Robin's voice is firm.

"The title of 'Nightmare Fuel' should go to Nightwing."

Immediately, the room erupts with denials.

The new members of the team are draped in various positions on the living room floor of the Cave, celebrating their first successful mission with an overnight sleepover extravaganza that includes assigning superlatives to the (absent) founding members. And, before this frankly bewildering announcement, they all thought they could agree on at least one unshakeable truth.

Nightwing is, without a doubt, nice.

Yes, he could be a stern, unyielding, trainer and leader, and his reputation—especially among the criminals of Blüdhaven—is fearsome, but at his core, he is sweet. And not really scary. Most definitely not Batman-level terrifying.

Robin looks undismayed at the outburst, and regards them coolly through his shades.

"I didn't say he'd be nightmare fuel for us."

It doesn't stop the general outrage directed at him though.

"W-what? No way! I mean even if he's an incredible hero, he's not really the stuff of nightmares you know!"

"Hermano you sure you're playing the right game? We're picking superlatives not opposites. You're lucky none of the older members are here right now!"

"Dude you're supposed to be the smart one! And he's like your brother, man—that's cruel!"

Once again, Robin cuts into the chaos sharply. "Nightwing tends to get…protective. Bat-style protective. You'll all see soon enough."

The team stares. Robin sighs. Batgirl just nods solemnly.

They get their first glimpse of their leader's dangerous streak the next month, when they persuade Robin to hack the Watchtower security cameras so they can eavesdrop on a conversation between Nightwing and the League.

"We shouldn't be doing this!" Robin complains, fingers flying at impossible speeds.

"Oh hush, Boy Wonder," Karen says, rolling her eyes. "We know they're talking about us, and I don't see why they can't have the decency to at least do it in front of us! So really, this is just information we should be seeing anyway."

"Maybe, but still—got it!"

At Robin's command, a small view screen to the briefing room appears and expands, and they see Nightwing, grinning slightly at the other—decidedly less happy—Leaguers around the table with him.

"Once again, Nightwing, I fail to see why you view our mere protection as mothering," Wonder Woman says, crossing her arms.

"Yeah, kid, I mean why change the policy now? The original team agreed to the same thing." Flash adds.

Nightwing shakes his head once, though the smile stays in place. "Yes, but this new team is different from the original one. We all had experience with our mentors, but working as a team was new to us. This team has already proven itself worthy in that regard."

A few of the Leaguers open their mouths to argue, and he continues in a rush, "Not to mention the fact that there are still members of the original team present on this one. You trust M'gann, Conner, and I enough to offer us positions in the League, but not enough to keep an eye on the team without breathing down our backs?"

Superman holds up his hands in a soothing gesture. "Come on, Nightwing, you know we don't mean that. We just want to be there when the kids need our help—"

"You mean if the team needs your help."

Even billions of miles away from the orbiting satellite, safely ensconced in the Cave, the team feels the temperature in the room drop. As Nightwing turns his head to look at each League member in turn, there are more than a few silent gulps. It's not that his expression has changed—the congenial smile is still firmly in place—but even peering at the miniature version of their leader on the screen, they can see how the warmth he normally exudes has shifted to a dangerous, glittering, ice.

Nightwing stands up from the table. "I think I've made my opinion clear."

The rest of the League watches in silence as he walks toward the door. He turns before leaving and directs his eerie, frosted smile at them once more.

"The decision is up to you all, obviously, but my team can handle themselves without a den mother, and they deserve your respect."

At that, Robin quickly shuts down the link, and for a while the only sound in the Cave is hurried typing as he clears evidence of the security breach before anyone can discover them.

"Neptune's beard." La'gaan murmurs softly. Everyone nods silently in assent.

As they file out of the room, Jaime clutches his head and moans.

"I don't know what was scarier ese—seeing Nightwing like that or seeing Batman smirking proudly."

The next week, Nightwing gleefully announces before training that the League has come to a decision to provide the team with more autonomy, and withdraw somewhat from their constant surveillance.

Gar is the only witness the second time it happens.

It's during a covert intel run—the general secure-the-area-silently-while-sneaking-off-with-info sort of mission—and Gar is pretty sure he's dreaming, because not only is he partnered with Nightwing—Nightwing—for this mission, but he is also currently helping said hero drag off the bodies of the five guards they took out together.

"Dude!" he whispers, eyes shining. "That was awesome! We kicked some major butt—you know, we should be partners all the—"

Nightwing puts a finger to his lips in silent admonishment, but Gar can see his lips curving upward in a smile.

'We have the mental link for a reason BB,' he chides softly. 'Keep an eye out for any other patrolling guards here; I need to check the upper maintenance walkway.'

With that, Nightwing silently fires his grappling gun and melts into the darkness.

Still glowing with pride, Gar picks a shallow indent in the wall to wait, and tries his best to become a shadow. He's in the middle of contemplating whether his green skin helps or hinders him in that regard—after all, it's a much darker tone than the pale tan of the Bat-clan, and they still manage it—when he feels the wall give away behind his back and he realizes his mistake.

It's not an aesthetic indent in the wall, it's a door.

But that's the only thought he has time for as a surprisingly strong hand grabs him around the neck from behind, and then the breath goes out of him as he's slammed face-first into the ground with his arms pinned behind his back and the uncomfortable weight of the guard's knee crushing him. He quickly gathers his thoughts to transform—let's see how he likes sitting on an angry gorilla—when the man feels him tense and in response lifts his head and slams it into the ground. Once. Twice.

And he must be dreaming now—but dreams don't hurt this sharply do they—because through the dazed mess that is his possibly-concussed mind he feels a hand trail down his back, strange soft pressure and lingering strokes.

The man whispers in his ear, "Mmm, you are a pretty one, aren't you?"

The only warning Gar gets is an icy wall of fury that crashes into his head (it takes him a minute to realize the source is not himself but the mindlink) before the weight is ripped from his back and he scrambles to his feet to the sound of a sickening crunch from somewhere in front of him.

Then Nightwing is kneeling in front of him, filling his view, his hands efficiently feathering around his head, his nose, instructing him to open his mouth to check if any teeth are dislodged, gently smoothing over his wrists—Gar sees Nightwing's face turn stormy for a moment at the already visible bruises there—and then he settles his hands on Gar's shoulders.

"Are you okay?" Nightwing whispers urgently.

There is so much raw emotion in that whisper, so much care, that Gar thinks of his mother for a split second, and then throws his arms around the man in front of him, shuddering as the confusion and fear he didn't realize were there suddenly wash over him. He feels Nightwing's arms tighten protectively around him, and he's inordinately grateful for his small size, for the fact that he can bury his face into a hug and feel safe and warm and enveloped from all sides.

After a minute, he reluctantly pulls away and rubs his eyes—he's not sniffling—and nods up at Nightwing. The man stands with a soft smile, turns slightly away to give Gar a moment to collect himself, and cuts into the panic flitting across the mindlink.

'Everyone calm down, we're fine. Sector 5 is clean and secured; all groups report your progress.'

Gar rubs his head and his sore wrists as the panic calms somewhat, and everyone reports that their sectors are secured as well, while Robin chimes in that he downloaded all the pertinent data. He carefully peeks down the hallway. His assaulter is lying in a crumpled heap next to the wall, chest barely moving. His wrist—the one he was touching him with Gar realizes—is broken. As is his jaw. The way he's lying—with his legs crossed and curled in on himself—strongly suggests something else is broken too.

Nightwing gives the order to move out. As they slip quickly through the hallways, Gar beams at the broad, Kevlar-coated back in front of him and realizes that this is the safest he's felt since the day his mother's jeep sank.

It takes a locker full of frogs to convince Cassie.

It all starts when Cassie decides that she cannot face her mother again with yet another detention slip in hand and hitches a ride to the Cave via zeta-tube on the way home instead. Luckily, the team headquarters is deserted when she arrives, so she is free to stalk into her room and fume at the haughty pink piece of paper in her hand.

She storms around the confined space for a few minutes and eyes the pale plaster walls with longing. All she really wants to do right now is punch something. Hard. But that's the curse of super-strength isn't it? Never being able to completely let go and forget about consequences, to let all the self-restraint fall away in a beautiful blissful release.

Instead, she lets out the rage and frustration a different way. She cries. Slides down the wall and curls up and loses herself in the blood pounding in her ears.

She's so deep within herself that she misses the faint swish of her door opening and the aborted call of "Wondergirl—" but she stiffens when long arms circle around her and then quickly melts into them as she smells soap and fresh bread and something else unmistakably Nightwing.

She tucks her head into his surprisingly comfortable shoulder and clutches his dark sweatshirt as he strokes her hair. He waits patiently until her eyes have worn themselves out and the shudders have faded into faint tremors. Gently, he leans back against the wall and tilts her chin up.

"What happened, Cassie?"

Wordlessly, she hands him the crumpled, slightly soggy, damning pink detention slip. And waits for the disappointed look she's sure is coming.

She's not expecting the smirk and cocked eyebrow thrown her way after he's done reading.

"'Vandalism and blatant disrespect for authority', huh?" he laughs, "Going the extra mile to maintain your secret identity?"

She can't help the cheeky smile that stretches her face. "Well, you know, we're all trying to follow the lead of the ever mysterious Bats."

"Hmm, if you ask me, this seems a bit like overkill. Where's the subtlety, the finesse?"

"Well, it would be easier to follow your lead if we had an example, Mr. Shades."

"These?" He gestures at his face and waggles his eyebrows. "These are just to make me look cool."

Cassie's giggles turn into helpless laughter and soon Nightwing joins her too. When the snorts subside, she wipes her eyes and beams at him. Quickly, she presses a kiss to his cheek and hugs him again.

"Thanks for making me feel better," she mumbles to the back of his head. "And taking my mind off of the jerks who framed me."

"Wait—what?"

She sits back, still smiling, and is surprised by the furious snarl on his face. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and his face slides back into a carefully blank look.

"Tell me everything. Now."

The next day at school is equal parts exciting and terrifying.

From the way Nightwing had growled yesterday when she'd told him about the incessant bullying and how the teachers had already written her off as a 'problem child,' she half expects him to drop down from the ceiling in full costume, throwing batarangs and smoke pellets into the mess of students. Even as she's telling herself how incredibly stupid that would be, she's checking every shadow for movement.

Which is why she's peering (and listening) suspiciously at an empty classroom between classes and doesn't hear Marcus and his cronies amass behind her until they begin talking.

"Looking awfully guilty there Sandsmark," Marcus drawls, "trying to draw more dicks on poor, unsuspecting, blackboards?"

She whirls with a glare. "As if anyone but you could be immature enough to do that."

"Well, Mrs. Fawcett didn't see it that way, did she?" He smiles lazily. "I wonder, between that and the week-long detention for setting all the frogs from the biology room free, might as well give up on getting home before six for the rest of the semester, huh?"

Her hands are already curling into fists and she's noting how his nose looks especially breakable today when an abrupt snort of laughter from behind Marcus breaks the tension.

"Marcus did you shit your pants?"

The bustling of students running to class stops, and as Marcus turns with a bewildered frown, Cassie sees that there is indeed an ugly brown stain spreading along the seat of his pants. She watches in undisguised amusement as he splutters incoherently and stalks off to the bathroom.

The story rampages through the school as only high school gossip can, and she can't help her vindictive smirk every time someone whoops insultingly at Marcus, despite his repeated mumblings of how it was a weird leak from his backpack.

Her day only gets better from there, and she knows exactly who to thank for it, even if she has absolutely no idea how he managed it.

During third period, Marcus's cell phone pipes up in the middle of class with a rendition of Rebecca Black's 'Friday' that gets progressively louder each time he tries to turn it off. When she passes him between fourth and fifth period, he's walking sullenly with his hand resting on the back of his head—no, stuck to the back of his head. At lunch, he opens his lunchbox to find a sizable, fairly unamused lizard waiting. Said lizard then immediately darts up his arm and into his shirt.

The final straw comes after her last class, Marcus's traditional time to torment her as they both take books out of their—regrettably—side-by-side lockers. Today, he doesn't even get a chance to open his mouth or his locker before they are interrupted by the principal, Mrs. Fawcett, who sniffs at Cassie, and then informs her that she has been cleared from all her detentions.

Cassie stares blankly at the haughty woman, torn between thanking her and saying 'I told you so', when Marcus opens his locker angrily and saves her from choosing a reaction.

Because all of a sudden, there is a deluge of frogs.

Countless disgruntled green amphibians pour from Marcus's locker, leaping into hair, backpacks, and jackets, and generally disrupting the busy hallway with a cacophony of croaks and screams. Cassie quickly shuts her own locker and slips away, relishing the furious glare Mrs. Fawcett is levelling on Marcus.

Walking home, Cassie solemnly swears a million times over to never make Nightwing mad at her. Ever.

The next time it happens, the team realizes that there's a reason all the villains in Gotham are sent to an asylum instead of a prison—no sane person would willingly call down the wrath of a Bat.

Mal knows the mission has gone wrong when radio contact with the deployed team shorts out. Again and again he curses his remote position; his dependence on sound waves and trackers to monitor the lives of his family, and with Nightwing away closing a case in Blüdhaven, the silence threatens to deafen him. Fifteen tight, pounding minutes later he restores contact in time to hear a pained gasp followed by a shriek that sends needles into his spine.

Robin.

His heart begins a quest to crawl out of his ears as Conner shouts a hurried explanation—he barely registers that they are abandoning the mission and flying back on the Super-Cycle—and races to prepare the medbay for their arrival. On his way he activates Nightwing's emergency signal.

By the time Nightwing runs through the zeta tube, eyebrows furrowed low, the others have already sped Robin to the medbay, where the doctors immediately whisked him behind closed doors and set to work.

He's barely opened his mouth when another piercing wail silences the lingering zeta announcement and Nightwing's eyes widen even as his jaw clenches. The next instant Mal is left alone in the control room as the other man hurtles past him.

He arrives at the medbay to find the rest of the mission squad—Conner, Cassie, and Jaime—littered through the hallway, the two younger members cringing every time their teammate's cries shatter the silence. Bewildered, he turns to Conner, who only nods at the doors leading to Robin's room. Mal peers through the small circular window and sees Nightwing holding down a thrashing Robin as doctors flit in and out of the frame, shouting unheard directions to unseen partners.

Mal isn't sure how long he stands there; he wonders if it is possible for time to malfunction, because hours and minutes and seconds alternate between slipping past in lumps and clots and dripping lazily by, reducing the action through the window to snapshots. Everything creaks to a stop for a moment after one doctor points at the restraints on the bed, but Nightwing waves him away and then bends over Robin, hands splayed across his jaw and nape, mouth stretched in a furious call—Mal dimly registers that the word Nightwing is silently calling is too short and staccato to be Robin—when time flips to a new picture and Robin's hands suddenly move, lightning-quick, to anchor themselves desperately in Nightwing's elbows, his neck jerking to finally lock eyes with the older man, entire body taut and shivering with the effort.

The doctors don't point to the restraints after that.

Soon after, time gathers its addled remnants and begins marching at a steady pace again.

The two brothers are still locked in their tentative sanctuary, Nightwing's elbows under Robin's grasp and Nightwing's hands on his face tethering the boy somewhat to reality. Nightwing is muttering an unheard stream to Robin, unflinching even as the other's hands tighten to white streaks on his armor, and Mal is sure bruises are blooming even through Kevlar.

There's a sudden energy in the whirl of movement in the room.

Nightwing breaks eye contact only once, glancing upwards as a doctor rushes over with a syringe and gently plunges the contents into Robin's arm. Slowly, softly, Robin's hands unclench and fall to the bed. His body finally unwinds. He sleeps.

Mal releases a breath he's been holding since time broke, and he and Conner gently nudge Cassie and Jaime awake. Soundlessly, they file into the room.

They slide into seats around the bed, Cassie reaching out to tentatively hold a limp hand. Nightwing has shifted to a seat near Robin's head and is gently carding his fingers through the boy's hair, but he's directing a frosty glare at the wall above his head.

"It was an unstable, mutated variant of Scarecrow's toxin." His voice is flat, but there's a warning rippling though it; a dark undercurrent.

From the other side of the bed Jaime lets out a low moan.

"We didn't know the creep was there. And then right after we split up all comms went down and when we regrouped Robin didn't turn up."

Jaime shakes his head and looks down at his teammate. "He was only missing for 5 minutes—10 tops."

Nightwing lets out a small growl and Mal tenses at the waves of cold fury rolling off of him. Conner seems to understand the deadly threat implied and starts to speak. "You can't go after—"

Whip-like, Nightwing swivels and levels Conner with a dark, withering glare that stands all of Mal's hairs on end and brings Conner to a stuttering halt. Somewhere to his right he hears Cassie squeak.

Just as quickly, Nightwing turns the brunt of his glare back to the wall, and they return to a brooding silence. As Mal watches Nightwing rub soothing circles into Robin's head, he wonders if Scarecrow is celebrating somewhere, or if he is plagued by nightmares of an avenging blue shadow.

In any case, he's sure that Scarecrow will soon be treated to a nightmare darker than any he can concoct.

The villains—as always—are the last to fully comprehend the fury that is Nightwing.

No, Barbara amends, the thugs are the last to understand because they are still here in this warehouse resolutely guarding them even though their boss slipped out ten minutes ago, nodding grimly at some communication she'd just received.

Too stupid to realize she's labelled them collateral damage and ditched them, she thinks bitterly, but not stupid enough to forget that no boss means they can play with the prisoners.

She tests the shackles on her hands and ankles again—her sprained ankle twinges vengefully—and then turns a baleful glare at the smirking guard walking towards the cage. La'gaan begins wriggling in his bonds from his position hog-tied on the floor next to her and to her left Karen is still, too still, blood sluggishly leaking from a gash in her side.

She's tensing for a blow, biting sharply into her gag, when four unconscious guards come swinging down from the ceiling, wrapped together like produce. They swivel back and forth for a minute, a twisted pendulum, until the line cuts and they land on the ground with a soft thud.

There's a soft cackle from the twisting shadows above, haunting and lifeless.

The guards below kick into high-alert, gunfire shattering the darkness where the taunt came from. In response another four bodies are lowered to the floor on the opposite end of the warehouse.

Beside her, La'gaan utters a muffled laugh and despite herself, Barbara's heart rate kicks up a notch.

There's another hail of fruitless gunfire—Barbara can't resist a feral smile because if they think shooting him will be any easier than impaling a shadow they clearly don't know who they are dealing with—and then another human package is rolled down, just a single person this time, and female.

The boss.

And next to her, uncurling with feline grace, lands Nightwing.

Pandemonium breaks loose.

He is always a breath-taking fighter, bleeding grace and fluidity and inexplicable harmony, but tonight he is not so much poetry in motion as he is a blizzard. Gone are the frivolous twists and flips, the idle banter—instead every muscle and sinew works together in deadly efficient concert. He is blazing a wide path through the tide of enemies, leaving a trail of broken people in his wake. His face is horrifying in its stillness, in the absence of quick light smirks and laughter.

She's seen him like this before. Of course she has—she's been in the game nearly as long as he has, and she's seen him graduate from pixie boots to pants to black and blue; creep gently from Batman's looming shadow to stand beside him, always one foot outside the dark, one foot in. Dick is a creature of balance, of poise, but she's seen him before in moments like this where the shadows blanketing his radiance turn to daggers and bleed into his eyes to tip the scales and tumble him into a deepening abyss.

She knows how much his own anger terrifies him.

And so when he flips the last guard with an echoing crunch and rushes to them through the bodies on the floor she's not surprised to see that he's trembling slightly. He picks the lock to the cage and quickly pulls the gags off of them. She's quiet as La'gaan gives him a status report and fills him in about Karen's condition, as he makes quick work of their bonds, as he calls Conner and M'gann, and as La'gaan tries to keep Karen conscious, his nervous chatter filling the silence as they wait for the bioship.

Finally, when he moves to inspect her ankle, and she's sure that La'gaan's full attention is on Karen, she leans forward and puts her hand over his quivering fingers, pressing her steady pulse into the dark material. His face flinches upward, masked eyes meeting hers, and she reads the worries etched into the lines near his mouth, the what ifs and too slows and almost too lates.

She squeezes his hand and whispers softly, "It's over now."

The hand under hers steadies, and she's rewarded with a small smile. She successfully ignores how her heart soars at the little beacon, the little indication that the scales are being reset.

Later, when he carries her into the bioship she presses her ear above his heart, listening to the steady beat. She still marvels at the fact that she knows, with every fiber of her soul, that Dick would unbalance himself endlessly, drop himself into the darkness willingly, let his anger take over countless times even if he is terrified of what he could do, if it would mean he could protect them.

Dick knows that it is very common for team members to unconsciously adopt tendencies of their teammates—hell, he can't even count the number of habits he's picked up from Bruce or Wally or the others—but he's having trouble placing where Jaime gleaned uncontrollable rage from. He can only watch in bafflement as Jaime roars again and sends the unfortunate goon through a wall.

He snaps out of his confusion as Jaime makes to follow the man through the wall. "Blue, what the hell was that?"

The boy stops and turns with a vicious snarl. "He insulted you."

"I—what?"

His incoherent sputters are cut short though, as another wave of Bane's goons forces him to turn his attention back to the fight careening wildly all around them. As he twirls his escrima sticks and roundhouse kicks the man sneaking up behind him, memories prickle uncomfortably at his scalp. Jaime, he realizes, is only the latest in a string of rather interesting occurrences. Like that time last week when something unheard on the street made both Cassie and Conner whip around and glare at a passer-by until the poor soul was quivering, or when a sudden coughing fit while sparring had Gar giving him a stern dressing down about eating and sleeping properly, not to mention how recently Tim has begun haunting his left elbow at Wayne Enterprises events, the pinnacle of charm with all the guests but also frowning away the fawning and greedy gold-diggers and reporters.

But another vague shockwave from outside the building brings his attention to the mission. That was good—that meant Alpha squad had successfully disabled another target. He turns a fierce, proud smile at the rest of Beta squad keeping the flood of thugs busy and distracted; relishes the pressure as his chest swells with pride and his gaze trickles over Cassie and Jaime raining terror from above to Tim and La'gaan moving in efficient harmony back-to-back. He takes a moment to bowl over another opponent and send him flying into another two before surveying the battle once again—

Shit.

He vaults over the heads of the thugs rushing him, aiming for the center of the floor, already issuing orders through the mindlink.

'Beta squad defensive formation at the center of the floor, now! There are snipers up in the rafters, possibly armor-piercing bullets—'

And then a column of blinding heat spears its way into his chest, sending agony sparking white-hot through his body until his mind shudders to a halt. He barely sticks his landing, knees wobbling, before falling to all fours with a pained gasp. There's a roaring in his ears and each haphazard attempt to draw oxygen sends pain lancing up his spine, but he's vaguely aware of frenzied movement above and around him and why is someone screaming profanities in his mind?

Someone gently turns him onto his back—he fights to not puke all over them—and Dick opens his eyes blearily to see someone (Conner?) ripping a hole into the building, and Tim's worried face peering down at him, already peeling back the suit to assess the damage (weren't they supposed to be fighting someone?).

He tries to grin reassuringly. "Who knew Beast Boy could swear like a sailor?" he wheezes.

Something warm bubbles up through his throat and panic flits across Tim's face. In the background, he thinks he hears Karen holler a war-cry and roar something about 'no mercy for these assholes,' but since when does she do that?

Consciousness, he decides, is highly overrated.

And then he passes out.

Awareness returns in degrees.

First there's the bone-deep weariness centered in his chest and radiating out to still his limbs. He floats a few shades closer to opening his eyes; manages to parcel and identify the numbness in his body. There's the hollow, raw burn a little south of his heart, the peculiar immobility of his right arm, and the soft warm weight on his knees.

Finally, he cracks his eyes open, recognizes the bland swirls of the Cave infirmary ceiling through the fabric of his mask, sighs, and closes them again.

A grunt from his left. But it's one of those I'm-so-relieved-but-I-suck-at-feelings grunts he knows and loves.

He doesn't bother opening his eyes. Light hurts right now.

"Hey." he croaks.

"You're awake." A gentle pressure on his head. Fingers carding through his bangs. Dick has to stop himself from nuzzling into the sweet touch.

"Nice deduction, Detective." he snickers instead.

Batman chooses to ignore that one. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I should give up being a hero and make a career as a human strainer instead."

"Hm."

"Oh stop, I can practically see your frown. I saw the gunmen before they got situated properly, by the time they aimed and shot I was moving too fast for them to get in a good one. Told the rest of the squad too…" Wait. The rest of the team. Shit, he'd gone down without taking out a single gunman, had they gotten them? Were they hurt—

"They're fine, son." A soft pat on his head. "Open your eyes."

Wincing, he eases them open, and blinks a few times. And—oh. That explains the immobile arm then. And the weight on his knees. A loopy grin spreads across his face.

Because they're all here. His crazy, brave, stupid, loving, ridiculous, incredible team is all here, squished into the small room and soundly asleep. Someone has dragged in the sofa from the living room and wedged it in an awkward diagonal between two walls that also largely blocks the door, and M'gann, Karen, La'gaan, and Mal are a crumpled heap of arms and legs on it. Jaime is perched on the arm of the couch, but is tipped sideways onto Conner's stiff shoulder; Conner is still completely rigid, even in sleep, in a chair near Dick's ankles. Babs is in another chair closer to Dick's right hip, her legs propped up on the bed and head tipped back. Cassie is half in her chair and half out of it, slumped solidly onto his right arm from elbow to fingers, while Gar is curled up on his knees as a sleek green cat. Bruce is still clad in his cape and cowl, a grave black mass near his head, and Tim is next to him, head propped on his hand and a heavy frown blanketing his features even as his head lists back and forth a little.

"They refused to go home." Bruce states with a kind of bewildered exasperation.

Dick can't stop grinning. He barks out a short laugh, at which Cassie and Conner jolt upright, and Cassie's delighted cry brings the rest of them springing, toppling, and snorting awake as well. There's some panic when Gar—startled and still in cat-form—spits, arches, and momentarily digs his claws into Dick's knees, and then when Jaime jerks up so suddenly he tips and crashes into the mess of bodies on the couch, but Dick has never loved them more, confusion, incoordination, chaos, and all.

Now they're all crowding around the bed, talking over and around each other.

"You really scared us—"

"—unresponsive for 38 minutes after you passed out, and then we had to resuscitate you twice—"

"—R, he doesn't need to hear that now—"

"—don't worry, the retarded shithead who shot you paid—"

"—language, Gar—"

"—they ALL paid, boss, we didn't let any of them out of there—"

Dick catches Bruce's amused smirk over their heads and settles back into his pillow.

They were a random, patchwork sort of group, with backgrounds and experiences as varied as the places they came from, but they were a team. Dick would go to any length to protect them, and they would do the same for him.

He wouldn't trade this dysfunctional family for anything.