that day, and his lack of rest was starting to show. Of course, plenty assumed that it was just another rough week as one of Gotham's heroes, which Tim hated.

On one hand, it allowed him to get away with acting slightly grouchy. People just assumed whatever they wanted, and he didn't have to get coddled with hugs.

On the other hand, he really wanted a hug. Especially from Dick.

He just wanted Dick to come back home, safe and sound. He wanted to apologize for yelling at his brother, he wanted to correct his wrongs. He wanted Dick to know that he didn't hate him, not even after he lied to the Team, not even after Wally died and he was really hurt—

Next thing he knew, glass shards were stuck in his knuckles.

He blinked away the surprise as blood dripped down into the porcelain sink. He looked up at his broken reflection from the cracked mirror. The bags under his eyes seemed to sink further under his eyes, making his skin look paler than he was comfortable with. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of rest, making the blue look brighter than they really were.

Oh.

He usually wasn't one to take his anger or frustration out on bathroom mirrors. That was more of a Jason/Bruce thing, Dick occasionally jumping on the train.

His stomach dropped to his feet as he remembered Jason's hologram. His breath shuddered as he rubbed bloodied palms over his face. Bruce wouldn't be very happy with him for it, especially with all the stress he was already going through. Alfred would look at him pityingly and shake his head, but he wouldn't be too mad. He had long since gotten used to the bats breaking things.

Sighing, Tim pulled the shards of glass out of his knuckles. They were small and barely stuck in his skin, though his hand continued to pour blood. Tim turned on the faucet and ran his hand under the water, watching the red liquid drain away. With his other hand, he massaged his knuckles. Then wetting it, he wiped the blood smears off of his face.

He turned the tap off, flicking drops of water off of his fingers as he walked back into his room. He watched newer blood form on his hand, spreading quickly over his skin from the water that remained on his hand. He rummaged through his desk, trying to find bandages he often had lying around.

Now where were they?

Biting his lower lip, his eyes roamed the inside of the desk drawer. He closed that one and opened another, still not finding them. His teeth grazed a loose piece of skin on his chapped lips, and he pinched at it with his front teeth out of bad habit. As he continued to look, his searching becoming more frantic as his blood threatened to fall onto the carpet floor, he pulled at the skin of his lip.

He opened the last drawer, his expression relieved as he finally found the bandages. He quickly grabbed them, dashing to the bathroom. He washed his knuckles back off before he unwrapped part of the roll of bandages, pulling it tight around his hand. He sat on the bathroom floor, continuing to chew at his lip as he worked.

He didn't remember when he burst into tears. All he remembered was that a hot drop of clear liquid fell onto his hand right before he pulled the bandage over it, and then his vision was blurry because the tears were coming so fast and he couldn't stop them. He tried to take in a few deep breaths, but it hurt too much and his chest ached and he just wanted Dick to be there to wipe his tears away and pull him into a hug like he always did.

Furiously scrubbing his tears away from his face, he sniffled as he tore the bandage and tucked the end beneath one of the layers. He hated it, he hated how he easily just snapped for no good reason.

He didn't know how long he was sitting there for, but he remembered footsteps. Then Bruce was suddenly standing there, and he looked at the broken mirror. He looked back to Tim's shuddering from, looked at his trembling hand that was covered in layers of bandages. Tim knew he was going to get yelled at, he knew that the man wasn't in the mood for his behavior. He knew that Batman was needed for more important things, like saving his brother, rather than fixing a helpless kid who couldn't even get a grip on his own emotions—

Tim felt big arms wrap around him. His breath caught in his throat as Bruce picked him up and held him. There was someone gently shushing his sobs, and Tim couldn't help himself as he grabbed onto the front of Bruce's shirt tightly.

He didn't want to say anything, but then he was suddenly pouring his heart onto Bruce, and he felt bad because he didn't want to but the way Bruce held him was so nice... The man continued to reassure him, held his big hand on his back, and suddenly he wasn't the Big Bad Bat, then he was Bruce Wayne, father of Tim Drake, and Tim liked that because he didn't have to hold his emotions back.

And then Tim wasn't crying anymore, and Bruce was speaking to him. "I have to do some more work."

Tim knew he meant finding Nightwing.

"Your communicator's been ringing you for hours. The Team wants you at the mountain, if you're up for it."

Tim wanted to say no, but then he realized that that would be selfish of him, so he nodded and stood up. He was woozy on his feet, and Bruce had to catch him as he stumbled. He righted himself when Bruce said that he didn't have to go if he didn't want to, but Tim shook his head because he was going and there was no convincing him otherwise.

When he arrived in costume, the first person to greet him was Bart. He was pale, and he wouldn't look at him.

"Robin..." he said, and Tim's blood ran cold.

Suddenly, M'gann was there, giving him false smiles and even falser reassurances. "Everything's going great, Red Robin."

But he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear the lies.

"What's going on?"

M'gann's smile dropped, and then Kaldur was there, his expression serious and detached. "Red Robin," he said, "I have something I must show you."

And that was how Tim ended up in the Den, his eyes wide as he saw a video playing.

He was on the screen.

He was right there.

Tim didn't know for sure who said what. He touched the device on the inside of his ear, waiting for Batman to respond. When he finally did, Tim had to take a deep breath in order to keep his voice from cracking.

"Batman," he said softly, "the Team's been sent a video."

XxXxX

Dick blinked as he stared up at the ceiling. He wasn't lying against the floor anymore—rather, his arms and ankles were chained against the wall. His shoulder was aching, pain throbbing the area as it was subjected to hold his weight.

He was given something to drink somewhere along the line—grimy water that made his stomach churn and his throat drier than before. It didn't set well with him, and he was on the edge of throwing it all back up. If he hadn't stared upward at the ceiling all day, he was sure he would have. It was finally far enough in his digestive system that he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore, but the nauseous feeling remained.

He was starving, and his headache was slowly starting to get worse as time moved on—especially when the lights were turned on. It made his vision grow fuzzy and all the patterns in the walls blend together in a mess and swirl of colors and shapes.

"Can't have you revealing all my secrets just yet..."

"You know our identities."

"Not all. Just a few."

"How?"

"The first fourth. The fourth hour of the sixteen."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a dark shape. He looked to it slowly, his eyes dry and begging for sleep. The figure was dark, and Nightwing's heart fluttered with hope. Was that Batman? He wanted to cry out for help, to ask for the man to save him. He heard the man's voice in his ears, telling him not to be tricked, not to fall for the lies, and Nightwing's brows furrowed because why was he contradicting himself?

And then the realization hit him as the figure stepped out of the darkest corner. The darkness was still thick, almost too thick to see through, but he quickly realized that that wasn't Batman, that the real Batman still hadn't found him. The voices he was hearing came through the speaker in front of him, and that was sitting right next to the camera which recorded his every move.

"Nightwing, can you hear me? We're getting close to find you. You just have to stick with us for a little bit longer."

Nightwing wanted to say something, but his lips were too dry and his mouth was so sore, and he didn't know what to say. Did they not see the figure right in the darkness? Did they not see the man that wasn't Batman? The camera should have picked up on the person's movements, even in the darkness. And wasn't Batman just talking about the figure?

Don't fall for their lies. We're coming to get you.

So he wasn't.

Dick wanted to look to the camera, to reassure Bruce that he was listening, but he couldn't look away from the figure. Not unless he wanted to get hurt, not unless he wanted the person to hurt him—

"Nightwing, can you hear me?"

And then he couldn't look at the figure anymore, and he looked back to the camera in front of him.

"Nightwing, talk to me."

His throat constricted, his voice gone. What was he supposed to say? Everything was so blurry, and was he even looking at the camera anymore?

The fourth of the sixteenth...

The sixteenth.

The Light.

The sixteen missing hours.

Plenty of time to unmask the Batman.

He had to speak, but his headache was getting worse, and his eyes hurt. He clenched them closed, the wound under his eye stinging at the movement. He tried to gather his thoughts, tried to get them in a single order, but the were too all over the place.

He coughed, the back of his throat itching terribly. He hated it, hated the way he entire body shook, hated how his breath rattled noisily.

"Liliac... descoperi... identitate secretă..." he muttered.

All was silent for a moment, and Nightwing felt a pang of fear go through him as the thought occurred to him that Batman could have already left, and that his words could be too late.

"How?"

It was a single word, but relief filled Dick. Batman was still here, Batman could still understand him, Batman cared—

"Șaisprezece ore..." He was breathing heavily now, and he could feel his lungs burning for air. It hurt too much to speak. "Te-a demascat."

"... Thank you for letting me know. Do you know where you are?"

Nightwing was about to speak again, but then suddenly his chains were hot, too hot, and it was burning through his suit and into his skin, tearing through his flesh. Blood spattered the cuffs, and then his throat was burning—was that him screaming?—and then a laugh filled the air and the cuffs cooled down and he was panting heavily.

Can't have you revealing all my secrets just yet...

His head lolled forward, and then he was staring down at the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure move closer to him. In the background, he heard frantic voices, some of them asking him if he was alright. And then he realized that it was Tim, but what was Tim doing? He couldn't see Dick like this, he couldn't see his brother suffer, not after Jason.

Then the figure was right next to him, but none of the voices were talking about it, none of the voices were warning him of what was to come. They couldn't see him, but Nightwing certainly could, and he wanted to curl into a ball and never wake up again when the figure placed a hand on his injured shoulder. It flared up in pain at the contact, because what he was seeing wasn't a figment of his imagination, it couldn't be—

"It gets better," Wally West told him.

Dick shook his head, because Wally was dead, because he killed him, because he died a month ago, because he died by the Reach invasion, and there was no way that he was here now, there was no way that Wally was touching his shoulder and telling him that things were going to get better.

Wally was smiling now, and Dick shook his head, stretching his neck up so he wouldn't have to look at the person he called a best friend. "Stop it, stop it, stop it," he was muttering, and the voices on the other side of the monitor fell silent. "Încetează, stop it, mă lași în pace."

Wally didn't move. His green eyes just continued to look at Dick, holding his hand on his shoulder.

He smiled sadly.

XxXxX

"How close are you to finding the signal?" Black Canary asked. Most of the League was searching for some kind of signal to where Nightwing could be. Meanwhile, her and Batman and the Team were together as backup at the Mountain.

"Close," Red Robin and Batman said at the same time.

"What did Nightwing say?" Conner said.

Batman was silent before he finally spoke. "Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin's secret identities were compromised."

Tim stopped typing on his computer. "Since when?" he demanded.

"I'd like to know as well," Batgirl said, clearly annoyed.

Batman sighed. "Longer than either of you joined the superhero line of work."

"How?" It was M'gann who spoke.

Batman glanced to the figure of Nightwing, who was muttering something under his breath. "Years ago, when Savage took over the League by mind control, six members of the League—including myself—went missing for sixteen hours. During this time, we went on a rampage. However, I wouldn't be surprised if the Light unmasked me somewhere in that long period of time."

"Which would lead to all of your protégé's identities being compromised," Tim finished. He glanced at Batgirl. "Except for maybe you, but it wouldn't be too hard to figure yours out after that."

Batgirl crossed her arms. "So they waited five years to use that information to their advantage?" She was scowling.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Batman said.

"That means we're going to have to be very careful after we get Nightwing back," Black Canary said. "One wrong move, and they can reveal your identities to the world."

"We can worry about that when we get there," Batman said gruffly. "For now—"

"Hold up," Tim said. His eyes were focused as he typed quickly. He bit his lower lip as he scanned the lines of code, the skin bruised. "I think I've almost got it."

His eyes lit up as his screen glowed brighter. His breath was quicker as his heart started to beat rapidly, and his hands were shaking with excitement. They were going to get Dick back, and then he could finally apologize and hug Dick as tight as he could.

"There! He's in—"

And then his breath caught in his throat.

XxXxX

Dick didn't like his room. It was too quiet. He hadn't seen Savage in days, and none of the other Light members came to tease him or give him something to drink or eat.

He looked up, blinking away the exhaustion in his eyes. He imagined sun shining in his face, but there was no light. Shaking away the vision, he tried to blink away the dots that were persistent in his eyesight. And then the hand on his shoulder tightened, and he looked over to Wally.

"I'm sorry," Wally said.

Dick didn't know why he was even apologizing. All he knew was that his ankles were burning, that there were blistering hot hands touching his face, scorching his skin and he didn't like it. He tried to groan, but there was something in his mouth, something that prevented him from speaking.

His hallucinations were getting worse.

Wally was holding him now, and he wasn't quite sure why. His body ached, and he wanted to go home. He wanted to say sorry to the Team, he wanted to tell his little brother that he knew that he didn't mean it when he said he hated Dick. He wanted to tell Bruce that he was tired of fighting, that he would do whatever he wanted as long as the two of them were happy and they didn't have to keep on being mad.

He wanted Wally to go away.

"It's going to be okay."

Dick blinked. Why was Wally saying that? His hands were bleeding, though he didn't know why. He watched as dust fell from the ceiling, watched as it fell in front of him.

It doesn't matter what you or they do. You're going to fall either way.

The chains were suddenly too tight, they were holding him too close. Wally continued to whisper in his ear, telling him that everything was going to be fine. And then he blinked, blinked a single tear away, and all of the hallucinations were gone. Wally's whispers disappeared into the darkness, and he was all alone. He looked straight at the camera, listening through the speaker.

"There!"

Dick felt his stomach drop as he heard the sounds of beeping. His headache sent a sharp wave of pain through his body, and his fever pulsed, growing hotter. A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead.

Connection made. They found him.

And then the wall behind him broke, the heat pulsing against his back. The sounds of explosions rumbled through the hallways outside the closed doorway, growing closer and closer.

This entire damn thing was rigged.

Dick tried to pull his arms over his head to protect himself, but the cuffs were still attached to the piece of the broken wall that was crushing him. His breath was caught in his throat as he struggled, his movements weak. He was just so tired, so tired. He was tired of being weak, he was tired of being tortured, he was tired of being tired.

Tim's face flashed across his vision, and he cried out.

The camera was lying on the floor, long since broken. The lens was cracked, and the speaker was sparking.

He had to keep going, he had to tell Bruce that he was sorry, he had to tell Tim that he loved him, he had to tell Batgirl to keep everyone safe, he had to tell the Team that he never meant for Wally to die. And then cracks appeared in the ceiling, and he knew that it might never happen.

One of the cuffs finally broke, and he reached out to the camera, hoping against hope that it was working—even though he knew it wasn't.

"I'm sorry," he said, his shoulders shaking. "I'm so so sorry."

More dust fell from the ceiling before it finally caved in.

The worst part of it all was the realization that he probably wasn't going to be able to apologize for all the mistakes he made and all the lies he weaved.

XxXxX

Tim flew down the streets of Gotham. When he saw the burning building, he jumped off of his bike, letting it crash into the ground. He couldn't care less as he dashed forward.

Above him, Superman was sucking in all the air above the wreckage, putting out the fire. Around him, there were hands pulling at the debris, throwing them out of the way. Tim quickly jumped in, calling his brother frantically.

"Nightwing?" When he got no answer, he continued. "Nightwing? Nightwing, answer me!"

His breath was coming out in short gasps, and the smoke filled his lungs.

"Dick?" he called desperately. "DICK!?"

There was no answer. He was hyperventilating now.

Dick was his brother. He was supposed to hold him when he was sad, he was supposed to make him feel better when he was down, he was supposed to tease him relentlessly, he was supposed to be there.

He's fine, Tim told himself. He's always fine. He was always strong, he was always the one to get back up first. He's fine, he's fine, he's fine, he's fine—

He grabbed the corner of a large chunk of debris, pulling at it desperately. His hands were burning through his gloves, blisters appearing on his fingers as he continued to shove the sharp edges aside. The concrete was heavy, and his arms were burning, but he couldn't feel it.

I hate you! I never want to see you again!

Tim was furiously blinking back tears, trying not to let his sobs slip through his scabbed lips.

Dick was alive, he was, he had to be. There was no way that his brother was dead.

An arm wrapped around his middle, trying to pull him away. He immediately started to struggle, kicking the person holding him. He fruitlessly banged his fists against the arm that was carrying him.

"No! Let me go!" Tears finally slipped past his eyes and into his mask. "I have to find him! I have to find him!"

His throat was sore from the smoke, but he didn't stop yelling.

"Let GO!"

Everywhere he looked, people were pushing away debris. Everyone except him. He was supposed to be out there, he was supposed to be looking for his brother.

He finally broke, and his sobs loudly shook him.

"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it when I said I hated you, I didn't mean it—"

The person holding him dropped him off to the side, and Tim fell on his back, the air knocked out of him.

He's fine. He's always fine.

Dawn broke the sky, the sun's rays casting light onto the wreckage. He heard voices, but he couldn't hear them over his inner voices. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks, but Dick wasn't there to wipe them away or hold him close to his chest and whisper reassurances into his ear. He wasn't there to tease Tim, he wasn't there to pick him up and make fun of how small he was. He wasn't there to tuck him in goodnight, he wasn't there with open arms when he had a nightmare.

He wasn't there to run his hand through his hair like he always liked.

He's fine, he's fine, he's fine.

A new day fell over the world.

In the new day, everything burned.

And the little dove in his head continued to whisper false promises in Dick's voice.

Well, it took a while, but we're here. I'm sorry if it wasn't enjoyable - this is my first one-shot, and I really struggled with trying to keep it from going on too long and keeping it interesting.

I want to thank EmilyTT for the plot and for being patient with me. They came up with the basic idea - I just brought it to life (or attempted to anyway.) Hope you stuck through it!

- Owl