Here. Have some Bat!Family love that fails to make you squee.

Lying by Omission
MidnightNereid

The clock in Gotham would strike three after midnight before Batman considered a stopping point.

Mere hours ago, he had been under the thrall of the Light, and while he was not willing to admit such weakness to anyone (even though he was currently alone in the meeting hall with only Robin for company, who looked half passed out himself) Batman could feel the pulsating headache behind his eyes that often came with unpleasant experiences with things involving his mind. Not that it was ever a pleasant business when it came involving with his mind. The embarrassment of moving around pounding allies into walls without ever knowing about it was just sprinkle on the horrific cupcake. Enough was enough.

Bruce's mind wandered, unbidden, to Alfred's meals. Batman took this as a goddamn good cue to save his files and log off his computer. Justice League's main computer frame, but Batman was here so of course it belonged to Batman. With Wayne Tech's stamps all over it. Mr. Wayne was well liked by the League for being their biggest sponsors. But that was beside the point. The point was that while there were countless mysteries to solve – particularly what exactly had happened for those unaccounted sixteen hours, which kept biting at the back of his mind like an extremely irritable fire ant – sleep sounded better. Or at least the Bat Cave.

For Robin's sake as well as his own. Both Bruce and Batman knew the boy would put up a fight neither of them was looking forward to if they didn't leave together.

With a flick of his finger, Batman shut off the computer and stood. "Let's go," he said shortly. The word home was not said aloud, but it should not need to be said aloud. They knew each other well enough.

Robin – Dick – scrambled in a most unusually ungraceful manner to pick his face off from where it had been hovering dangerously close to the table surface despite his effort in keeping it upright by leaning his chin heavily in one hand and turned the chair around to face his partner. "Go where?" he asked. A second later, "Oh, sorry. Right."

Batman gave him a secretly assessing glance over his shoulder at his protégé, watched briefly as Robin stood and stretched, yawning widely before half-staggering after him (by Robin standards anyway,) and decided that he should probably come in by the Bat Cave and drop hints that Robin removed himself to his room in the most secretive manners possible. He wasn't in the mood to hear Alfred's scolding right now.

Especially if it involved both him if he tried to work ("Honestly, Master Bruce, is it truly 'productive' to sift through seas of data when you are bent sixty degrees sideways in your chair?") and Robin looking like he was about to pass out. From sleep deprivation. ("Master Bruce! Young Master Richard is in a stage where he is growing. Surely you could wait a few more years before instilling your worse habits in him?")

He was considering all the reasons and escape options available to him once they got home when Robin dropped his arms limply by his side – or attempted to – and twisted just a bit wrong. Suddenly there was a grimace on his face as he hunched over, drawing his arms around his ribs. The motion sent alarms racing through Batman and Bruce's collective minds. They had seen that before, not for the first time on Robin, but the reaction was the same. In less than three seconds the hero of Gotham was bending over his protégé, one hand around Robin's wrist as he tried to pry away the thin arm blocking his way and the other prodding at the boy's ribs, looking for damages he knew were there.

"How bad is it?" Batman asked grimly, trying to be as gently as possible. And more importantly, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Robin tensed, tried to shy away. Then he remembered who he was dealing with and sighed in resignation before holding still, hoping that he wouldn't– "OW!"

Batman could only be blamed for being thorough. Too thorough. Robin batted the offending hand away and glared from behind his mask, shrinking away from his partner's grasp. Just a little. A signal for "I need my space." He got that, at least, and was appeased when the older man took a step back."It isn't that bad," the boy stated, a little sulkily. "'Sides, you'd send me out of the room."

After all, what was the use of lying to a man who could read your every move?

Behind the cowl, Bruce's eyes narrowed. "That is no excuse," he replied, shortly. But there was little they could do here, so he gestured for Robin to precede him towards the door. "Let's go."

"It wasn't that bad," Robin protested again even as he moved to obey the command.

"Bull," Batman replied, voice flat.

The conversation drew to a close.

No words were exchanged between them in the walk out the door, down two flights of stairs (elevators out of working order; thank you Clark, for flying into it fighting your not-son-clone) and towards the Zeta-Beam machine (why does it have to be the control panel that you punch out, Diana? Why?). No words were exchanged between them as Batman called the Batmobile. Neither said anything when they climbed in, strapped themselves into the seat, and Batman entered the coordination of the Cave into the autopilot. And the first thirty minutes of the ride – silence.

Bruce was used to silence. Bruce liked silence. Dick, on the other hand, had gotten used to it but would never be as fond of it as his adoptive father would. Especially not something so heavy and dark and oppressive as this one. Batman was magic in how he could make people squirm, and because Dick was a stubborn creature, because Robin was Batman's partner, he was controlling his urge to do just that. If only just.

Eventually it became too much. Dick sucked in a breath and opened his mouth to speak, except he breathed in too deeply and that broken lower rib was quick to inform him that he had made a mistake. It ended in a cough and an involuntary groan. Dick hunched over in his seat, head swimming with both exhaustion, the bump on the back of his noggins because Holy Batman, that throw against the wall had not been a joke, and the obvious problem in his rib cage.

When he looked up, there was a gloved hand on his shoulder, gripping firmly but also in a rather reassuring way. "We are almost there," Batman told him, voice losing some of that sharp, businesslike edge he wore everyday now that they were alone. Dick muttered something that sounded like a thank-you, but abandoned his quest in telling him that it was just a scratch, sheesh.

Silence, again. Dick's wheezing filled some of it this time, though. He leaned against the seat with his face towards the window to not put pressure on the bump behind his head, and tried to control his breathing. Little could be done for broken ribs. He would just have to live with it until it healed. A month of being benched. How fun that would be. So busy was the Boy Wonder in darkly sketching out all scenarios possible for the next few weeks to be spent in recovery that he almost – almost – missed the note of hesitance in Batman's next words.

"Who did this?"

Imperceptibly, Dick tensed. Then his shoulders relaxed as his mind came up with a solution. "I got beaten around by a lot of peeps," he said jauntily, an edge of dark sarcasm to his words. "It's kind of hard to remember. Flash might have bruised it and Superman got the final punch in. Black Canary threw me around, too. Bit too overwhelmed – but not whelmed, mind – to correctly catalog which one did the magic."

The Batmobile was on autopilot, but out of habit Batman still held the wheel because his hands weren't busy with anything right now. Out of the corner of his eye Dick could see the glove tightening on the steering wheel until the leather almost squeaked. He winced inwardly. Sorry, Flash, Superman. But they would survive the Bat-Glare. And any other Bat-Punishment…possibly. Dick would just hope they would.

Besides, it was better to say an innocent lie (hah! Irony! Dick used to love irony until he was introduced to the Joker) than to tell a harmful truth. Especially not something that would soon come to pass. Broken ribs. Twisted wrist – the other hand, fortunately the one Batman didn't grab onto, but it was going to be very evident once the glove comes off but that would be another story, another time – and bruises all over him. His knees stung. He landed too hard on them when Batman threw him again and again at walls and floors, built to withstand the stomping of the Justice League's heavier members. And seriously, it was old news. Dick had had worse from training with the man himself. Bruce coddled him, however imperceptibly. Batman didn't. And he only ever trained with Batman.

But it had never, never been inflicted with the intention to truly hurt him. That was what made Robin so afraid – what made Dick Grayson – so terrified when he had faced his mentor. Bruce was there to hurt him, hurt him for real and feel no remorse, and that thought was both wrong and expected. You didn't go long in the world of superheroes without knowing the possibility of your allies turning against you for whatever reason. Especially not if Batman trained you.

Still. Just because he'd caused ninety percent of the injuries currently on Dick's body right now didn't mean Bruce had to know that he did it. Dick was a small, fragile bird compared to the mini-army of meta-humans he surrounded himself with daily. If any one of them were seriously determined to break him in half and Dick couldn't defend himself, injuries became a surefire eventuality.

Bruce was afraid of the answer. Of confirmation. But he pushed anyway because he always had to know. "Dick, be honest with me."

Dick gritted his teeth. Robin gritted his teeth. Robin gritted his teeth because he knew his partner well, knew the sleepless nights spent in front of the computer and the insistence that he stayed home and rest for months to come. Dick because he knew his father well, and knew that guilt was poison. So he turned, smirked at Batman-father-partner, and said cheekily, "Hey, you did train me, didn't you? You think I'd let the teacher down by not dodging his punches?"

The silence that followed was like Artemis's taut bowstring. A second or two passed…and then Batman's shoulders relaxed, a motion so very small that anyone but Dick would have missed it. But he saw, and the smirk on his face became more honest. Brighter. After a moment Bruce smirked as well, just as the gates to Wayne Manor opened and they pulled in.

Alfred was waiting in the Bat Cave. Alfred scolded them both, telling Bruce that it was silly to sit before the computer sifting through seas of data when he was bent sixty degree sideways in his chair and then telling Dick that he looked like crap (in more posh words, of course) before persuading Bruce to go for a shower and a few hours of meditation at least, good Lord, while Alfred himself bandaged up whatever injuries Dick had sustained.

The butler didn't comment on the marks he saw on his youngest master's body. Dick didn't even have to ask him to keep quiet. That was Alfred's magic – he knew to read well beyond the lines. Dick would have bet that a majority of Batman's deductive prowess was taught by his own butler. Bruce didn't ask after him either, and he succeeded in sneaking away to his bed before his father could come looking. The next morning Bruce was gone to Wayne Tech to do Things and Dick dragged Wally over for a video game date because he was benched, so might as well make the best of it. Wally asked Conner and M'gann over because "You two need some Earth-special!" who in turn dragged in Artemis (courtesy of the Martian), who in turn cheekily mentioned Zatanna being a "great" addition, who in turn dragged Raquel and Kaldur with them. And suddenly it was a house party, which got so bad Bruce had to stick his head in at two a.m. on the day after to tell Wally that his parents want him home now unless he wanted to be grounded for life. He also courteously did not mention the fact that his charge just revealed their secret identities to everyone in the Team.

The truth passed into oblivion.

Alfred, the only person to have known about Dick's injuries that day and his decision to not speak, simply did a little tweak in his usual vocabulary regarding the boy.

He began to call him "Master Richard" instead of "Young Master Richard."