Chapter Text
Fortunately, when the truck collided with the city bus, it clipped the rear rather than plowing straight through the middle of it. The bus spun and skidded onto its side, but it was still in one piece—as were the passengers.
Nightwing, who had been cruising through the intersection on his motorcycle at the same time, got off his bike and helped the people out of the wreck through the rear emergency exit. Most were just shaken or bruised, a few bloody noses, some possible concussions and mild neck injuries, but nothing that required immediate attention.
Once the paramedics arrived, it was an easy handoff. He stepped back, giving the first responders space to work, and was about to hop on his motorcycle and take off when a tiny hand grabbed his own.
“Excuse me, Mr. Nightwing?” a little girl said, looking up at him with big blue eyes that shined in the emergency lights. Her bottom lip was pink and swollen where she’d accidentally bit it during the accident.
He crouched to get eye level with her. “Just ‘Nightwing’ is fine. What’s up?”
She fished a somewhat crumbled paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. It was a hand drawn party invitation, complete with sparkling stickers and a colorful illustration of a fire breathing dinosaur, for some reason.
“Will you come to my birthday party fun rager?” she asked.
“Your…?”
A woman hurried up behind her, a sizable bandage on her forehead. “Frannie, you know better than to wander off like that!” She looked at Nightwing. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s no trouble,” Nightwing said, standing. “She was just inviting me to her…”
“Birthday fun rager!” the girl cheered.
The woman, her mom, Nightwing assumed, gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Why don’t you go check on Daddy and make sure he’s okay?” She pointed to where a man was sitting in the back of an ambulance while a paramedic strapped a blood pressure cuff to his arm. The girl skipped away.
“Birthday fundraiser,” her mom explained, keeping an eye on the girl until she leapt onto her father’s lap. “Her birthday is coming up soon, and instead of presents she wants all the guests to donate to Better Odds. That’s a—”
“Cancer research organization. Yeah.” Nightwing had been to enough charity galas to recognize the name. They were one of the biggest in the game, specializing in a rare, aggressive form of pediatric cancer. He looked again at the girl, a pang of sadness hitting him.
“Her brother, Garrett,” the woman supplied quietly, as if reading his mind. “He was diagnosed earlier this year. She’s been raising money every day after school since. Lemonade stands, selling homemade cookies, you name it.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Yeah.” Her smile was fond, though tears had gathered in her eyes. “We’re actually really excited for the party. The local news is coming to do a story on her. We’re hoping the exposure will lead to more donations.”
“How can I help?” Nightwing asked. “If you’re looking for a donation, I’d be happy to contribute.” He was by no means wealthy. Working as a part time gymnastics coach only earned so much, and he and Bruce hadn’t been on speaking terms in the months since Jason died—which had led to one of their biggest fallouts to date—so he couldn’t exactly reach into any billionaire pockets, either.
But still, he would happily pull together a few of his own bucks for this.
“Honestly,” the woman said, “a donation would be wonderful, but I don’t think Frannie invited you for money. You might be the first ‘selfish’ thing she’s asked for since her brother got sick. She’s always loved you. If you came it would mean everything to—” The woman stopped short as if suddenly realizing what she was saying. Her eyes widened in horror.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Please don’t think I’m trying to guilt you into coming. I know you’re probably incredibly busy. I can’t even believe—”
“It’s okay, really. I just have one question.” He held up the colorful invitation. “Can I keep this?”
____________________________________
Somehow, glass from the car accident had gotten in his hair. It took three washes before he felt confident he wouldn’t end up with a pillowcase covered in bits of windshield or taillight.
In sweats and a tank top, Dick flopped into bed and stretched out like a starfish. The past two nights had kept him out in the city well past his usual hours, so he was grateful to finally be getting to bed before dawn.
With a contented sigh, he let his eyes fall closed and rolled onto his side—just as a shriek wrenched him upright.
He waited, listening. Had he dreamt it?
When the noise came again, he flung himself out of bed, down the hall, and through the front door of his apartment, following the noise a few doors down to a unit at the end of the corridor.
He pounded on the door, flicking through his mental roster of neighbors until he remembered the old man who lived here.
“Mr. Daniels?” he shouted, louder than he otherwise would given the man’s hearing loss. The screams had stopped again, but they’d been decidedly young and almost certainly from a girl.
His assumption was confirmed when, instead of a hunched man with unruly eyebrows, a teenage girl threw the door open, eyes wide, panting. Mr. Daniels’ granddaughter.
“Help!” she begged, yanking Dick inside by his wrist. “Please, please help!”
Dick allowed himself to be pulled through the home. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he scanned the space. The layout of the unit was identical to his, but this apartment was rendered nearly unrecognizable by old-fashioned furniture and decor. The walls were covered in photos and knickknacks, evidence of a life well-lived.
The girl tugged him down a short hall and stopped at a closed door. She stared at it like the gates of hell waited on the other side. “In there,” she whispered.
Dick went for the door, bracing himself to find Mr. Daniels unresponsive or worse. “Get ready in case we need to call an ambulance,” he said.
She nodded, pulling out her phone. “Wait. Do you need anything else?”
A first aid kit might not be the worst idea, but he didn’t even know what he was getting into. If this was even half as serious as it seemed, nothing in a standard medicine cabinet would help.
“Like a broom?” the girl guessed. “Or a container or something?”
Dick paused with the knob in his hand. “What?”
“You know, to catch him.”
“Is he…trying to get away?” Dementia, he thought. Maybe psychosis. He listened for signs of distress on the other side of the door.
“I mean, yeah. That’s why I shut him in there. I just wish I’d left the window open so he could just jump out and be done with it.”
“I…” Dick hunted for some sign she was kidding. If he knew anything about teens, it was that they could have an awfully morbid sense of humor, but this felt like a new level.
“What?” she demanded, defensive. “What else was I supposed to do with that thing?”
“What thing?”
“The bat! There’s a bat in there! What did you think I was screaming about?”
“You…” Dick blinked. “A bat? You want me to help catch a bat?”
“Please? No offense, but you seem like the type to know about them.”
You have no idea, he thought, teetering on the edge of dazed laughter. “Yeah, sure. A broom and a could work.”
It took almost an hour to catch and release the bat into the night, during which time the girl’s fear gave way to amusement while she recorded the process on her phone, laughing as Dick flopped gracelessly from one side of the bedroom to the other waving the broom and tupperware container in the air.
In truth, most of the theatrics were for her benefit; once he’d heard her snicker after he stumbled over a pair of slippers, he’d leaned in to the absurdity for comedic effect. She’d been pretty high strung ever since her parents split, and he was happy for the excuse to make her laugh, even if he earned a few bruises in the process.
“Thanks again,” she said as he shut the bedroom window behind the bat. “Grandpa’s still asleep, but I’ll tell him you came by.”
Dick had worked up a sweat during the chase, so once he was back at his place he changed his shirt, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and was chugging it greedily on his way to his bedroom when his phone started to ring.
Tossing the empty bottle in the trash, he caught his cell just before it vibrated off the nightstand. “Yeah?” he said, laying back down.
The answering voice came in a nervous rush. “You have to come get me. My phone is dead, and I’m at work and—and you have to come get me.”
Dick’s eyes were already closed. “I think you have the wrong number, man.”
“What? This isn’t Trevor? I thought—oh man…”
The desperate edge to the young guy’s voice had Dick sitting up again. “You okay?”
“I…I just need a ride.” The guy cursed under his breath, his voice shaky. “Look, I’m sorry. I know this is freaking weird, but could you—I mean, I have money. I’ll pay you if you can drive me a few blocks. I wouldn’t ask, but I really need it.”
Dick rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger, groaning inwardly. “Where are you?”
____________________________________
The small Italian restaurant wasn’t far. Dick pulled up out front in his car and followed the man’s instructions to come in through the dark, empty dining space and head for the back.
The place had closed hours ago by the looks of it. All the chairs were flipped upside down on the tabletops, a faint smell of cleaning solution hung in the air, and there was no sign of life apart from the light emanating from the kitchen.
When he pushed through the swinging doors he found a young busboy sitting on a milk crate by the sinks. He was leaning forward on his knees, head bowed.
“Okay,” Dick said, swinging his car keys on his finger. “Let’s—” The keys jangled to a sudden stop when he noticed the bright red dishrag wrapped around the boy’s palm, dripping over an alarmingly large red puddle.
Then Dick saw the cutting board and knife on the counter—the only utensils that hadn’t been put away—surrounded by scraps of diced vegetables. The scene snapped into focus.
The boy—he seemed a few years younger than Dick—lifted his head slowly and shoved himself to his feet, only to sway and grip the sink for support.
Dick closed the distance between them to catch his elbow and keep him upright, gently guiding the busboy’s hand so that it was elevated above his heart.
“Did this just happen?” he asked, finding that calm tone he used when he needed to keep people from spiraling.
“Like twenty minutes ago,” the boy mumbled. He gestured listlessly at the cutting board as Dick led them back through the restaurant toward the front doors. “Nicked myself while I was practicing. Wouldn’t stop bleeding. M’on thinners. Need a ride to th’hospital.”
“No ambulance?” They were leaving a pretty steady trail of blood in their wake across the freshly cleaned floors. Dick offered a silent apology to tomorrow morning’s opening crew.
“Didn’t call. Expensive.”
Dick shoved the front door open with his foot and settled the guy into the passenger seat, then jogged to the trunk, grabbed fresh bandages and dressing from the medical kit he always kept on hand, and returned to wrap the busboy’s palm.
“Sorry,” he said when the boy gasped in pain. “Gotta hold pressure.” He took the busboy’s free hand and used it to push harder on the wound. “Don’t let up on that.”
The boy nodded, his face ghostly pale and glistening in the light from the dashboard. His eyes stayed shut the entire ride as he sucked in rapid, shallow breaths. Every time Dick glanced at him, the red stain was a little larger through the new bandages.
“Harder,” Dick said. “I know it hurts, but you have to keep pressing on it. And hold it up above your heart.”
“M’trying…” They reached the hospital just as the boy’s consciousness started to slip. Blood had soaked through the wrapping and begun to drip onto his lap.
Dick leapt out and half carried him inside where nurses descended en masse, pausing only to listen—apparently impressed—as Dick ran through a medical diagnostic and incident report.
“You go to med school?” one of them asked as they swept the busboy away on a gurney.
No, but I’ve had over a decade of experience doing this. “Just watch a lot of TV,” Dick said.
Just before the next set of doors swung shut behind the cluster of medical personnel, the busboy sat up and offered Dick a wobbly thumbs up which, honestly, was somewhat gratifying.
Dick shuffled back out of the hospital to his car where he paused with the key in the ignition to spare an exhausted glance at the fresh bloodstains on his passenger seat. It was pushing three in the morning—three hours before he had to wake up for work.
Sleep now, he thought. Clean later.
He drove home.
____________________________________
The great thing about being a gymnastics coach was that he was good at it and actually enjoyed his work. The bad thing was that it required him to be completely on all day, which was difficult on days like these where just rolling out of bed had drained half his internal battery.
Years of experience powering through exhaustion and hidden injuries came in handy here. He was damn good at putting on a brave face, even when it hurt—maybe especially when it hurt.
It wasn’t until partway through his final session of the day—a private lesson with one of his youngest students—that he started to feel the beginnings of a crash coming on.
It started slowly, with just the creeping sensation of his limbs getting a little heavier, his thoughts coming with a disorganized lag, but he otherwise made it through in one piece.
By the end, though, a steady drumbeat had taken residence against the back of Dick’s skull and his smile had become harder to maintain. As soon as the student left, Dick cleaned up the gym and scurried home to squeeze in a nap before patrol, only to find a woman waiting outside his door, holding a piece of paper.
When she saw him, she ducked her head with a shy smile and waved. “Sorry, I know I’m a little early,” she said. “I’m just anxious to get started.”
It took Dick too long to find her name and even longer to remember what she was talking about. She was one of his neighbors. He’d promised to help her prepare for a job interview she had coming up.
Perfect.
“No worries, Mrs. Reynolds,” he said, dragging his practiced smile back from the depths of his exhaustion. It felt like it weighed ten thousand pounds on his face.
He unlocked his door and pushed it open for her to lead the way in. “You can have a seat on the couch. I’ll get some coffee started.”
Mrs. Reynolds checked her watch. “It’s almost six in the evening. If you have caffeine this late you’ll never get to sleep.”
Pouring water into the coffee machine’s reservoir, Dick thought of the hours of patrol waiting for him once the sun went down, and part of him shriveled. Sleep was still miles away.
“You’re not wrong,” he sighed.
____________________________________
Mrs. Reynolds was an impossibly kind woman, but she was a talker and ended up hanging around until late evening. Dick tried to follow the winding river of conversation, but he felt like he was drowning in it, tossed helplessly against a rocky shore.
Eventually he surrendered, letting the tide carry him away and just gauging her facial expressions and the tenor of her voice for cues on when to nod or chuckle or hum in affirmation. Thankfully, she never asked him any substantive questions. Or if she did, she was polite enough not to dwell on his less than substantive responses.
The caffeine proved no match against his growing fatigue which had officially seeped into his bones. Standing up to walk Mrs. Reynolds out was a herculean feat—every step a small miracle.
He leaned against the doorjamb as they said their goodbyes. He’d thought he looked casual rather than weary, but before Mrs. Reynolds walked away with her job resume still in hand, she looked him over with a frown and said, “You need to take better care of yourself. You look about ready to drop.”
“I’m okay.”
She hummed in disapproval. “Just because you’re young doesn’t mean you’re Superman, you know.”
Dick could only huff a tired laugh.
____________________________________
Patrol that night was a comedy of errors. Everything Nightwing did was too slow, too sloppy, too difficult. His body felt like an ill-fitted suit; awkward and clumsy and impossible to manipulate the way he wanted.
As a result, he took more beatings than he was accustomed to, unable to dodge or block sloppy attacks he should’ve seen coming a mile away. The last came at the hands of an amateur carjacker, who seemed just as surprised to have successfully punched Nightwing in the jaw as Nightwing was to have been hit.
It all amounted to more bruises. More aches. More exhaustion.
“You alright there?” an officer asked as Nightwing leaned against a streetlight while another cop loaded a would-be thief into a squad car. Usually he wouldn’t wait around so long, but he was having a tough time summoning the energy to leave.
“Fine,” Nightwing grunted. If even Blüdhaven cops—most of whom hated him—were asking if he was okay, he should probably take the hint.
With a sigh, he decided to call it an early night early and head home, shoving off the pole and reaching for his grapple as his comm chirped to life.
Working solo these days, he rarely heard anything over his comm apart from police chatter when he was tuned to the scanner. The sudden familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Nightwing?”
“Oracle?” he said. “Uh, hey.”
“Good, you haven’t changed your frequency,” she said, mostly to herself as if making a note of something. Then, apparently registering what he’d said, she added, “Hey.”
An awkward pause followed, during which he could feel her doing the same mental calculus as him, trying to figure out what—if any—conversation made sense here. Clearly she’d called for a reason, but the two of them hadn’t spoken in several weeks.
He and Babs hadn’t had the same fallout as he and Bruce, but in distancing himself from that part of his life, Dick had gone out of his way to make himself nearly unreachable when it came to all of his Gotham connections. That had included her.
He regretted that decision now. A clumsy apology struggled to form in the back of his throat.
“There’s something happening at Blackgate,” Oracle said into the quiet. “Everyone else is unavailable tonight.”
All business, then. It was probably for the best.
Nightwing’s grapple yanked him up to a nearby roof. “You’re asking me to sub in.”
“I know you’re still keeping your distance from the city, so if you’re not up for this—”
“It’s fine, O,” Nightwing said, though the pit in his stomach begged to differ. He’d walked away from Gotham for a reason. The thought of being back there and risking a run-in with Bruce made him bristle and kicked his heartrate up a few notches.
“B is off planet right now,” she added, and though he didn’t care to admit it, that piece of information did make his next response easier.
“On my way.”
____________________________________
Unsurprisingly, a disturbance at Blackgate Penitentiary wasn’t the sort of thing to be handled quickly. Nightwing didn’t get back home until after dawn. He dragged himself onto his couch this time, not bothering to change out of his gear or get to his bed.
The living room was flooded with sunlight. The hall outside his apartment door slowly filled with the sounds of morning activity. His suit was sweaty and itchy against his skin. None of that mattered.
It was Sunday. He didn’t book gymnastics lessons on Sundays. He didn’t book anything on Sundays. He could rest until dusk, and no one would miss him. It was such a beautiful thought he could have cried.
Sleep washed over him like a spell.
The birthday fundraiser.
Nightwing launched off the couch and stumbled toward his fridge where the hand drawn invitation was pinned to the door with a magnet. He squinted as the bubble letters, closing one eye to keep them from doubling and swirling around the page.
God, he was so tired.
Finally he found the important details.
Today. The party was today. In twenty minutes.
Dazed and in a mild frenzy, Nightwing snatched his motorcycle keys from a hook by the door and was halfway into trying to force his sneakers over his boots before he realized he was still in uniform. Then he almost opened his front door to leave before remembering, again, that he was still in uniform.
He paused in his living room, took a steadying breath, and willed himself to focus for just a few more hours, then hustled for the fire escape, instead.
____________________________________
He found Frannie’s mother tying off balloons on their porch railing. The woman’s face lit up as he shut off his motorcycle. Apparently she hadn’t actually expected him to show up.
“Welcome!” she sang as he joined her on the porch. She almost initiated an instinctive hug before hesitating awkwardly. Nightwing grinned and opened his arms in invitation.
“Am I the first one here?” he asked as they pulled apart.
“A few of her classmates are here. They’re all inside painting each other’s faces. They’re going to freak when they see you.”
He grabbed some balloons to help finish decorating the porch. She gave him an appreciative grin. “What about the news crew?” he asked.
At that, the woman’s smile soured. “They called about thirty minutes ago and canceled on us. Apparently a giraffe was just born at the zoo, and that’s more important.”
“I’m sorry,” Nightwing said. He tried to glance through the glass screen door into the home to get a peek at Frannie, but he couldn’t see past his own reflection. “How’s she taking it?”
“Like Frannie. She’s just worried about her brother. She doesn’t want him to feel let down. He didn’t even know about the news story, but she’s still worried.”
She shook her head. “That little girl. She cares so much about everyone around her, sometimes I just…” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, forcing a smile that Nightwing recognized all too well. "Anyways, enough about that. Let's just have some fun today."
____________________________________
Clark dragged his finger along the next line of Ma’s apple pie recipe—written in careful, looping script on a yellowed scrap of notebook paper. It was covered in grease stains and smudged flour fingerprints, but thankfully all the important bits were still legible.
Pie stuffing simmered on a skillet in front of him, but the consistency and taste suggested he had either missed an ingredient or added something he shouldn’t have. He hoped it was the former. If he had to throw this batch away he’d need to go out and buy his fourth bag of apples that day.
Once again, he kicked himself for being too lazy to learn how to bake as a kid.
When his phone rang, he picked it up with fingers covered in brown sugar and bits of dough. “Hello?”
“How fast can you get to Blüdhaven?” Dick asked.
“Please tell me this isn’t your way of saying you’re on death’s door and need help.”
“Not this time. I just need a favor.”
“Regular, nuclear, or Super?” Clark asked, reaching for the cinnamon.
It was a scale Dick had invented as a kid. A regular problem was alternatively known as a human problem—something mundane and tedious.
A nuclear problem was something more serious, likely to require costumes or pulling a few powerful strings to solve.
A Super problem was major—the kind that might involve Kryptonite or an all-hands-on-deck from the League.
Clark had adamantly disputed the hierarchy when Dick first proposed it. Surely nuclear was more dire than Super, right? But both Dick and Bruce had disagreed.
“If a nuke is launched, we still have a chance,” Dick, all of fifteen, had explained while holding up a series of his own illustrations. He pointed to a drawing of a bomb trapped in a green bubble. “I mean, come on. Lantern can catch a nuke with his eyes closed. But if Superman were to go bad?”
The next drawing was of a cartoon Earth with X’s for eyes. The whole planet was on fire. Clark hadn’t argued further.
“Regular,” Dick said now with a slight, knowing chuckle. “But time sensitive.”
Wiping his hands on a clean dish towel, Clark said, “I’ll be there in a sec.”
“As Clark. Come as Clark. And bring whatever it is you bring when you’re covering a story. I want you to look as official as possible.”
Clark paused, reaching for his glasses on the counter. “What’s this about?”
“You’re about to tell a little girl her birthday fundraiser is being covered by one of the biggest news publications on the East Coast.”
____________________________________
There was a sizable crowd gathered in the backyard when Clark arrived, and it took a few minutes and some convincing from Nightwing to get the girl’s mother to let him in, even with his official press badge.
She kept shooting him stunned, confused glances and asking if he was at the right place. Clark assured her he was. “I heard about this from one of my friends at The Gotham Sentinel,” he said. “I hope it’s alright with you if I scoop the story. Our audience is about twenty times bigger than theirs, if that means anything.”
She all but snorted in response, shoving a plate of pizza into his hands and pointing him in the direction of the drink cooler. “Stay as long as you like, Mr. Kent.”
Meanwhile, Nightwing was chasing the kids around the yard, giving them piggyback rides, and helping them do tricks on the small jungle gym.
Frannie, the girl of the hour, was delighted, her painted face creased with laughter as she tugged Nightwing around the yard gleefully.
When it was time to open presents, Nightwing slipped away while all eyes were on her. Despite apparently requesting that all presents be given in the form of donations to Better Odds, it seemed a few adults couldn’t resist the urge to add a couple toys to the mix.
Clark waited until Frannie’s father brought out the birthday cake before finally going to check on Nightwing. He let the younger man’s familiar heartbeat lead him to a bathroom in a much quieter part of the home.
The door wasn’t closed all the way, so he tentatively pushed it open, saying, “Coming in.” It only opened a few inches before thumping into something. Clark glanced through the wood to see that it was Nightwing’s foot.
He was on the floor with his head dangling back on the edge of the tub, mouth open in a silent snore.
Clark opened the door just enough to slide through the small gap then closed it behind him. As he squatted next to Nightwing, the motion roused the young man, who squinted blearily for a moment before sitting up and looking around. His face and the fringes of his hair were damp.
“Tell me I didn’t miss the rest of the party,” he mumbled.
“You’re fine,” Clark said. “I don’t think anyone has noticed you’re gone, yet.”
A sigh. When Dick finished rubbing his eyes, Clark noticed how worn out he looked. As if someone had scooped him hollow.
“I’m not sick, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Dick said.
“You fell asleep on a bathroom floor, and you’re covered in sweat.”
“It’s just water. I came in to splash my face and just kind of ran out of steam for a second.” At Clark’s dubious stare, Dick added, “I’m just tired, I swear.”
Clark put the back of his hand to Dick’s forehead to be sure—the young man’s history with hiding injury and illness made him a decidedly unreliable source in this area.
After a moment, Clark lowered his hand and asked, “You haven’t been sleeping? Is there something going on?”
“Just work. A lot of it.” A long, weary sigh as Dick let his head rest against the edge of the tub again, frowning distantly at the ceiling. “How long can a person go without sleep before they start hallucinating?”
“Okay, stay here,” Clark said, rising. “I’ll go let the family know you had to leave early, then we can head out together.”
“No way.” Nightwing hauled himself to his feet and stretched with a huge yawn. “I'm staying.”
“You’re asking about hallucinations and you can hardly keep your eyes open. Or stand.”
“And yet here I am standing just fine, and my eyes are mostly open. I’m even talking.”
“Dick, seriously. You’ve given Frannie a great time. No one would blame you—”
Nightwing's face sobered, his tired playfulness dissipating. “I’m not bailing on her. I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got this. Really.”
And Clark knew that he did. He’d seen Dick manage more under worse circumstances.
Nightwing shook out his limbs and took a few breaths like an athlete about to join the game. Then he grabbed the doorknob, paused just a moment to swallow a yawn, and walked back out into the party. He was met a few moments later by a raucous cheer from the kids.
____________________________________
Even though Clark knew how rough Dick was feeling, he could hardly spot the signs. The slight drag in Nightwing’s usually fluid movements, the subtle weariness behind his grin, the yawns he kept hiding behind his hand—they would all go almost entirely unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know to look for them.
As the last guest left for the afternoon, Clark lingered on the back patio with Frannie’s mom. “I really can’t begin to express how grateful we are that you came,” she said, not for the first time.
“I’m just happy you let me crash the party. Your daughter is remarkable. I’ll send you the link when the story is live.”
She smiled then looked out at the empty yard, strewn with plates and decorations and all manner of toys. It would take hours to clean, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Have you seen Nightwing?” she asked. “I’d love to thank him, too.”
“I think I saw him leave a little while ago. Seems like a busy guy.”
The woman just nodded. “I’m amazed he was able to stay as long as he did. I don’t know how often the press gets to cross paths with heroes like him, but if you happen to see him again, could you let him know how much this day meant to us?”
“I will.” Clark made a show of patting his pockets. “You know what? Frannie was showing me her treehouse earlier, and I think I left my press badge up there. I’m just gonna run and grab that then be on my way.”
“All right,” she said, turning to go back into the house. “If you see her, could you let her know I’m looking for her?”
Clark headed for the massive old tree in the rear corner of the yard and climbed the rope ladder up.
Frannie, her face paint now an unrecognizable smear of color along her brow and cheeks, was curled up asleep with her head pillowed on Nightwing’s lap—who also happened to be out cold.
The floor creaked as Clark pulled himself inside, and Frannie stirred and blinked up at him then at Nightwing.
“I think he’s sleepy,” she whispered, rubbing an eye.
“I think so, too. Mind if I get him out of here so he can go to bed?”
She shook her head and scooted back to give Clark room.
“Your mom is looking for you,” he said. “Oh, and, uh…Do you mind not telling her he’s still here? You know how Nightwing likes to be sneaky.”
Frannie nodded and pretended to zip her lips shut, then slowly made her way to the ladder. It seemed she was just as tuckered out as Nightwing.
“Don’t forget to tuck him in when you get home,” she said, her little face earnest. “That’s how you keep bad dreams away.”
“Promise.”
When she sank out of sight, Clark joined Nightwing at the wall, shoulder to shoulder. They’d have to wait until there were no prying eyes looking in their direction before Clark could fly them both out of there, and right now a group of kids down the street were watching a bird nest a couple branches above them.
As if sensing his presence, Nightwing tipped sideways so that his head was resting on Clark’s shoulder. “Clark?”
“It’s me.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Clark thought Nightwing had fallen asleep again until he mumbled, “Caught a bat last night. Or maybe the night before. I let it go. S’that a metaphor for something?”
“Like what?”
A one-shouldered shrug. Then, “Told you I’d make it through the party.”
“You sure did.”
“Think they had fun? The kids. Frannie.”
“Definitely. Her mom told me to tell you ‘thanks.’”
“No problem…” A pause. “My head hurts.”
“You’re exhausted. Just sleep, Dick,” Clark said gently. One of the birds from the nest flitted down and landed in the open treehouse window to look at them. It was a robin. Metaphor, indeed. “You’ll be home soon.”