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Dick’s comm was set to rest cycle. On the Watchtower, surrounded by Earth’s heroes, the setting was damn near bulletproof. The door to his room was locked. The keypad was red. The lights were out. And he was --
Wide awake, Dick thought, staring at the ceiling. Wide fucking awake.
A standard rest cycle was eight hours. Ten with an admin approval and a lucky break. A day cycle was twelve, up to eighteen within enhanced JL parameters.
Dick was, according to the timer on his comm, two and a half hours off a 36-hour Titans mission that he’d rotated into from a less than standard day cycle in Bludhaven. 48 hours without sleep, at the bare minimum. A heavy lift, even if he’d been prepared for it.
Every cell in his body was crying for rest. His injuries consisted of an ankle that rolled the wrong way and a pair of bruised knuckles. Still, his body hurt. The ache, he knew, was a final warning sign before it all started to break down.
Not break down, Dick thought. The light from the porthole flickered as a ship passed by the Watchtower. Reallocation of essential resources. We’re triaging, baby.
The longer he didn’t sleep, the less energy his body would put into simple things like digestion or thermoregulation. They were, in Bruce’s words, less than essential. Not unimportant enough to shut off entirely, but less critical than something like sodium levels or oxygen.
His last bit of solid food had been over 24 hours prior, when he’d choked down a protein bar at the Titans rendezvous. In the small shower in his room -- Jason called it a berthing, which was accurate, considering the size -- he’d tried to force down a hydropack, knowing he’d pay the price later if the dehydration rolled into the exhaustion and kept rolling downhill.
Sleep, it seemed, was also a less than essential bodily function. Not mission critical, in League terms. Dick didn’t need to sleep. He wanted to sleep. He would greatly benefit from sleep, even if it was dogshit sleep.
His body knew what a 24-hour cycle without sleep meant. The comm on his wrist had flashed, indicating the cycle time, and Dick had felt the renewed clarity wash over him. The enhanced focus.
The chill in his bones that, a day and half later, persisted. His brain needed energy to focus. His muscles needed energy to move. His fingers and toes were frigid in his gloves and boots. A hot flush passed through his cheeks every few hours, his brain’s futile attempts, Dick knew, to warm him.
He needed to sleep. Preferably in a bed, but he wasn’t opposed to a bathtub. At least in that case, he’d be warm. The tubs in the standard rooms were long enough for his legs, which felt like Bruce’s work without any tangible proof.
The comm on his wrist buzzed. Dick freed a hand from the nest of blankets on his chest, slapping the accept button.
“Nightwing.”
“You up?” Dinah’s voice asked. “The delegation from Amanyl is about to land. The League is requesting all senior leads be present.”
Dick squinted at the screen. “What delegation?”
“Amanyl.”
“I’m not on that,” Dick said. “Sorry. You’re looking for B.”
“You’re a senior lead,” Dinah replied. Dick scoffed.
“Yeah. Of the Titans. Which--”
“--still counts,” Dinah finished for him. “You have ten minutes to get up here. I’d start moving.”
Dick groaned, and did Dinah the favor of doing it in the opposite direction of the comm mic. “Okay.”
“And Dick?”
Civilian names were never a good sign. Dick threw the blankets off his legs, shivering as the chilly air hit his bare skin.
“Yeah?”
“You’re the sixth highest-ranked lead currently on the Watchtower,” Dinah said. “Get your head in the game.”
That was an even worse sign. Dick nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. He raised his hand to end the call.
“Nightwing out.”
Ten minutes later, he was back in his suit, his left ankle was double-wrapped under his boot, and he was headed, by way of the least-used stairwell, up to the visitor’s wing.
It really wasn’t a good sign if he was being called in to fill seats at a JL diplomatic meeting. Sixth highest-ranked lead meant there were five people ahead of him, and those names were easy to fill in.
On a typical day, he was maybe the twentieth -- or even thirtieth -- most important person on the Watchtower. When the Titans were called in for a joint mission, that number could go somewhere near the mid-teens.
Sixth, Dick thought to himself as he climbed the stairs two at a time. B must be losing his goddamned mind.
The visitor’s wing was Diana’s lovechild with Bruce’s practicality and flare for dramatics. The rounded hall had more windows than the rest of the Watchtower combined, providing a clear view of Earth at any point in the planned orbit.
It was also the easiest portion of the Watchtower to seal off and disconnect. Dick wondered, on occasion, if anyone else in the League had fully grasped that. Superman, most likely, if he could see the joints and connections in the floors and walls. But Clark had an odd kind of faith in people. And aliens.
“You’re late,” Dinah said when he reached the landing. She was leaning against the side door, arms crossed. “I thought I told you ten minutes.”
“Ankle,” Dick said, giving her a bland smile. “Miss anything good?”
“Luckily, they’re also running behind.” Dinah uncrossed her arms, reaching for the keypad. Before she inputted her access code, she gave him a strange look. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Dick said, his pride stinging despite the high probability that she was right. “Is that all I needed to know before going in?”
“Don’t talk, just listen,” Dinah ordered, slipping back into her handler voice. “Let Batman and Superman do the talking. The Amanyl are looking for a negotiator. Our job is to make sure they choose someone from Earth and not--”
“Daxam?” Dick supplied. Dinah blinked.
“So you do read the memos.”
“It’s coming back to me now,” Dick admitted. “Daxam, bad. Earth, good. War also bad. Very bad.”
Dinah entered her access code, lips twitching. “Impressive.”
“I try.”
They entered together through the side door. Dick scoped out the other exits first -- the main door to the docking vestibule, the double doors out to the guest rooms and cafeteria -- and followed behind Dinah, keeping his head down and his eyes low.
It was a hefty receiving party for the two lone aliens at the front of the hall. Dick saw Bruce first -- it was hard not to automatically pick him out of a crowd -- then Clark, to his right. Diana, to Clark’s right.
There were fewer Founders seated at the tables behind the receiving party than normal. Luckily, the Amanylites probably couldn’t tell the difference between Founders and regular League members without it being pointed out to them.
And, unlike the Founders, there were plenty of regular League Members present; Dick counted ten, giving Barry a subtle nod when the speedster glanced at him.
Why they needed him here was even less clear than it had been ten minutes prior. Despite appearances, the League didn’t operate solely on seniority. While Dick was, in name, a team leader, he was far from a full-time League member. Some days, he didn’t even expect his access card to work in the Watchtower zetas. Every time it beeped and flashed green, something still caught in his chest.
“--to Earth,” Clark was saying near the front. He gestured to the table in the center of the other tables. “Please, if you’d take a seat.”
The Amanylites were both blue-skinned and tall. They wore matching metal bands around their throats which, as Clark finished speaking, translated the polite segue into a clicking alien language. The one on the left, dressed in slightly longer robes than their counterpart, inclined their antennae, clearly having practiced the human motion.
“Yes,” the metal band translated for them. “Thank you, Son of Krypton.”
Dick pulled out a seat near the door at the same time, using their distraction as a cover for his own tardiness. The table was more sparsely-populated this far away from the main negotiating table, which was more than fine by him. He was a glorified seat-warmer. Unlike Dinah, who had to sit at the main table with the other Founders.
If only your ass was warm, he thought forlornly. It’s fucking freezing in here. Must be all the windows.
The chair was strangely comfortable. It had memory foam padding that pressed right into the aching curve of his lower spine. Another one of Bruce’s personal touches that nobody would ever know to call him on, Dick realized. Chairs that made sitting for extended periods comfortable, even for those who were injured. Especially for those who were injured.
Dick dozed. He wasn’t proud of it, but shame was difficult to focus on when his entire body relaxed, all at once, into Bruce’s stupid chair. His eyelids drooped. His arms -- finally -- grew warm. Feeling returned to his fingers and toes in a hot flush, tingling with increased bloodflow. It was easy to play off the dozing with the mask. Nobody could see his eyes.
“--a negotiator.”
Behind the blank lenses, Dick blinked, trying to focus. This was the important part. They were going to sell the Amanylites on an Earth negotiator, presumably one of the Trinity.
I hope it’s not Bruce, Dick thought, slowly uncrossing his arms so he could sit up fully. Alfred’s been bitching enough recently about patrol. He’ll lose his mind if he leaves again.
Bruce would do what was right for the League. They both knew that. And if it meant disappointing Alfred for another deep-space mission, then Alfred would be disappointed.
“You have not included your name on this list, Diana, Daughter of Themyscira,” the Amanylite with the longer robes said through the translator.
“I have obligations on Earth currently,” Diana replied. “Batman and Superman are not my suggested replacements; they are my recommendation before even myself.”
“Yes,” the second Amanylite said. The translator turned the word into a hiss. “We have heard of their abilities. They are both famed for their ability to bring about clarity in war-dust and peace.”
“Peace be upon Amanyl’s shores,” the first Amanylite added. Their counterpart’s antennae twitched, as if endorsing the statement. “We wish for a swift resolution of hostilities in our system. We do not wish for war.”
“No planet wishes for war,” Diana said, with a grave expression. She turned to the first Amanylite who’d spoken. “Batman and Superman are at your disposal in this endeavor.”
The second Amanylite clicked through their translator, speaking over their counterpart. “We can bring only one.”
Dick watched, amused, as Bruce and Clark tried hard not to look at each other. He could feel the silent struggle between them, as they both tried to volunteer the other without muddying the discussions.
“Do you have a preference?” Diana asked. The second Amanylite’s antennae began to twitch again. They reached up, adjusting something on the translator ring, before clicking at their partner in their tongue.
“We wish for someone else,” the first Amanylite said, speaking for them both. “Our vision-seekers have seen one. They are a suitable compromise between Batman and Superman.”
Huh, Dick thought. Wouldn’t that be Diana? Most days, it’s Diana.
“Compromise?” Clark asked.
“There is a custom,” the second Amanylite said. “A legend, which foretells that the greatest peace will come from an heir to two war-bringers, born out of love.”
“War-bringers?” Bruce asked. The modulator kept his voice flat, but Dick could hear the suspicion anyway.
“You are both famed for your peace-building,” the second Amanylite said. Their antennae curled at the very edges. “But you also bring war. This is not meant for Amanyl.”
“This compromise -- this one,” Diana clarified. “Are they here?”
The Amanylites looked at each other, then inclined their heads. “Yes. They are here on your moon.”
Dick blinked. They’re here?
“Do you know their name?” Clark asked, a thin thread of awkwardness running through his voice.
“We do not know their given name,” the first Amanylite said. “We know them as the vision-seekers know them. A child of Batman and Superman. Raised up in both houses. The first-born of their line.”
The sudden rush of blood in Dick’s ears was deafening. His body flushed hot, then cold. He couldn’t have moved from the chair if he’d wanted to.
No. It can’t be.
“There is no such child,” Diana replied, offering the delegation a gentle smile. “Your vision-seekers may have been mistaken. Batman and Superman each have children, but not with--”
“With each other,” Clark finished hastily. He glanced at Bruce, swallowing. “Diana is right. There must be a mistake.”
“They are not mistaken.” The first Amanylite’s antennae began to twitch at an irregular tempo. “They have seen the child. The child is here.”
“Perhaps we break,” Bruce interjected, just as the second Amanylite was about to speak, equally worked up as their counterpart. “A recess, for us to gather our thoughts.”
“It is acceptable,” the second Amanylite said. They turned to Diana. “We will not cast shadows of doubt upon our seekers.”
“I understand,” Diana said. Her lips curved into a grim smile. “We will recess and return in a half-hour.”
The translator rings took a moment to convert the time boundary. When it did, the two Amanylites stood, heading for the docking bay.
The room emptied, the Founders to their wing, and the regular League members to the other levels of the Watchtower.
When he was alone, Dick tore off his mask. He put his head in his hands, digging his fingers through greasy hair. He took a breath, then another. He held it until his lungs were bursting, until blood rushed into his cheeks and the fingerpoints in his scalp ached.
The rush of blood in his ears didn’t go away. If anything, it seemed to grow louder.
Dinah was waiting for him in the hallway, perched in the same position she’d been when he’d arrived. Arms crossed, one leg kicked up against the wall. Waiting.
Waiting for you.
“How’s the recess going?” Dick asked, feigning interest.
“Batman and Superman are yelling at each other in the Founders’ meeting room,” Dinah offered, eyebrows raised. “I got out of there pretty quick, but there were mentions of Lex Luthor and some thinly-veiled accusations of cloning before I did.”
Dick shook his head. The small chuckle broke free from his chest without his permission, clawing up his throat. “That tracks.”
“Diana will offer Jon to the Amanylites,” Dinah continued. She was watching him carefully. “Bruce is his godfather. It’s a somewhat liberal interpretation of raised in their houses, but I think it still technically counts.”
“Jon is ten,” Dick said. Dinah’s head tilted, as if to say well?
“How old were you when you started as Robin?”
Dick frowned. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” Dinah asked, even though they both knew it was. It was a leading question, one Dick was happy to grin away.
“Sure.”
“Speaking of,” Dinah said, trailing off. Dick went still, feeling the blood begin to rush in his ears.
She knew. Of course she did. She’d always known how to read him, even from afar. She and Bruce were alike in that way. They understood body language like a second language.
“Dinah,” Dick pleaded.
“Stay with me for a moment,” Dinah said, uncrossing her arms. “The first Robin. Let’s talk in hypotheticals.”
Dick stared at her. His expression was blank behind a blank mask. If she wanted a hint, she wasn’t going to get it from him easily.
“The first Robin,” Dinah continued. “Superman was around a lot during that time period, wasn’t he? Batman and Superman met after Robin’s first year.”
“Sure,” Dick said, when it was clear she was waiting for a response. “Sounds about right.”
“Robin was raised in Batman’s house,” Dinah said, with emphasis Dick knew was for the Manor. “But he spent some time with Superman’s family in the summers, didn’t he? With his family. Another house.”
“I’m following,” Dick said. And I don’t like where this is going.
“Robin trained with both of them. Learned from both of them.” Dinah’s eyebrows twitched. “Robin learned how to run missions because of them. And when Robin was --”
“Dinah,” Dick said, closing his eyes. It hurt too much to hear. It hurt too much to even think about, years later. That wound hadn’t closed up. It had only scabbed over.
“And when Robin was raised to Batman’s standards,” Dinah said, with a hint of disapproval curling around the edges of her words. “He was given a Kryptonian name. By Superman himself. You don’t think that’s interesting?”
Dick opened his eyes. Dinah was waiting, patiently, in front of him. Her comm was flashing, indicating several missed calls. Important calls she was ignoring in order to have this conversation in a Watchtower stairwell.
“Offering that person up would be a very, very bad idea,” Dick warned. His voice was beginning to tighten with emotion, breaking through Dinah’s hypotheticals.
“Because they wouldn’t agree?” Dinah asked.
“Because they don’t think of them -- of me -- that way,” Dick said, bitter. “They never have. Bruce is -- fine, some days he’s a father. Most days, he’s a brother. But Clark?”
“But Clark?” Dinah repeated, softer than him.
Dick stared at her, unable to explain the ache in his chest in terms she’d understand. Every time, he’d start, every time they fought, Clark was -- gone. Bruce sent him away. Maybe he kept away, I don’t know. But he was just gone. And when he came back, it was like we had to start all over again. But we didn’t have to. I knew him. I know him. I --
“What are you thinking about?”
“When I was fourteen,” Dick started, hesitating. “I had a fever. Bruce kicked me off patrol and put me to bed. I figured he went out, and he’d be back in the morning. I wasn’t -- sick, sick. He didn’t need to check on me. But I guess he did. He sent Clark.”
“Couldn’t come himself?” Dinah guessed.
“League stuff,” Dick said, shrugging. “I woke up and Clark was there, with a thermometer and everything. Some soup. I remember he said hey, kiddo. In that voice of his. Not the Superman one, but -- you know what I mean. And he made me eat, put me back to bed, and just…sat there. At the end of my bed. Until I fell back asleep.”
Dinah nodded slowly. “And?”
“And,” Dick said, swallowing. “And I remember thinking, this is really nice. I wish they could do this all the time. Work together like that. It felt like when my --”
Dinah politely looked away as Dick’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to force his voice past the sudden ache in his throat.
“That was what they could have been,” Dick summarized. “But they weren’t. And then four years later, I was out on my own anyway. Clark wasn’t even Uncle Clark anymore. He was just -- Superman. I know Superman, and maybe I knew Uncle Clark once. But the two of them, Dinah…”
Dinah raised her eyebrows. “Something else?”
“Something else,” Dick agreed. He cleared his throat again. “So if Robin was both of theirs, then it’s only by technicality. And I don’t think technicalities will fly with these guys,” he said, waving at the hall door.
“Robin wasn’t born of love?” Dinah asked. Dick snorted.
“Not between them.”
“What about Nightwing?”
Dick took a moment to chew on that, startled by her directness. “You think what Bruce did to me was love?”
“Sometimes,” Dinah started, “I think setting someone free from something holding them back -- even ourselves -- that is one of the most loving things we can do.”
“I was Robin,” Dick said. He knew she would hear what he hadn’t said: It was mine. It was like my skin. It was MINE.
“And look where you are now,” Dinah whispered. Her eyes lifted to Dick’s face, where the imprint of his fingertips was likely still visible. “Nightwing.”
The name made a shiver go down Dick’s spine. He set his jaw, refusing to respond to her barb. To the invocation of the Kryptonian legend and all the space between their achievements. The gaps Dick still had to fill.
The negotiations resumed on time. Bruce and Clark walked in with Diana between them, both stiff in the shoulders and looking anywhere but each other.
Dick watched them take their seats from the back of the room, feeling a nostalgic pang in his chest. A child’s hope that the anger would soften. That things would return to normal soon.
The Amanylites entered from the docking bay, bowing as they did so. They took their seats across from the Trinity, antennae moving in sync.
“We offer you the child of Batman and Superman,” Diana began. “Will this be satisfactory?”
The two Amanylites turned to each other, silently communicating. One clicked; the other, a moment later, stood from their chair.
“We are satisfied, Daughter of Themyscira.”
Dick felt the blood begin to rush in his ears again. Diana’s voice -- describing Jon, and the limitations of his age -- was drowned out. The Amanylite who had risen was walking toward him, robes trailing across the floor.
Damn, Dick thought. Guess those vision-seekers gave them a description, too.
By the time the Amanylite had crossed two-thirds of the room, it was clear where they intended to go. Dick was alone in the back of the room; the closest person was Booster Gold, seated an entire platform and a half away.
Dick saw the exact moment Bruce and Clark registered what the Amanylites had meant by child of Batman and Superman. He saw the realization in Bruce’s tensed jaw. Clark’s lips shaped a soundless Dick. His eyes were wide, bluer than any sky Dick had flown through. A blue replicated by the wings of color splitting through the chest of Nightwing’s suit. Clark’s blue. Bruce’s black and grey.
Love, Dick thought, turning the word over in his mind. It was a funny thing to feel in a moment so tense. Both Bruce and Clark had risen to their feet, moments away from intervening. For him. Because it was him.
“Child.”
Dick focused on the alien in front of him. After an awkward moment, he stood up on legs that trembled more than they held steady. His fingers were flushed with blood, prickling at the finger tips of his gloves.
A hush fell over the entire hall.
“My name is Nightwing,” Dick said. It was hard to read facial expressions with the antennae, but Dick felt like the Amanylite was almost a little amused.
“Night-Wing,” it repeated through the translator. “A child of love. Of their greatest qualities. You will bring peace to my home.”
Dick swallowed. “I hope I can.”
The Amanylite’s antennae twitched. “You will.”
“I will,” Dick repeated. And maybe, because they said it, it was true.
With a negotiator delivered, the Amanylites were eager to return. Diana closed the discussions quickly, ignoring the strained silence of her seatmates. The hall began to empty. Dick was escorted by four Amanylite guards to the docking bay, crossing the center of the sacred space only to exit.
The Amanylites boarded first. Dick was permitted a moment to adjust to the increased pressurization in the docking bay. It was only when the doors to the Watchtower slid open that Dick realized it was an opportunity, stolen from their return time, to say goodbye.
Bruce stalked through the sliding doors, Clark on his heels. Bruce was down his cowl and gloves. His hair was disheveled in the front, which meant he’d run his hands through it.
He’s stressed, Dick thought, half a second before Bruce’s arms closed around him, pulling him into a breath-stealing hug.
“Stay safe,” Bruce ordered. His hand cupped the back of Dick’s head. Dick could feel the trembling in his body. He was shaking, too.
Clark stepped forward as Bruce released him. His hug was weaker than Bruce’s, but no less intense. Dick pressed his face into Clark’s shoulder, grateful the mask hid the tears welling in his eyes.
It was just a mission. Another deep-space mission in a week of overlapping cycles and missions. But it wasn’t. This mission hinged entirely on --
“Night-Wing,” a guard said through the docking bay window. “Please receive your blessings. We will return to Amanyl shortly.”
Clark pulled back, gripping him by the shoulders. “Call if you need anything.”
“Call?” Bruce asked dubiously. “Amanyl is--”
“I’ll hear it,” Clark said, ignoring Bruce. His eyes drilled into Dick’s mask. “No matter where you are. Call me if you need me.”
The docking bay doors slid open. Dick opened his mouth to ask for more time -- for just a minute -- when something was pressed into his glove.
Bruce’s bug-out bag, Dick realized, looking down at the small duffel hanging from his hand. There would be food, water, and clothes inside. He knew I wouldn’t have time to pack. Where the hell did he even--
“Go,” Bruce said, jerking his chin at the ship. “They’re waiting for you.”
Dick’s hand tightened around the duffel bag handle. If he concentrated, he could still feel the warmth from Bruce’s hand under his glove.
“Right.”
The Amanyl ship was small. It was built for speed, and it looked like it. The loading door slid open. While it was opaque from the exterior, as it closed behind him, Dick realized it was transparent. The entire ship was.
It provided him with a clear view of Bruce and Clark in the docking bay, still standing at the window. They weren’t looking at the ship. Dick’s stomach sank, on cue, as he saw their mouths move quickly, shaping the words of what was clearly another argument.
Love? Bruce asked, shaking his head. Don’t--
You love me?
Dick stared, astonished as a smile broke across Clark’s face. Whatever he said next was too fast for Dick’s lip reading. Bruce put a hand on Clark’s chest, dead center. Like he was about to push him away.
The ship’s engines rumbled to life. Just as they began to lift away from the docking bay, Dick saw Bruce reach up, tugging Clark down with two bare hands wound in his hair.
The kiss was angry. But, like the two of them, it softened the longer it went on. Clark pressed Bruce against the wall of the docking bay, hiking him up against the metal paneling. Bruce’s hands tightened in Clark’s hair, holding him exactly where he wanted him.
“Night-Wing?”
Dick blinked. If he closed his eyes, he was certain he would still see the two of them -- together -- on the backs of his eyelids.
He turned away from the transparent door, greeting his hosts with a low bow.
“Yes?”