The shower's been on for a while.

At first, Bruce barely gave Nightwing a second look when he'd walked by to shower and change. It was already a late night and Bruce yearned for his bed. It was only when he was finishing up the last details of a case he'd recently solved that Bruce noticed the shower that had turned on almost twenty minutes ago had never turned off.

Bruce has a bad feeling in his gut, and instead of heading upstairs like he had wanted to, he veers towards the changing rooms.

"Dick?" he calls out, but there's no answer. He finally gets to the running shower, and he stops dead.

Dick has his hands planted against the tiles in front of him, his head hanging low as the water runs over him. The Nightwing suit is unzipped down to his waist, and Dick's panting for breath, his chest heaving.

Bruce is at his side in an instant.

"Hey," Bruce says, catching Dick underneath the arms as he wavers. He lowers Dick to the ground. Dick's too big now to cradle him like Bruce used to, but it's still a familiar thing to Dick so that his head is resting on Bruce's chest, and Bruce tightens one arm around Dick's back to keep him steady and another to push the wet hair out of Dick's eyes. "Breathe, Dick. Just breathe."

Dick tries. Bruce appreciates the attempt, at least. But Dick's heaving and choking on emotion Bruce can't see and all Bruce can do is be here. Talk to him. Not let him go. All the while, the shower is still running, cold water—cold—cascading over both of their legs.

After a few minutes, Dick's breathing starts to even out, and Dick finally starts to unwind. The tension bleeds out of him bit by bit until he's a pile of limp limbs sitting in Bruce's lap.

"Sorry," Dick murmurs. Bruce can't tell if he's crying or not since he's still soaked to the bone, but it's probably safe to bet that Dick's anywhere close to okay right now. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

Bruce doesn't know what he's talking about, and he doesn't particularly care at the moment. It's not his highest priority. "Let's get you in some dry clothes."

Dick is quiet for a few moments, and it has to be close to the three minute mark when Dick finally nods and says, "I'm cold."

Bruce helps Dick maneuver into a standing position, waits for Dick to change into sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and then leads him upstairs. It's awkward as hell since Dick keeps bumping into things like he doesn't realize they're there until it's too late, and Bruce wants to put it up to exhaustion, but he also doesn't know what Dick was doing on patrol tonight. He'll have to make sure.

When Bruce knocks on a bedroom and opens it, Dick blinks in confusion and squints at Bruce. He's huddling into himself, shivering now from standing under cold water for twenty minutes. "This isn't my bedroom," Dick whispers.

"Bruce?" Tim says from the bed, gazing at the two of them over his laptop. His eyes catch on Dick's shivering form, and Bruce can see the instant worry as he leads Dick towards the bed. One push is all it takes for Dick to practically collapse on the bed. Tim shifts out of the way, closing his laptop and setting it aside as he tries to nudge Dick under the covers. "C'mon Dick. Come cuddle with me."

The magic words. Dick's pushing himself up on his hands and knees, and Tim and Dick settle under the blankets. Dick's dead to the world in an instant, and Tim curls up next to him.

"Make sure he stays there," Bruce tells Tim, nabbing a sterile needle and alcohol wipes from Tim's bathroom—he's paranoid, and things like this happen more and more often, of course he has needles stocked in the bathrooms—sitting down at the edge of the bed. "Hold his arm."

Tim does, and Bruce is quick about drawing blood. Dick doesn't even stir.

"Is he okay?" Tim wonders, relaxing back in the bed next to Dick.

"I'm about to find out." And with that, Bruce is back in the Cave. Exhaustion forgotten.

It doesn't take long for the blood sample to come back clean, and Bruce can only sigh as he makes his way back into Tim's room. Both boys are asleep now. They don't stir at his entrance, and Bruce kneels down at the edge of the bed closest to Dick. He runs his fingers through his eldest's damp hair and he worries.

He's noticed it before, of course. Dick has come home from patrol before, that same exhausted, dazed look in his eyes. It doesn't always lead to a panic attack, but this has happened often enough, ever since Dick was nine-years-old, that Bruce knows how to handle it.

Except, maybe he doesn't. Because he knows that Dick will wake up tomorrow morning and come down for breakfast with a bright smile and a spark in his eye, and no one will be any the wiser to the turmoil in Dick's heart until the next time he comes home and breaks down.

Maybe it's time to change that, Bruce thinks as he stares down at his son. Even in sleep Dick looks exhausted, and Bruce doesn't want that for him. Maybe tomorrow at breakfast, when Dick comes down and shows everyone a smile, Bruce will be able to pull Dick aside and they can talk.

Maybe. It's a nice goal, and Bruce only hopes he'll be able to pull through. After all, he's been promising himself the same thing since he first noticed almost ten years ago. But maybe this time will be different.