AN: Thanks for the feedback. And to the reviewer that didn't believe the dialogue of the first part, I have worked even harder to give everyone a distinctive way of talking and made it as realistic as I can, considering this storyline involves teenager superheroes and corporal punishment. But hey, I like constructive criticism. It makes me a better writer.

Thanks!

The Bat Family, Bodies Don't Lie

Whenever other superheroes meet the member of the Bat team, there is usually a head nod of respect to the solemn undertaking of the job and then a lowering of the voice to ask, "So, life with Batman? That must be hard work. Lots of rules, lots of orders, lots of working past the endurance that any human could endure. Are you sure you guys don't have superpowers?"

The rules of the manor didn't bother me that much. They were strict, but they had to be to accommodate that many vigilantes living under one roof. The chaos came from all the talking around the manor and the cave, not from a lack of rules.

We were expected to train physically every day, to report all injuries, and study/build something or monitor the city. We were allowed three nights of patrolling a week which could last all night but the other nights we had to be in bed by nine and asleep by ten. The exceptions to that were times when a major threat happened and then it was all hands on board.

I didn't understand the whole meals together rule until dinner my first night. I was used to eating when I was hungry or after training but that kind of reaction from all of us would have been even more chaotic. With the amount of energy we expended each day, we needed around 5000 calories a day. Rough patrol nights could burn up to 10,000 calories so we spent a lot of time hungry. I wasn't sure how Alfred cooks so much, but that night around the table there was me, Bruce, Jason, Dick, Tim, and Damian, and we were all ravenous.

Alfred brought in a whole turkey and trays of squash, green beans, fruit, potatoes, gravy, bread, and broccoli. The boys groaned at the last dish and even Bruce made a face, but Alfred insisted, "You need the indole-three-carbinol."

We had to take two ladles of each item and eat them all before getting seconds of anything. That night we stripped the bones of the turkey bare and emptied all the plates, even the broccoli, and when Alfred brought in a double-layered chocolate cake, we ate it all, too.

"It's different when we have company," Dick licked the frosting off his fork as he eyed the frosting left on the serving knife. "We have normal sized servings then, a regular serving spoonful of everything and then we get to gorge in the kitchen later when they go home."

He reached for the knife, but Tim snatched it out from under his hand.

"Ha, too slow," Tim began licking the wide blade. "Though why do we only get one cake? When Barbara and Steph were here, Alfred made two."

"If you want another cake, make one," Bruce said, amused.

"You'll do no such thing," Alfred began stacking up the dishes. "There are still scorch marks on the ceiling from the time you tried to make Master Bruce a birthday cake."

"It wasn't that bad," Tim said.

"I was worried about your detective skills," Bruce said. "The fact that you couldn't tell the differences between baking powder and corn starch made me a little uneasy."

"Alfred doesn't keep stuff in their packages – he puts them in sealed jars with tiny, British handwriting," Tim protested.

"Yes, because I don't expect you to sneak in my kitchen while I'm out and start baking cakes," Alfred said.

"We were so sick," Dick laughed. "Crime went up, like, 200 percent because we couldn't leave the cave."

Tim scowled, but the edges of his mouth kept creeping upward at the good natured teasing.

Damian didn't talk much, sitting stiffly at the table like he was in an etiquette class. He had agreed to break the wishbone of the turkey with Dick and had been pleased when he won the long part after the bone snapped.

"Kitchen is off limits," Alfred added. "Except for KP duty. Master Grayson?"

Dick pushed his chair back with a smile. "Not even treated like a guest when I visit. I promise not to eat all the ice cream while I'm in there." He ruffled Damian's hair as he went to the kitchen, and I watched the younger boy roll his eyes at the affectionate gesture.

Jason gave a huff and leaned back in his chair, taking out his smokes.

"Not on your life," Bruce said as he reached for his after-dinner coffee. He didn't look at Jason, keeping his eyes on the cup of dark liquid.

"You can't tell me what to do."

"Try me. You're not smoking in front of the kids."

"You suck," Jason said as he stood up. "This whole place sucks. You and your freaking Demon Spawn."

"Hey!" Damian went rigid even more than he had been. "Don't talk to Father like that. You can't leave the table until he says so."

"Grow up, runt," Jason returned. "I hate it here – I can't stand it here."

Words lie. They lie and lie and keep lying as people talk. Bodies tell the truth.

Jason stood there, snarling about how much he hated us all, but he didn't leave. He faced Bruce, shoulder back and arms wide to express himself. That wasn't the stance of hatred or disgust – that would be shoulders drawn in tight, defensive not offensive.

He didn't want Bruce's hatred or even to cause him pain. Jason wanted Bruce's attention.

I leaned back, my fingers touching the handle of my dinner knife. I could throw it with half my speed and give him a shallow wound that would heal in four days. He would be angry with me and Bruce would be furious, but that wouldn't be enough to unite them in anger.

I looked at Bruce who wore his usual expression of patient martyrdom. I could land the knife in him and then Jason could jump to his rescue, but that would end with me on the outside and I had already hurt Bruce that day.

The knife in Tim or the jerking, upset Damian wouldn't result in positive reactions. No knife tonight then.

Besides, something was off in Jason's body. I wasn't close enough to sense it exactly beyond a general impression of off-ness – he stood about twelve feet from me. He needed to be closer and I would prefer to touch him to find out what was wrong.

But first I would have to be alone with him – he wouldn't submit to my inspection in front of everyone else. Male pride and all that nonsense. Oh, well, his time would come soon.

I stood, interrupting Jason's tirade. I blinked sleepily, yawning, and Jason's voice died away.

"I'm sure you're tired," Bruce said to me. "Tim, take her upstairs and make sure she has everything she needs."

Time stood up, and Bruce looked at Jason. "Go to your apartment and don't bother coming back until you're ready to behave. Out!"

I was closer then, and I saw the resentment in Jason's face, but for a second, it slipped. It was replaced by a stark agony and unmasked fear. The boy was terrified of something.

He spun away and the door slammed a second later, as hard as an oak front door can slam on iron hinges.

"Father," Damian clenched his fists together, "you can't let him talk like that. You're in charge – knock him to the ground!"

"Let it go," Bruce said. "He'll calm down and be fine."

I never understood why people used their words to lie so much. Why couldn't they let words be as honest as their bodies? What was the point of speaking if words were only lies?

Tim took me upstairs and kept up a stream of conversation, one-sided, while he got me a toothbrush, towels, soaps, and other stuff out of the hall closet. "If you need something, write it on the tablet in the kitchen. Alfred says he doesn't want to remember a million items when he goes shopping. He orders a lot of stuff online – we get deliveries almost every day. It'll be fun to have you around. Anyone's better than Damian. You know, Bruce never made him apologize for beating me up the first time the kid came here. I've waited and waited, but Bruce lets that kid get away with murder, and real murder, too. Though Damian pitched a fit a few weeks ago, and Bruce took him to his study."

Tim smirked with the memory. "I listened at the door, but I didn't hear anything. I really wanted to hear Bruce knock him upside the head. The brat came out looking all sulky and quiet so that's something. I gave him a smile which is mean, I know, but I wanted to see him get into more trouble. He's a good fighter though, and he's smart like Bruce. I mean, it makes sense that we would have trouble with him. We're all adopted, but he's Bruce's real son though Alfred says we're all real sons, but you know. I thought Dick would have the most problems, but the kid worships the ground Dick walks on. Bruce may be his father, but Dick hangs the moon. Which makes me and Jason the middle kids, I guess."

I liked Tim. He lied very little and even then he had a strong sense of honesty that led him. Besides, he didn't expect an answer beyond my nod of understanding, which was nice. I didn't mind people talking as long as they didn't expect me to answer and they didn't expect me to believe their lies.

"Sorry about Jason," Tim went on. "He's been back a while, but he keeps trying to get Bruce in a fight. Bruce says he needs space, but if I talked like that . . . well, let's just say Red Robin would actually be red, either physically or from a verbal shellacking. I tried to tell Jason that he can't just confront Bruce – the only way to take him down is as a team, but Jason told me to get bent. He swore really bad a few weeks ago and Bruce banned him from the house and the cave for a week. He hasn't sworn again yet, but he won't stop. And really, it's not like I want to take Bruce down, but I think it's important for him to realize that we could take on the Batman if we had to. Everyone needs to know there are some limits. I don't know why Bruce won't give Jason some limits other than swearing. Bruce was worried when he first came back and was so dangerous and crazy – if we couldn't rehabilitate him, he was going to send Jason to Arkham."

Tim shuddered, and I gave a sympathetic nod. Most of Tim's ideas melted into each other, just like clues that he tracked down. He could be analytical and focused, but he liked to see the world as a spread of patterns rather than compartmentalized into separate areas.

"So here you go," Tim set a bag of toiletries down. "I'm on patrol tonight with Batman and Damian will be jealous, so I want to get down there to watch him try to cajole Bruce into switching. But no way – Batman and Red Robin ride tonight! Or sneak around, depending on what he wants. Later!"

I gave him an enthusiastic nod as he dashed off. Tim was fit like the rest of them, but he didn't get to patrol with Batman often because of Tim's talents. Of the kids, Tim was the detective and patrol rarely needed two detectives at a time. Dick was the acrobat with an affinity for languages. Jason with his fast impulses and machines/weapons knowledge, Damian the prodigy with his history and assault abilities. They all had different abilities, different temperaments, different needs. Jason's need seemed to be screaming the loudest, but everyone was ignoring him.

I slept – nice bed, nice room, nice view – and ate breakfast with them and went down to the cave while Tim went off to school and Damian settled in the library to study. I ran, sparred with the body dummies, practiced my swing on the high wire, and spent an hour whacking tennis balls that flung out from various holes as I stood at the center of their mêlée. One of the boys had dubbed the circular training area Ball Pit Hell, but I didn't find it that challenging as I whacked a ball behind me, in front of me, two on opposite sides with short sticks. The balls came fast, but there was a tiny whirling noise for a split second before a ball hurled out of a random hole towards me. I didn't mind the whooshing sound that came with the ball flying through the air (that matched a moving opponent's weapon or fist) but that tiny whirl gave the spot of emergence away and made it too easy. I would have to tamper with the machine to soften the noise – then it would be hard enough to challenge me.

Around noon, I wandered upstairs where lunch was being put out. I ate some and Damien joined me, sitting with headphones on as he chewed, ignoring me for the most part. Bruce had gone into Wayne Enterprises, so we were alone.

Around one, I was trying to decide if I should go train for another hour or take one of the bikes (non-superhero ones) out for a spin when Jason showed up. He stood in the doorway of the family room wearing his black leather jacket, every inch of him screaming for attention even as he scowled and trudged towards me in boredom.

"You seen B?" he asked, his tone as punk and aggressively-tinted as it could be, a guy trying to show his toughness and rudeness to the world.

I shrugged, not about to sign the real answer or try to say the words Wayne Enterprises.

"I didn't think you had," he scoffed, but I wasn't listening to his words anymore. His body would speak for him.

His hands were shaking slightly as he took out his electronic vapor smoker. A nicotine addiction, evidenced by the ways his fingers moved erratically. His pupils were dilated, and his eyes kept ticking to the left side, unaware to him, but a sign of continual fear. His facial muscles twitched occasionally, the mark of someone without enough sleep for a long period of time. Another addiction in there somewhere, this one probably to caffeine judging by his sweaty paleness, but not using anything harder than nicotine and caffeine. Maybe a painkiller once or twice but that was all.

That was all the info I could get from watching. I smiled sweetly, ignoring his huffing and short comments about what an ass Bruce was. I put my hands out, making squeezing motions.

He blinked. "What?"

I touched my shoulders and mimed a massage again.

"Oh, okay," Jason hesitated, "I guess. No one touches me anymore, not since . . . I came back. No one wants to touch the guy back from the dead."

I kept smiling but nodded to his leather jacket.

"Sure," he shrugged out of it. He wore jeans and a T-shirt under the jacket even though it was February. His arms were solid, the muscles running up into his shirt, and his chest was well-defined. His stance looked off, but he turned willingly, even dropping his head a few inches to give me full access.

For a superhero-sidekick-turned-mercenary-then-turned-back-but-with-a-bad-attitude, Jason was far too trusting. There were hundreds of ways to kill him from that stance, and even more to hurt him, but he was too busy with his mission of trying to get Bruce's attention to notice the reformed assassin two feet behind him. Typical boys – can't do two things at the same time. This was why in the past I usually had attacked targets in intimate moments – you offer to be a soft, caring woman in front of them and they melt.

Under this pretense, I dug into his shoulders as I worked my fingers down. I was searching, using my hands to read his body; one of his back muscles was too tight and dropping lower than the other on the planes of the shoulder blades.

"Thanks," he said. "That feels good. I thought he'd tell you to stay away from me. I'm the problem, the Robin that didn't work. He won't look at me, but I don't care. I just . . . hate him so much."

That was enough lying for today. Time for me to talk the best way I knew. I reached down his spine and felt the out-of-place vertebrae – two of them out of alignment. I kept one hand on his shoulder, and then I drove my other hand into his back.

"Ah! Cas!" He tried to step away, but I reached in front of him and popped him in the neck, cutting off his air.

He fell on his knees, clawing at his throat. I only had about thirty seconds of prime work time before he went unconscious. I spun to the front of him and grabbed his head. His eyes were wide and terrified, but I wrenched his head to the side, hearing the multiple pops. I hit pressure points on his throat, his temple, his chest, releasing adrenaline, the thyroid glands, sending endorphins through his body. It was some of the same chemical releases that an orgasm would give him, but about seven times stronger, and I didn't have time to have sex with him. I wrenched his shoulder back and landed my palm to the back base of his skull.

I hit the sides of his neck, opening up his airway. He gasped in air, eyes watering.

"What – the hell, Cas? I couldn't – just-"

But his body was singing. He went quiet as all the chemicals released and hit him hard. His gaze came unfocused as his eyes glazed, and he tried to stand up, but he couldn't find the strength.

I offered him a hand and he took it, proving once and for all that men don't learn. The second he was on his feet, dazed and unfocused, I put a foot behind him, grabbed his neck from the back, and arched him backwards.

"Cas, don't!"

If he had truly wanted to stop me, he could have. Even slammed with endorphins, he had been trained to fight under the most stressful circumstances. His words were protesting, but his body wasn't. Bodies don't lie.

One hard wrench, a snap as everything realigned, and the tension went out of his lower body.

He was heavy, but I've taken down brutes bigger. I shoved him back up and then angled him to sit on the sofa behind him.

He went, still fazed by what he must be feeling, a rush of needed chemicals but the shock of all of them at once that made him breathe deep and long as he struggled with what I had done to him. He balked when I lifted his legs up on the sofa.

"No, Cas, I don't want to sleep. No, let me stay up."

I pushed him down, putting a pillow under his head for support. After all, I'm not completely heartless.

"I can't sleep," Jason panicked. "I have nightmares. I work until I pass out – I don't go to sleep."

I put a finger to my lips, warning him to be quiet.

"No, no! It's too much. You don't know what it's like. I bled out in that warehouse, waiting for him to come. He didn't, and I woke up in the Lazarus Pit, screaming. I was alone and all my blood was pouring out on that hard cement floor and I knew I was dying. I can't handle the nightmares, I can't."

So, the lying wouldn't stop on its own.

I put my open hand under his jaw, digging my thumb and fingers into the soft tissue while my other hand pressed on his forehead. He reached for my wrists, and normally he could have tossed me off, but my earlier "help" had weakened him.

"No," he murmured against my hand, but his eyes were sliding shut.

I moved my hands to press my palms on his brow and my fingers into his temples. The pressure would calm him as his body started to heal from rest.

He went limp into sleep.

Finally, lies would stop for a while. I covered him with a furry afghan, and I settled down in the chair beside him to write out specs for the Ball Pit Hell.

Writing and reading came quickly to me though speaking was still hard. I like to read adventure stories – they were always silly and too simplistic but they were still fun to read and imagine inside my head, a place where my voice pronounced all the words correctly and no one called me names.

Bruce had a whole series called the Hardy Boys Casefiles which I could read slowly, recognizing most of the words. They were more serious and adult than the early Hardy Boys books, and the two brothers tracked down killers and terrorists with near-superhero precision. I got to join their adventures without having them tell me to speak or telling me what to do.

I wondered if that was the reason anyone read a story.

Jason slept. He moved restlessly after an hour, but I stroked his forehead and temples until he went still. His eyes didn't open.

Alfred checked in on us and brought me food and water. I smiled in thanks as he crept carefully to stay as quiet as possible. The hours ticked by in blissful quiet. Tim and Damien peaked in, but I waved them away, and they left quickly when they saw Jason sleeping.

Right before supper, Jason stirred and I let him wake up.

"What the hell?" he sat up groggily. Tossing the afghan aside, he put his legs over the edge and sat fully up, but he stared sleepily, face blank as he tried to return to the present. He already looked twice as good as he had before I made him sleep.

I smiled at him.

"I'm sore," he complained, rubbing his neck and chest. "You're evil. I'm . . . I'm telling."

But he blinked slowly, shoulders hunched forward in vulnerability and something very close to submissive acceptance.

Footsteps sounded, and Bruce stopped by the door. "There you are. Dinner is almost ready. Jason, you staying?"

Jason tensed and I knew the lying was about to start again. I stood near him, so I reached out to stroke his hair, and he made a move to push me off. But then he made a mistake: he rubbed his eyes with a fisted hand, looking for all the world like a child just woken from a nap.

Bruce paused and then he came in, looking directly at Jason. "Jay-Lad, are you all right?"

I saw Jason start at the old nickname, but he just shrugged. "I'm fine. Cas made me sleep. I didn't want to . . ."

"For how long?"

"Not long."

I shook my head and held up six fingers.

"Six minutes?" Bruce raised an eyebrow.

I shook my head.

"Six hours?" Bruce thundered. "You slept for six hours in the middle of the day?"

"She made me," Jason pointed at me, still too groggy to sound forceful. "She – did stuff to me."

Ignoring Jason's accusing look, Bruce came in front of him and squatted down. He palmed Jason's forehead and searched his eyes carefully.

"I'm fine," Jason said, but he had relaxed under the scrutiny and Bruce's checking hands.

"Have you been sleeping? You don't look good. Stick your tongue out. All the way out."

"Uhm hine," he garbled around his outstretched tongue.

"You're shaking. Are you cold? It's February and you're running around in a T-shirt. Have you been sleeping?"

"Yes," Jason lied.

Bruce glanced at me and I shook my head firmly. When he glanced back at Jason, Jason admitted, "A few hours here and there. But I can take care of it –"

Bruce straightened and jerked Jason to his feet. The boy teetered, but Bruce caught him, turned him to the side, and smacked him twice on each side of his rear. The noise was like gunshots in the still room.

"Ow, B!"

"You know the rules," Bruce turned him back. "You report all injuries. I had those rules since you were twelve and they are still in effect – I don't care how many Lazarus Pits you jump into."

Jason huffed but didn't move.

"You wanted to live as an adult and I agreed, but I have been far too lenient on you if you fall asleep for six hours in the middle of the day after three non-patrol nights. You can forget about dinner."

"You're kicking me out?" dread flashed over Jason's face as his body went stiff.

"No, we're going down to the cave and I'm running a full battery of tests on you, mental and physical. You can have water, but no food until afterwards. I want to see what you're lacking and how else you aren't taking care of yourself."

"Aw, I'm hungry," Jason's mouth said, but his body was eager and willing to comply. Had he been standing any closer to Bruce, they would have been hugging.

"You've been eating junk food when you don't eat here. Dick told me about all the fast food wrappers littering your apartment."

"That fink! I told him to stay out of my place," Jason scowled, but he was clearly elated to have so much attention directed at him. He was squirming, but it had nothing to do with the stern look Bruce was giving him and everything to do with the delight of finally being taken care of. Middle child, indeed.

"Any more shenanigans," Bruce warned, "and I'm moving you back in here and grounding you indefinitely."

"I'm nineteen and an adult now. You can't do that – I won't stand for it," Jason's words lied. His body said "Challenge noted and accepted."

"I'll put you on such a short leash that you'll wish you had never come back to Gotham."

"You're such a jerk," but his body said, "Oh yes, do that."

"Get some water and meet me down in the cave. And another thing," Bruce spun him around and delivered two more sharp spanks.

"B!"

"Don't you ever talk about my parents again. I don't talk about yours. Mention them again, and you won't sit for week. Cave – two minutes. Cas, go get dinner."

Bruce strode out, and Jason reached back to rub absentmindedly as he tried to grasp what had just happened. His eyes were wide, and he blinked slowly, overwhelmed. He would still be feeling the endorphins.

He picked up his jacket and the electronic cigarette and regular smokes fell on the coffee table, but he ignored them as he gathered up his jacket clumsily and ran a distracted hand through his hair.

He came towards me and I steeled myself in case he tried to hit me. I didn't want to send him down to Bruce with bruises and I didn't want to go to dinner with my own bruises, but –

He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. "Thanks, Cas. Though I am sore."

He ran out, calling in the direction Bruce had gone, "I'll do the tests, but I am not doing anything with needles. You can't make me."

Ugh, would words never stop lying?

After putting my book and scribblings away, I went into the dining room where Tim and Damian were watching Alfred put a silver cake stand and cover on the sideboard.

"You will save Master Bruce a piece," Alfred said firmly. "He will be busy with Master Todd for the time being but he gets a piece."

Tim nodded, but the moment Alfred went to get more food, he spoke in a theatrical whisper, "Ladies and gentlemen, I direct your attention to this silver cake stand. Once in a while Alfred buys a cake out from Henries', a pastry shop of French and German influences, to celebrate special occasions. The occasion might be you, Cas, but no one cares. We only care about what is beneath this cover. Costing fifty-five dollars, a three-layered red velvet cake, moist and soft, covered with cream cheese icing. Enough sugar to send a diabetic into a coma and enough calories to make the average person gain ten pounds. For your amazement and pleasure, I give you," Tim lifted the cover to show a cake underneath covered in waves of white icing, "the cake of superheroes."

"Ah," Damian was nearly drooling. He reached a finger out, but Tim closed the cover.

"No, not yet. We will have dinner, two scoops like we're supposed to. Then I will cut Bruce out a slice. Normally he would get an inch," Tim measured with his thumb and forefinger, "which is the standard American serving for all cake slices. But he is more special than the standard American so he gets," Tim widened his measurement, "two inches. His two-inch slice will go to the side. But ladies and gentlemen, fate has looked on us and found us worthy. Dick isn't here, Alfred doesn't like this type of cake, and Jason is being punished so that means that the three of us get to split the rest."

The silver cover reflected our toothy smiles.

"I will cut the pieces," Tim said though Damian began to object, "but Cas will pick first, then Damian, and I will take the last slice. That way it will all be fair."

"We should get a tape measure," Damian said.

"Yes, this must be perfectly even," Tim agreed. "And when we're asked if we ate a whole third of this cake, we can honestly say no because we did leave Bruce a slice. Though I'm thinking an inch would be enough for him."

"Father gets two inches."

"Oh, fine. But the rest is ours." Tim grinned broadly. "Every last bite of this decadent dessert for Black Bat, Robin, and Red Robin. Ah, this really is the best day."

Bodies don't lie, but sometimes words do tell the truth.

The End