In my dreams, I fly again.

I close my eyes and, once more, I've got that line tight in my grip. My fingers are gloved, my face is masked. I can breathe again. I can breathe the air of the night, can breathe in every sound and every sight as the city does its dance of darkness. I can feel the sirens blaring in the distance, their pulsating lights creating a vibration against my skin.

I'm free again.

I can race forward, running on my own two feet, my legs long and lean, my heart pounding against my chest, shooting me with adrenaline like a drug. Fresh, alive, healthy. Not a single thought of doubt crosses my mind as I take that leap, as I dive headlong off another rooftop. I cast my line and it reels me back in and I fly like a spider, like a bird through the open air. I laugh. I cry. I feel something and that's what matters.

And then I'm falling, tumbling, and I remember reality.

My eyes flash open as I wake with a start. I stare ahead of me for a moment, recovering my breath, and my eyes move up. I realize with a sinking heart that I'm where I never should have been in the first place.

I'm in front of a giant computer screen, my coffee spilled over onto the large keyboard, the tiny icons beeping and flashing at a maddening pace. It's like they're mocking me. I wouldn't be surprised if they were. Seems like enough things are mocking me these days.

And then my eyes slowly move downwards and I see the wheels. I see the chair. I see my legs. They're there, alright, looking perfectly nice and normal. But they won't move. Not for the past five years. Not since I had a bullet blasted through my spine when I went to answer my own front door.

I raise my eyes and look at the computer screen again. Looks like I didn't miss too much while I was taking my little midnight nap. I sort through my contacts, check for messages. This whole Oracle hype is what makes me feel important while at the same time making me feel like some techno nerd with too much free time on her hands.

They call me Oracle. Because I'm their database, I'm their source of information. I run the systems while the big boys go take out the trash. But really? I'm just a cripple who can't even walk, let alone play in the major leagues. I used to think I could. But that was in the Batgirl days. And Lord knows those days are gone.

I waver over the names on my list. Batman, Batgirl, Robin, Black Canary, Huntress. All out doing something, not currently needing my help. My eyes reach the last name. Nightwing.

It brings a mixture of emotions, as an image of his face pops up on the screen, with his charming smile and eyes hidden behind the jagged mask. I'm all too familiar with it, and yet I sometimes feel like I'll never truly understand him. Or myself. Or anything.

Then again, it's 2:30 in the morning and I'm PMSing, so I'm probably just being overemotional. That's what Bruce would say.

I wipe my hands down my face slowly, then place them on the smooth steel of my wheelchair. I rub my palms up and down its surface for a few seconds, lost in my own train of thought.

The night is blind, but blind is good. Blind means your other senses are intensified. Blind means you aren't distracted by what you see, but instead focused on what you feel. You don't see the punch aimed towards you, but you hear it. You smell the crime of the city. Blindness is a weakness, but you can tune it to be a strength.

It was something Bruce told me once, back in the old days. I always thought it was one of his better lessons. But I don't know how much I believe it.

Involuntarily, my eyes move down to my legs once again. Frozen in their position, unless I use another part of my body to force them to move. My weakness. The one reason I can't be out where the action is. The one reason why I have to sit here and wait for the news to reach me, sit and wait to hear if my friends are dead or alive. Helpless. How do you tune that to be a strength?

I turn around and make my way towards the kitchen, leaving my transceiver on the steel table. I don't want to take any calls tonight.

Calls. Nightwing. There's that name again, coaxing its way into my head like honey.

Where is he now? I turn my head towards the window, as I pour a glass of milk. I haven't heard from him in a month, let alone seen him. And the last time I did—

The glass slips slightly from my hand as I squeeze too hard. It falls to the ground and shatters into a million pieces, spraying milk and glass bits across the linoleum and over my shoes.

I curse under my breath, leaning over and attempting to pick some of it up. I can't reach all of it. For some reason, this makes me angry beyond words.

I sit there for a moment, staring at the glass as it glints under the fluorescent lighting of my kitchen. Like all things, mocking.

The last time I saw Nightwing—the last time I saw Dick—we had a fight. A bad one. I was tired of seeing him with that space alien, Koriand'r, the beautiful girl with the long, red-orange hair that flowed down her back in perfect waves and bright green eyes that glowed like coals. I was jealous, naturally. I was supposed to be Dick's one and only, his first love. So I gave him a piece of my mind. And, like every time I hold a grudge against someone, it has only haunted me since.

I give the glass bits a last, infuriated glare and turn my wheelchair around, moving towards my bedroom. My eyelids are drooping as I turn on the lights to the bathroom, figuring I'll take a shower and go to sleep. I pull at the ends of my t-shirt, starting to lift it up over my head, when—

I'm blind. I'm suddenly and completely blind. I yelp, trying to thrash, to somehow push the blindness away from me. Instead I throw my arms out and make contact with something smooth and strong. I clutch it, grab at it, and shove it off of my eyes.

Blindness is a strength.

Hands, I realize, are what were covering my sight. I whirl around my wheelchair and almost suffer yet another heart attack.

Dick.

He's standing in my room, grinning at me like an idiot as I place a hand against my hammering heart and attempt to breathe again.

"Sorry," he teases. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Like hell you didn't," I gasp, and stare at him. "I'll kill you for that. Jesus, Dick…"

He laughs. "Oh, come on! First time I've seen you in a month and the first thing you do is tell me you'll kill me?" He flops down onto my bed, looking at me with that ridiculous smile. "Charming."

"You hypocrite," I remark, and shove him off my bed, causing another bout of his laughter. "First time I've seen you in a month and you decide it would be a great idea to break into my house and creep up behind me. While I get ready to get into the shower."

He cocks an eyebrow slyly. "You know, I was tempted to wait until you were undressed, but I figured that would only be—"

"Oh, shut up," I interrupt, but I can't keep the grin from reaching my lips. That's the thing about Dick. His optimism is intoxicating.

"You still mad at me?" he asks, standing up and moving closer, taking my hands in his and bending his knees so that he's at my level. Our faces are only a few inches apart.

"About giving me a heart attack? Yes," I reply, pressing my forehead against his, daring him to beg my forgiveness.

"No, I mean…about last time." He looks away.

My smile disappears and I realize that he's sorry about the fight we had. Which is ridiculous, because it wasn't his fault. It was all me, being jealous and controlling.

I lift my hand and place it against his chin, moving his face back towards me. Our eyes meet and I sink into those beautiful baby blues. He's such a stereotypical hottie. Not that I'm complaining.

"No," I tell him, smiling again. And I'm being honest.

His face lightens considerably and he stands up, offering his hand. "Well, come on then," he says. "We don't have all morning."

"What?" I raise an eyebrow but take his hand anyway. God knows the reason why I trust Dick as much as I do. He's reckless, wild, and little too full of it for his own good. But he's genuine, and maybe that's what matters.

He bends down and wraps one arm underneath my legs, hoisting me up out of my chair and into his arms. "Somewhere we haven't been in way too long," he tells me, as he carries me out of the bedroom. I won't deny how nice it feels to have a pair of strong, rippling-with-muscle arms supporting me.

"Uh-huh. And where exactly might that be? Since, apparently, my wheelchair can't go there," I reply, cocking an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

"You hate that old chair anyway," he reminds me, as he sweeps down the hallway, picking up his pace a little bit. I can feel his breath against my neck, causing the little hairs there to rise.

"True." My lips twist into a wry smile.

He takes me across my kitchen, and now I'm getting very confused. There's no door on this side of the kitchen. Only a windo—

"No." I grab his arm.

"Yes," he replies simply, taking one hand away from holding me to open the window.

"No, Dick." I'm ordering this time.

"Babs." He stops messing with the window and looks at me. The teasing has gone away from his expression, and his gaze is suddenly and intensely serious. It's odd, but I don't altogether mind it. There's a certain sweetness to it. "Don't lie to me, okay?" he says. "I've known you for 11 years. I know how much you loved being Batgirl, and I know how much it kills you that you can't be out here anymore. So I'm here to show you that you can."

I stare at him for a moment. His eyebrows are furrowed, like he's daring me to object to the thing I've dreamed about for the past five years. Like he's daring me to be a coward. I bite on the tip of my tongue, and keep my mouth shut. Then I close my eyes. I breathe in, breathe out, then whisper, "Don't drop me."

I don't see it, but I can hear his lips move from their frown into a grin. "Not a chance," he whispers back, his mouth close to my ear. I keep my eyes closed.

Blindness is a strength.

And then the window is thrust open and I lean my head against the light-blue symbol on his collarbone, as his hand shoots to his side, pulling the grappling line out of his utility belt. It flies up and into the night, I can hear it, and I squeeze my eyes tighter, all the while thinking of what Bruce told me that night so long ago.

Then I open my eyes, place my hands on either side of Dick's face, feeling the cool skin of his cheeks, and kiss him. Nothing intense. But something needed.

He kisses me back softly, slowly, and I suddenly realize that we are dropping, falling away from the window of my home. I gasp in a combination of surprise and excitement, feeling rather girlish and giddy, and wrap my arms closer around his neck. Then the line pulls tight and we are pulled through the air, above the city and its traffic lights, above the screeching tire wheels, above the endless stream of cars and passing people.

Dick's arm tightens around me, pulling me close to him. I don't fight it. He kisses the top of my head, pressing his nose into my hair. I close my eyes and feel Gotham beneath me.

In his arms, I fly again.