Pay No Attention & Moonlighting

Captain Amy Rohrbach
Blüdhaven Police Department
342 34th Street
Blüdhaven, New Jersey 12334
September 12, 2005

Commissioner Michael Akins
Gotham Central Police Department
4054 99th Street
Gotham, New Jersey 12694

Dear Commissioner Akins:

As Richard Grayson's former captain, I wholeheartedly recommend him to your department. I am aware that the circumstances surrounding his departure were somewhat confused, but I have since realized that I have lost a great asset to Gotham. I understand that recent events have caused some loss of GCPD personnel and support; he is only one man, but he may be some compensation.

He is better suited for night work than most of the police officers I have known. On the second shift, he is efficient, focused, and an excellent beat officer.

Because he was also my partner, it would be redundant to say that he saved my life, except that he also did so while off-duty. His dedication to law enforcement and the defense of the people is unparalleled.

Though he is only a rookie, he has a fine talent for detective work, often using innovative methods to perform his tasks efficiently. If he is given the chance to develop this, he will be a great asset to your department.

Sincerely,
Amy Rohrbach

"Who is this Grayson kid, anyway?" Officer Dagmar Procjnow asks Captain Sawyer, glancing back at the newly occupied desk. The guy sitting there is maybe old enough to drink, but he can't have enough experience for the MCU. "Wait -- Grayson. Richard -- the Wayne kid?"

Dagmar shakes her head. The treatment's working for Tommy, but it won't be complete for weeks. The grayscale epidemic hit the services way before it got into the general population, targeted to ambulance, then police and then fire. Homicide got hit worse than Major Crimes, but there's more than a few empty desks while people are recovering -- and some places where they never will. "How desperate are we?"

Sawyer shrugs again. "With Burke and MacDonald out, and -- fewer connections in town, we're about this desperate. Look -- he was working in Blüdhaven, and they said good things about his work. He's not so new you'll have to wipe his ass, but he's not so old he's got bad habits."

"He's probably clean. But you know 'haven cops." Sawyer's smile is sharp-edged. "My door's always open."

"Right. Thanks." She goes back to talk to her new partner, who's fidgeting at the desk.

He's a healthy guy, whatever problems he's got from spending time in the 'haven. No cop gut on this one, and he introduces himself around the department with a smile even though everyone's suspicious of the rookie.

He hasn't got much paperwork to do yet, and she's only got one case in the red, plus the new one. Richard Bosch, found shot in his apartment yesterday after he failed to show up for his first meeting with his parole officer. "I need to speak to some people," Dagmar says to Grayson, and he bounces out of his chair. Too young, this one.

"It'll be good to get out of here," he says, glancing around the MCU. He's probably not that comfortable with everyone giving him the hairy eyeball. He's still settling in, and they need him settled two weeks ago. They're not at full strength, even with him there; MacDonald will be out at least as long as Tommy. But there are plenty of people to be plenty curious about a 'haven cop.

Some are more subtle than others. She gets a sympathetic look from Cohen, paired up with someone from robbery while his other half's away. Ronnie didn't get hit with the Grayscale as badly as Tommy or Josie Mac, but bad enough that she was ordered home to rest. She hangs back to ask how Ronnie's doing and share news on Tommy. Ronnie's replacement moves over to the whiteboard to rub out a name.

"Huh? Nah, Ronnie and I cleared that one before she went down. Suburban revenge. Kindergarten teachers aren't usually hardened criminals, even in this town. Just finishing it off." He looks at the board. "Ronnie's not going to be happy that Jones gets credit for her case."

She pats him on the shoulder. "Good luck breaking the news to her," she says before hurrying to catch up with Grayson.

On the way to the car, she notices that even though he's light on his feet, he has a slight limp. "What happened to your leg?"

Visiting friends in a warzone, where he couldn't possibly have been on duty -- the kid's either some kind of idiot or he wants to be a hero. She wouldn't have to be a cop to know there's something there he's not saying, and that it's not the time to pry. It will come out, eventually. Stakeouts are good for that kind of thing, if partnerships work at all. And if it doesn't work, Tommy will be back eventually.

Grayson gets into the passenger seat without asking, puts his seatbelt on and looks out the window. "So, what are we working on now?" He gives her a sidelong look and ducks his head. "I read through the notes Detective Burke left on the Ortega case, what there was of them. You were working on that one when the Grayscale hit, right? It reads like a regular homicide; any reason you got assigned to it?"

Huh. It's not wrong of the kid to check up that stuff, but she can't quite bring herself to approve either. It feels like a second-hand invasion, him reading Tommy's notes.

"Same reason we're getting this one," she says. "Homicide's even more desperate for replacements than we are."

He smiles, big and charming and she thinks it's got a fifty-fifty chance of being sincere. "It's nice to know I'm valuable."

He's not Tommy and she won't be charmed. "Beggers can't be choosers." He gives a theatrical wince and doesn't stop smiling, so she ignores it and goes on. "We got a new one that just came in. Richard Bosch, convicted of second degree murder, missed his parole meeting. Found by his parole officer. Three shots to the head, no witnesses."

"He was released three days ago, so -- entirely possible that he has someone who was waiting for him to get out."

"His apartment. The neighbors all say they heard shots and saw nothing, but maybe they saw something before the murder took place."

Dagmar has enough experience ignoring Tommy's lines that she doesn't let herself respond to this one. It's a rookie line, anyway, and she can't have her new partner thinking she's soft. She just tightens her lips and drives.

Bosch's apartment is in a slum of a building, probably the best he could do so recently out of jail. The hallways are filthy, most of the lightbulbs are broken, and the blood on his floor is almost a relief compared to the boiled cabbage-colored walls. "Forensics already came through," Dagmar tells Grayson. He's scanning the place anyway, which is a good habit. Maybe it's rookie nerves, or maybe he's as good as Sawyer seemed to think he might be.

"Right," he says, and gives her an apologetic look. "I don't see anything. I mean, not that they probably wouldn't have seen."

The African-American mother of at least four children who lives next door looks at Grayson like he's exactly as much of an alien as he is, here. She's willing to tell Dagmar about the lady who helped Bosch move in, though -- white, thirtyish, brunette, kissed him on the cheek on the way out. Probably family, and Grayson's taking notes while the woman talks so Dagmar doesn't have to. "Thank you," she says. "Do you know of anyone else who's talked to Bosch?"

"Yeah, well. Good luck." A little boy comes over and tugs on the woman's pant leg. "Hang on a sec, baby." She gives Dagmar a look. "You'd better go."

"Thanks again." They let themselves out. In the hallway, Dagmar frowns at Grayson. "Don't grin at people like that."

Jaime-across-the-hall is in his late thirties, and he doesn't look like the sort of guy who tends to help the police with their inquiries. "Bosch who? The new guy?" He shrugs. "There was some woman asking about him the other day. Blonde. Nice tits for a lady in her fifties." She can see Grayson tense in her peripheral vision. Stupid, kid. "Don't know who she was, though. I was just bringing in my groceries and she practiced her fuckin' high school Spanish on me."

"We'll look into it. Thank you." Dagmar jerks her chin at Grayson, who's looking as blank as he can manage. Jaime clicks the deadbolt into place behind them. "What do you think?"

Grayson peers at his notes. "Well -- we should look into the family, but -- probably if she helped him move, it wasn't her. And -- rich blonde women who have any connection to anything."

"Plenty of those in Gotham." Dagmar shakes her head. "Where are you going to look, the society pages?"

He winces. Tommy would have laughed. "No, I -- I'll check the tapes of his trial."

Tommy Burke is charming, boyish, even if he's a little too battered for the last to be convincing. Dagmar is used to thinking of him as young, and it's only being partnered with the rookie that makes her realize that Tommy isn't young, so much as younger and stupid.

Even the lingering effects of Grayscale haven't changed him, judging by the nurse who looks more flustered than a professional woman should be as she leaves his room. Dagmar raises an eyebrow disapprovingly, and ignores the way it makes her temporary partner stifle a smile.

"Not what I meant." He cocks his head at Grayson. "You've traded me in for a younger model."

"The department is understaffed. Officer Grayson is new. He worked for Blüdhaven PD before."

Tommy's eyes widen a little, and he looks at Grayson again. Grayson looks back and doesn't flinch at the examination.

Tommy switches his gaze to her, raises his eyebrow in a little question that makes her shrug and shake her head. "He was assigned to me today," she says. Tommy will get what she means -- no, I don't know what he's like, if he's one of us or one of them.

"Dick Grayson," he says, and steps forward to offer his hand. Tommy takes it with his left, which is mostly clear of the semi-opaque scales that cover the other. "It's good to meet Officer Procjnow's partner."

She stifles the faint surge of approval at this and transfers the emotion to exasperation. Another one who's too charming for anyone's good, and knows how to use it. Dick and Tommy shake hands, and she doesn't see any masculine testing of strength, but Tommy's still weak from the treatment.

Grayson looks at her for approval before answering. It's irritating, that he has apparently read her and is working on the best way to handle her, taking his cues from her actions. "Hard to say right now."

"A man on parole was found dead. Two women were seen visiting him before his death--" "I think one might be his sister. According his records, she's the only one that visited him regularly in jail and the witness said they looked like family," Grayson interrupts.

Dagmar gives him a look. "One his sister, maybe, the other we haven't identified yet," Dagmar says.

"Karma," she says. "And if you didn't let work pile up, you'd find it easier when you are there."

"You already have people being nice to you," she says. "Don't let it interfere with her work or your recovery."

"That's why I have you to bring me down." He grins widely. Neither of them are looking at Grayson, and she knows what they're doing -- this is us, you're not a part of it -- and isn't exactly happy with herself for doing it. She holds herself to higher standards than that.

It's an excuse to give them some privacy, and he's reading her again. Being considerate, appropriate, and she doesn't trust that kind of care in dealing with her from someone she doesn't know.

"I can drink coffee, Dagmar. It's not like I'm asking him to pick me up a bottle of bourbon. Though if you did--"

She relents enough to say, "Coffee, milk, no sugar," and ignores his pleased nod.

Tommy waits until Grayson is out of the door, but still visible through the glass window that leads into the special care ward, before he says, "So is it true what they say about Blüdhaven cops?"

"He's probably still stunned by the honor of working for Major Crimes," Tommy says. "Rubbing shoulders with us elite, mixing with the rich and freaky." He gives a pause that means he's about to say something he thinks is funny. "Has he asked you for Batman's autograph yet?"

"He's what, half your age, and still acts like more of a grown-up than you," Dagmar says.

Tommy gives her one of those I-know-you amused looks, and it's just as irritating as watching his charm at work. More so, since he has reason for it. "Anything new come in on Ortega? Because I had a couple of leads I was working on."

"Grayson's read your notes. I talked to the doc, you're supposed to be resting."

"And you really think he managed to make sense of my notes? You know me better than that, Dag. Look, about year a ago, Ortega was involved in a hit and run, put some college kid in Utah named Kasim Chen through the windscreen of her car. Got away with a suspension of her license and a fine. She turns up a year later, covered in broken glass after going out and getting wasted." He scratches a patch of scale on his cheek and she flashes back to dealing with chicken pox and mosquito bites. "Chen had a brother who made a lot of noise at the trial." He looks at her. "Ortega even got a restraining order placed against him."

"Tommy," she says, pulling his hand away before he scratches through the skin. "Why are you so interested in this case?"

"Gotta have something to keep my mind busy. I tried to organize a poker game, but it's hard to bluff when you're hooked up to one of these things." He touches the monitor.

"Trying my best. I had to distract my mind from the thought of my partner, out there in the wilds of Gotham, some jailbait rookie from Blüdhaven riding with her."

Tommy winces. "He looks like he shouldn't be out of diapers, let alone out of uniform. They've got to be desperate if they're picking up Blüdhaven cast-offs," he says.

"Seems like he's got you pegged," Tommy says. He's not as stupid as he acts, her partner. "Younger, good-looking, hardworking. If I'm not careful, you'll drop me for him."

"Better the devil you know--" she says. She doesn't fight the smile, but she keeps it small. As frustrating as it is working with her partner, he is her partner. It feels wrong to be out there without him, even more so when Grayson is making it easier. "At least he doesn't expect me to carry him."

"Well, if you're gonna be so efficient all the time, you need someone to balance you out."

"Tch. Why do they keep partnering me with the pretty boys who think charm is enough that they don't have to work?"

"Because they know you can keep us in our place," Tommy says. "And sometimes you need someone to make nice with the witnesses." He looks at her. The grayscale is peeling off his face, leaving his skin pink and vaguely sunburnt underneath, lingering around his left eye and the edge of his mouth, tugging when he smiles. "You think he's pretty, then?" He gives her another grin. "You think I'm pretty?"

"Just going with the evidence." He looks past her, out the window, and changes the subject. "Your boy still on that tour?"

"Coffee," Grayson says, coming into the room. He smiles at the nurse holding the door open. "Thanks."

"Any time," she says. Her smile is brighter, wider, and lingers even after he's turned around to face them.

"Thanks." Tommy takes the cup and looks at Grayson. "So how d'you like working with my partner?"

"No shots have been fired, but it's early yet." Grayson sits down, stretching his leg out. Something to do with that injury of his, maybe. "Detective Procjnow seems like she's pretty strict, but I'm used to that. My last partner didn't go easy on me either. Pretty keen on you being exactly as good as you should be."

"In Blüdhaven?" It's an insult or a joke, and either way there's enough potential for truth in it for Dagmar to watch Grayson's reaction.

"She's a good cop, takes the 'serve and protect,' seriously." Grayson says. He shrugs, not quite as casually as he'd like, maybe. "You get those everywhere. Even in Blüdhaven."

"Huh. I always figured it was the mother in Dagmar. Do your homework, why haven't you finished your report and interviewed the suspect in room three, and tuck your shirt in."

Grayson's smile is wider than she's seen yet, enough to give Tommy competition. "Amy's got a couple of kids too. Maybe there's something in that."

"But you're not in Blüdhaven now," Tommy says. It's a reminder that Tommy's good at interrogations, better at ones where the suspect doesn't know he's being interrogated.

"It got-- messy," Grayson says. There's a world of information in that pause, even if she doesn't have the key to decipher it. "I lost some people." He gives another of those not-quite-casual shrugs, and rubs the top of his leg, just above his knee. "I was raised in Gotham. Sometimes you need to go back."

"Tommy," she says repressively. She makes eye-contact. Grayson's been here less than a day, and the case is not that significant, and Tommy shouldn't bring these things up in front of outsiders.

Tommy leans back into his pillow. "Well, I'd tell you to take care of my partner, but Dag can pretty much take care of herself. Don't let her break your ego too badly."

"It's just her way of showing affection," Tommy says. Dagmar rolls her eyes. "Really. All that criticism means she likes you. Or doesn't like you. One or the other."

"It means you're being sloppy," Dagmar says. "And we have work to do." She gets up and heads to the door. "I'll visit tomorrow."

"Master Bruce," Alfred says, setting his dinner in front of him on the wide oak table. "There was some, ah, correspondence for you at your apartment."

"I don't have any mail delivered there," Bruce says, glancing up at him. Alfred is impassive, as ever.

"I don't believe this came in the post, sir." Alfred sets a folded sheet of stationery next to his plate. His own stationery, to be precise, with "Bruce" scrawled across it in block capitals.

"Thank you," Bruce says, and waits until Alfred has returned to the kitchen to open it.

It reads: "Sorry about last night. I've had some schedule changes lately and I couldn't make it. Probably won't be able to for a while, at least. I can check in at the end of the night, 5:30am every day, and if you're there -- and alone -- I'll stop in, if that works. Hope to see you soon. - N"

Bruce closes his eyes in pain at the thought of 5:30 in the morning, but he supposes he can always go back to sleep again after Nightwing has left.

Watching taped trials, even on fast-forward, is not Dick's idea of a good time. Everyone talks too much, and the emotions go by too quickly to even matter. Maybe it's what being a judge is like. Maybe if he stays on the force twenty years, his memories will be like this -- flickering pain, triumph, anguish, defeat. Justice.

Richard Bosch, US army sergeant, now deceased, was a ratty little man. His wife was big, her hair doubly so and mousy. Definitly not Jaime's sleek blonde. She wore black to the trial and cried a lot. Trauma, trauma, and more trauma. She was having an affair with Jim Wallace, a kid in his early twenties. They've got pictures of Wallace's college graduation, and that's all. Then Bosch came home on leave, found him in bed with Mrs. Bosch, and shot him.

Dick wonders if the wife went to see Bosch again before he bit it. Nobody saw her, but maybe -- just maybe --

"Got the report back from ballistics for you," the civilian aid -- Stacy? -- says, glancing at the screen.

"Hey, it's what I'm here for." She sounds a little depressed and Dick wonders if it's too early to ask if she's okay. She takes off before he can say anything anyway, and he flicks open the report. Berretta M-9, mostly used by the US military in--

He's distracted by a flash of blonde hair on the screen. The woman taking the witness stand is as WASP as they come, demure grey suit, dabbing at her eyes. Dick puts the replay onto normal speed, and she has an honest to god handkerchief. And, yes, nice breasts for a woman her age. Jim Wallace's mother is beautiful, in her way, but frightening. She's got hard edges, a hard face, crisp pleats, and no more tears once she takes the stand. Just fury.

Why she would have visited Bosch -- well, he was only in for manslaughter, and there's so much anger there that it probably hadn't faded when she found out he was getting out in two years after killing her son.

Having the power of police databases at his fingertips is still a little heady. Dick smiles to himself as he puts in Miriam Wallace's name and comes up with a tony address. He prints it, and a picture of her from the trial. She must have been beautiful, thirty years ago, before she had and lost a child, before life made her what she is.

Which includes, he'd bet, a murderer, and no manslaughter here. If she was casing the place, that's as premeditated as anyone needs.

Dick pushes back from his desk and snags the papers off the printer. His partner is at her desk, scowling at some file or other, and he doesn't know exactly how to address her, yet. He settles for getting into her space just enough that she turns, and holding up the picture of Miriam Wallace's rage-wracked face. "I think I've got a suspect."

Officer Procjnow -- she hasn't said, "Call me Dagmar," yet, so he doesn't -- raises her eyebrows. "Motive?"

Her home couldn't be more different from Bosch's unless it was on its own estate. It's a nice big house in the suburbs, manicured lawn, wide driveway. There are even trees. The leaves are starting to turn, here, and the wind is a little brisk even with the golden afternoon light.

Mrs. Wallace answers her own door, so at least they won't have to look into an illegal immigrant maid on top of the murder charges. She's not quite as smooth as she was at her son's trial; the sharp edges are showing more. Dick remembers the last interrogation and hangs back a little, showing his badge as per procedures. Officer Procjnow knows what she's doing.

"How dare you say that man's name to me!" Mrs. Wallace says. The fury from the trial tapes is back, twisting her face into hideousness. She tries to slam the door, but Dick's ready for it. His shoulder's going to hurt all night, but it gives his partner time to talk.

"There's been new information regarding him," Officer Procjnow says, as calm as if Mrs. Wallace isn't spitting nails.

"New information! He shot my son, and you let him out again. Two years!" Mrs. Wallace moves to shut the door again, but Dick has it braced.

Officer Procjnow looks sympathetic but still firm, still solid. "Have you been told anything about him since he went to prison?"

"I know they let him out too soon. Two years is not enough. My son lost his whole life." She's so tense she's going to snap.

There's a flicker of something in her face before it goes back to rage. "My husband has a gun. Gotham's not a safe city, you know, even out here."

Dick glances at his notes, more for effect than anything else. "A Berretta M-9 pistol?"

If looks could kill, Mrs. Wallace would need a permit for that glare. "I don't know anything about guns, but I know my husband has a shotgun."

"Have you seen Richard Bosch since he was released?" Officer Procjnow asks, smoothly.

Officer Procjnow takes a deep breath. "We're going to have to ask you to come down to the station for questioning."

Mrs. Wallace's jaw tightens. "He deserved it. He shot my baby and left him to bleed to death. He didn't know anything about him, just that he was in the wrong place with the wrong woman -- God, she was the wrong woman, Jimmy. But he'd never done a damn thing in his life." She's staring at each of them in turn, now. "You know that? He didn't even get out of high school, and my Jimmy was going to be a doctor. A doctor, and a good one, and he never even got the chance."

"It was justice, godammit, it was fair." She's holding on to the door and glaring at them, daring them to admit she's wrong.

It's enough of a confession for Officer Procjnow to say, "I'm very sorry for your loss," and she sounds as though she means it. "But -- you have the right to remain silent, Mrs. Wallace."

Mrs. Wallace makes her confession with her arms crossed and a look of vindication on her face, shutting up her lawyer when he tries to get her to play it a little softer. She leaves Grayson to finish it up and head out to look at the files on Ortega. It was Tommy's case, really, and it jars her, but Grayson might be more read up on it than her. She's trying to make sense of Tommy's notes, wondering if she can call the hospital for a translation, when Grayson comes up to her.

Grayson is drinking his coffee like water. It's not just a cop thing -- she's seen doctors do it, EMTs -- but in Dagmar's mind, it's always linked to evening shifts. Not something good, but something part of it.

"What?" She realizes she was tapping a rhythm with her pen, probably humming too. "Did Wallace say where she got the gun?"

"Yeah." She shakes her head. It's nothing, probably nothing, but it just feels off. "She didn't say how she got Bosch's address either."

Grayson shakes his head. "She said she hired a PI. We'll have to check it out." He looks over at what she's reading. "The Ortega case? You know, I was looking in to that. The guy Ortega ran over, Chen, had a brother."

"Jie Chen," she says. She leans back in her chair to look at him. Was he listening in when Tommy mentioned him? the alternative is that he came up with it on his own. Possible, but -- She might have to revise her judgement of him up.

"Jie Chen moved out of his apartment two weeks ago, no forwarding address." He puts a print-out on the desk. "He bought a bus ticket to Gotham and hasn't been seen since." He looks at her, waiting or watching. Grayson isn't, perhaps, as good as Rohrbach said he was, not yet, but he will be. "Could just be coincidence," he says lightly. Fishing for a reaction, and letting her know that he knew there was something else. Waiting for her to tell him what.

A good detective, and good police, maybe. She shakes her head and goes up to get herself a refill. Cohen's already there, pouring one for himself. He looks up at the board. "Quick work on the Bosch case."

Cohen nods. "It's nice when they do that. I like my murderers like I like my pleasures; guilty."

Cohen shakes his head. "He's not Ronnie, but he's bright enough not to try any stuff he might have pulled down there up here. You got a confession that easily? There's been a lot of that lately. Good thing, with half the department out."

Dagmar nods and stirs her coffee. "Yeah. That case you said, the preschool teacher--"

He shrugs. "Not for Gotham. Just messy. She used an assault rifle, illegal in Jersey. They thought there might have been some kind of weapon trafficking, but we couldn't find anything." He hesitates. "It wasn't weird, just-- where does a nice kindergarten teacher get an assault rifle?"

"Killed her father when he accidentally broke into his home. He had Alzheimer's," he says at her raised eyebrow. "An eye for an eye-- The guy got charged with manslaughter and a weapons charge. She's lucky if she'll get life."

"No, but you know this town. Anything you can't get here, you hop on a bus and get from Blüdhaven." He looks at her. "Why do you want to know?"

She shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee. "It's probably nothing. I've gotta.." she waves at Grayson and heads back over.

He's looking over Tommy's notes again, studying them and making little comments in pencil. She watches for a few seconds and then makes a decision. "Have you finished your coffee yet?"

He looks at the cup like he's surprised it's there. "Uh, yeah. I was going to get a refill."

Indecision is always hardest. Now, she just needs to wait and be prepared to deal with the consequences if she's wrong.

Grayson follows her. The air's cold, musty. Low clouds hold in the city's fumes, only just starting to break up in the cooler night air. Grayson holds his mug in both hands and she wishes she'd thought to bring her own. She puts her hands in her pockets instead, stands on the other side of the roof and makes eye-contact with Grayson.

"Antonia Ortega and Richard Bosch. Both responsible for the death of another. Neither served the full-sentence for their crimes. Like the guy Cohen's kindergarten teacher took out."

Grayson looks puzzled. He steals a glance at the empty space on the roof, little bright bits of broken glass still catching occasional light, then looks back at her and makes as if to go closer.

"Bosch was killed by the mother of his victim," she says, stopping him with a frown. "Ortega was found covered in broken glass." She pauses.

This time Grayson takes his cue. He keeps his eyes on her, matches her carrying tone. "Bosch was charged with manslaughter, got three years, out on parole in two. Killed by Miriam Wallace less than a week after that."

"Antonia Ortega admitted guilt, but was given a severely reduced sentence. No time served."

"Found covered in broken glass, which might have something to do with the boy she put though her windshield. Her victim was Kasim Chen, nineteen, no parents and one older brother, Jie, who was last seen two weeks ago buying a bus ticket to Gotham."

She nods. The rooftop is darker now, but the shadows are less deep. No contrast. She doesn't know if she'd see anything if she looked, but she's lived in Gotham most of her life. She doesn't need to see to know. "Miriam Wallace received a letter with Bosch's address and release date. She may also have received a gun."

"No idea if Jie got anything, but Gotham's a pretty strange place for a surprise vacation. He took out a large sum of money at a stopover in Tennessee, and hasn't used his cards since. No way for us to track him down."

She gives him a small smile, and gets a larger one back in return. "We have no evidence that the two are connected," she says. "It could be coincidence, but there's been a few cases like this recently." Grayson looks surprised, but she ignores it. "If we just had some link, an address for Jie, proof that he got a letter the day he left-- Something soon, because these won't be the last." She looks away from Grayson, across the city. "There are too many people who haven't been served by justice. Killers who got off easy."

She sees Grayson shrug out of the corner of his eye. "Doesn't matter what they got. Sometimes, nothing's good enough. Nothing can be."

She raises an eyebrow at him -- he shouldn't be that jaded this young -- but nods. Gotham is never peaceful, never quiet, but the sound of traffic and occasional siren in the distance are reassuring. Signs of life. She can see the cranes, lit up at night like art, at the construction and reconstruction sites around the city. The streetlights give the clouds an orange tint, like burnt pumpkin.

Jimmy Wallace's killer walked free, less than three years after his murder. Ortega had got community service and had her license pulled for 6 months after she'd got drunk and put Kasim Chen through her windshield. Both of them were younger than her boy Sascha. Grayson comes to stand next to her, resting his cup on the low wall and leaning out over the city.

"We don't get them so they'll pay for what they did," he says quietly. "We get them so it doesn't happen again."

Grayson spreads his hands. "I have to," he says. He picks up his cup and drains it. He twitches slightly, like he's stopping himself from looking behind them. "Think that's enough, Officer Procjnow?" he says.

At the end of the shift, Dick is still buzzing with caffeine. As he walks to the garage to get his bike, he can feel himself twitching, almost dancing as he walks. He feels hyperaware, as if coffee's a wonder drug that makes him the best detective in the world.

He finds his parking spot again, and is about to get on the bike when he notices something in one of the mirrors -- shifting shadows. He hasn't been in the GCPD long, but he spent his childhood in Gotham, and it's not like he's totally ignorant about --

"Officer Grayson." Batman's in the shadows. Dick can't see his face or read anything in his voice.

He leans against the bike. "As of two days ago, yeah. Officer Grayson of the Gotham PD."

Batman's standing next to him before he can blink. "Your previous experience in Blüdhaven wasn't good enough that you should be repeating it here. People died."

"I know," Dick hisses. He smashes his palm against Batman's chest, trying to get him out of his space. Batman doesn't move, but Dick's palm stings. He lets it fall again. "You honestly think I don't know that? But Gotham needs uniforms, not just costumes."

"It doesn't need uniforms from Blüdhaven who left under unusual circumstances." Batman pauses. "Captain Rohrbach shouldn't have recommended you."

"Maybe Amy knows the situation better than you. You're not as close to the Gotham PD, Batman, not anymore. Maybe Amy knows how badly Gotham's running short of honest policemen, that it's better they have someone like me than another empty seat."

"Gotham needs me. It needs everyone it can get." Dick says, repeating himself. He looks up, tries to meet Batman's eyes through the mask. "You should be able to understand that."

"I'm not a rookie." He thinks about trying something else, another push or something to get away. Batman's crowding him against the bike and it's making it harder to argue with him.

"In this town, you are. On this force, you are, and we don't need the experience you've had." Batman is an implacable barrier between him and -- it's not entirely clear.

"I won't leave." Dick doesn't feel as brave as all that, but he says it anyway. What are you supposed to say to an urban legend that wants you the hell out of his city?

"And it's not up to you if I stay. It's not just your city, Batman. It's theirs, too."

"How effective do you think you can possibly be?" A swirl of cape, and Dick's starting to feel claustrophobic. "You don't know enough, rookie."

"How else can I learn?" Dick laughs, and it sounds pale. "Do you do this to all the rookies?"

It earns him a scowl. "Only the ones who have previously demonstrated their incompetence."

"I could still surprise you," Dick says, and with the last of his bravado he puts his arm around Batman's neck -- slippery, cold, impervious -- and kisses him. The Batman is taller than he is, stronger, certainly, but there's a moment where the heat between them shifts from anger to something more.

"This is your way of convincing me you belong here?" Batman's voice is deep and rough, and he sounds completely unimpressed.

There's a cold sweat on the back of Dick's neck. He expected revulsion or at the very least a little personal space, but he got neither. He resorts to the unvarnished truth. "I fucked up, but I'm still better than ninety percent of the people coming out of the academy. I had good teachers, and I'm honest."

Batman says, "Are you? Prove it." And disappears, taking even his body heat with him.

Dick resists the urge to punch the wall or the bike, though he gives in to the urge to bury his face in his hands and shiver for a couple of seconds. Then he shakes it off. "Welcome to Gotham," he says aloud, to himself, and gets on the bike. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

It's nothing like morning, even if it's not exactly night anymore. "You're here," someone says through the fog in Bruce's head.

Warm hands on his shoulders, and it's something of a consolation. "I thought you'd be home."

A pause. He could fall asleep, but Nightwing says, "I can stop visiting if you'd rather."

There's too much relief in that sigh, and the swift little noises of stripping at high speed. "Okay." And Nightwing's warm, a little sticky, but nothing intolerable. He's brought the pillow back, helpfully. He wraps himself around Bruce, as he does, almost often enough. "Are you falling asleep?"

"Plenty of time to sleep now." Bruce puts an arm around him and sighs. "The office won't expect me until then."

Dick sleeps most of Saturday. It's been a long week, longer than it should be, and he needs it. Gets up around four, makes himself a late lunch, does his laundry. There's enough of summer left that he can hang it out on the line. Gotham is greener than most people think, the way big cities sometimes are. Dick's garden isn't big, but there's enough space that he could maybe do something with it. An apple tree, maybe get Alfred to suggest something low-maintenance.

He's not used to living alone like this. No sounds of life above or below, no knowing that there's somebody just down the corridor, only him in a house that's just a little too big for one person. He misses living in an apartment, even if he knows that he can't go back to one. Not now, probably not ever.

He's got ironing to do, nice safe household chores that need to be done and keep his mind off the case and everything that goes with it. The place came unfurnished, and Alfred dealt with that before Dick moved in. Dick doesn't know if he should be insulted -- he's not a kid, he can buy his own sofa -- or glad that he didn't have to spend any more time looking at an IKEA catalogue. Alfred put up some pictures too, and dug up an old poster from Haly's Circus. Little things to make it feel less empty.

Tim's quiet on the other end, then says, "Yeah, I'm-- I'm okay. What about you?"

"No, really. I'm not good, but I'm-- I'm okay." He can hear Tim fidgeting. Not a good sign. "I'm coping. I'm not -- it's not like I'm trying to do this alone, you know?"

"Good. Because you're not alone." He tries to put as much truth as he can into it, because it is the truth, even if Tim doesn't quite believe it. "I wanted to know if you wanted to meet up sometime?"

Dick sighs. "Yeah. I -- I know. I haven't been-- I'm busy, but I'm in town. We should meet up more often."

Tim taps his fingers on something near the phone. It must be deliberate; it's Tim. "Is this a lunch date?"

"Oh, Tim, I didn't know you cared." Dick hears him snort, and says, "Yeah. Maybe -- maybe noon, then. I can meet you at yours?"

"That works." There's silence, neither of them really wanting to hang up and neither really able to talk. "Tim? One of the nicest things you can do for your friends is let them help you," Dick says.

Dick rubs his neck a little guiltily. "Yeah. Uh, take it from someone who knows, I guess?"

It's Sunday morning, in a glory of fall sunshine and the lingering, comforting smell of breakfast-in-bed. Nightwing is naked but for the mask, and he's given in to Bruce's request to try a spot of light bondage. His hands are bound above his head. "You know I can get out of these, right?" Nightwing asks, testing the handcuffs against the bed frame until they jingle gently.

Bruce clucks his tongue. "Pity. I knew they weren't exactly police-issue, but I didn't realize they'd be so ineffective."

"In that case --" Bruce finds one of the scars on his stomach where the lovebite has faded since first thing in the morning, and renews it. "Let them be effective."

Nightwing shivers. "If we get attacked by a crazed supervillain, it's going to take me a few seconds to get free."

Bruce laughs. "If we get attacked by a crazed supervillain, I promise you I won't blame you for the delay."

"You never know." His smile is so bright, even when they're talking about dark things. It's hard to think of him on the streets when he's here, now, in Bruce's bed, safe and beautiful.

"I'll consider myself warned." Bruce kisses him, making him reach for it, just a little. He tastes like coffee and home, and the soft, hungry noises he makes are endearing. Nightwing is becoming something of a habit.

He can handle the kind of habit who sighs his name and writhes like that. "You're a tease," Nightwing accuses him.

"I won't leave you hanging." Bruce nuzzles his neck -- well below the collar line, surely -- and wins another moan. "Besides, if I tried, you'd get free."

"True, but --" Nightwing manages, somehow, to move up and sideways in order to rub against him. It's quite literally breathtaking. "I'm waiting."

"You're insatiable," Bruce says fondly, and considers his myriad options. "Would it be easier to pretend you're not just humoring me if your hands were behind your back?"

"Marginally." Nightwing slips the cuffs -- Bruce doesn't quite catch how he does it -- and rolls onto his stomach to refasten them behind his back.

Bruce tests them, and, yes, they're fully secured. Or as much as they were before. "That's an interesting skill."

He moves onto his knees and kisses Bruce again, using his new freedom to tease as mercilessly as Bruce had. "It comes in handy every now and then."

"Not fair." Bruce catches him by the shoulders and pushes him away long enough to laugh and catch his breath. "You're supposed to be tied to the bed."

"It's not that easy. People have been tying me up since I was just a kid." Nightwing tries to kiss him again, and Bruce turns away.

"Oh, stop." He sits back on his heels, every line of him perfect, still tolerating the patently useless cuffs around his wrists. "It was never this much fun."

Bruce sits up to kiss him, then touches Nightwing's lips with his thumb. "Then they weren't doing it right. God, you're beautiful."

"You don't have to seduce me." Nightwing sighs a little. "I -- you already did that."

"You don't have to," Nightwing says in a terribly small voice, considering all his accomplishments.

Bruce tips his chin up with one finger and kisses him again, lightly. "I'll do it anyway. Especially because the more appreciated people feel, the better they tend to be in bed."

Nightwing's eyebrows rise enough to move the mask. "Are you saying I need improvement?"

Bruce runs a hand down his back, shivering. "Gorgeous." He tangles his fingers in Nightwing's hair.

"You're going to make me use some horrible line, aren't you?" Bruce smirks at him, and Nightwing, bless his heart, smirks back and eases down the bed.

He really must have spent too much time in handcuffs; he moves like they're not even there and he's just got his hands behind his back for the challenge of it. Bruce strokes his hair. "It has its appeal, but not, perhaps, right now."

"Then we'll save it for another time." Nightwing kisses his stomach, his hip, his cock, lightly, then lingering. For all his confidence, there's still something hesitant in the way he begins, as though he expects Bruce to reject him.

As if anyone could reject this man, when he's so open -- even in the mask -- so giving. So good at what he does.

There are cameras, now, catching the smile in the corners of Nightwing's mouth, the way his lips glisten and the smooth, slow strokes of his tongue. It means Bruce can close his eyes and groan at the feeling. "God, you're good at that."

If he weren't wearing the mask, Bruce could see the smile in his eyes, but it's almost enough to hear it in his voice. "What are you going to say next? 'Look ma, no hands'?" The flippancy catches in his throat as Nightwing proves that, no, he doesn't actually need his hands. "Oh, god."

"You wanted them bound," Nightwing says in a pause, his breath damp and close. "Is this why?"

"Probably," Bruce says, making himself look. The film is there, but it won't be as sweet as this -- Nightwing kneeling in his bed, smiling fondly at him, his hair rumpled and his posture perfectly compliant. As if he couldn't slip the cuffs in a moment. But he chooses not to, chooses this. "You amaze me."

Nightwing shrugs a little. "Well -- good." Another luxurious lick, and he looks up to say, "You can move, you know."

"Bruce." He grins. "You couldn't." He opens his lips, his mouth, his throat again, and it would be impossible to resist that feeling, that offering. Bruce arches off the bed, trying to remember all of it at once, though he can't think anything more coherent than that he never wants this to stop.

"That's -- god, Nightwing --" It's almost enough to tangle his fingers in Nightwing's hair. He gives up a little, a little more, and lets Bruce thrust into his throat with a hunger and force that should be too much, and isn't. He should choke, but he moans instead, muffled and appreciative and making Bruce shake with the perfection of it all. "I --" He turns the words into a groan and lets himself come, forces his eyes open at the last moment to appreciate the impeccable pornography incarnate that is Nightwing with his throat full of Bruce's cock, his muscles working as he swallows.

He sits up a few moments later, while Bruce is still breathing hard, and licks his lips, grinning. "Glad you liked it."

"Liked it." Bruce laughs, and would grab him, kiss him senseless, if only he knew quite where his hands were at the moment. "When I can feel my toes -- hell, my chest -- I'll show you just how much I liked it."

Nightwing frees his hands and embraces him -- no, snuggles up to him, really, and kisses him hungrily. "That was --"

"Half of it was you, you know." Nightwing kisses him again. "You don't know how much I love making you react to me, and how -- how wholeheartedly you do it."

"I'm not sure I agree with you." Bruce kisses his cheek. "Maybe we should watch the film, sometime, and compare notes."

"The -- film." Nightwing tenses a little, and then visibly decides to relax. "Maybe."

"In any case --" Bruce kisses him again, slowly, enjoying every movement, until Nightwing's clinging to him again. "How am I supposed to pay you back for that last one, anyway?"

He chuckles. "Not at the moment. Well -- hm." Bruce disentangles himself enough to open the second drawer down in the oil-finished cherry cabinet by the bed.

Nightwing turns to look at the contents, laid out in hypervivid jewel tones on the cloth interior. "Oh, my."

"All shapes and sizes." Bruce rubs his back slowly. "Some of them are more, ah, suited to the ladies, but --"

"It's quite the collection," Nightwing says. He's blushing, and Bruce would bet some tidy sum that it reaches under the mask.

"Appropriate for all occasions." Bruce grins at him. "And I don't tell many people this, but they all have names."

Nightwing snorts "Yeah?" He chooses a realistically toned one with a bulb on a little hose. "What's this for?"

Nightwing shakes his head slowly. "What will they think of next." He pokes a vibrator with a large base and an attached outside bit. "That's for, um, clitoral stimulation, right?"

Nightwing sets down the one in his hands to cover his face briefly and shake. "God, Bruce."

"Yes. They do, don't they." Nightwing opens the next drawer down, home to various vibrators and an impressively large, swirled dildo done in red and blue silicone. "Oh don't tell me. Please don't --"

Nightwing shakes his head, laughing, but the blush is back. "I wouldn't say afraid, exactly."

"He's very memorable." Bruce picks up the silver vibrator. "So's Barry, for that matter."

"I'm sure." Nightwing gives him a crooked smile. "You wouldn't have anything called Dick, would you?"

Nightwing hits him with a pillow. "You have a really filthy mind, you know that?"

Nightwing sighs. "Just promise me you don't name your video cameras Tim, and we'll be all right."

"No, no. Babs already has a name." It makes Nightwing wince, but he's laughing, so Bruce goes on, "The still camera, on the other hand --"

He shrugs. "All right, we'll leave Tim out of this, unless you change your mind."

Bruce spreads his hands. "In any case, the offer is open. And you should probably be aware of Dinah --"

Nightwing shakes his head. "You're terrible. And I still don't believe you don't have anything named Dick."

Bruce kisses him, half as an apology, half as a distraction. "Have I changed the subject too much?"

"It's not a good idea, you know." Bruce strokes his hair. "Don't you read the society columns?"

Bruce kisses his forehead. "I don't do commitments, Nightwing. And the last person I tried it with --"

"Vesper Fairchild. I read that part of the paper." Nightwing looks up at him, solemn, but not expressionless. "I'm not going to get hurt because you -- because you care about me, Bruce."

"I wasn't committed to Vesper at the time." Bruce shakes his head. "But -- my point is --"

"Long term isn't your style. I know." Nightwing shrugs. "Give me fair warning, that's all."

It makes Nightwing smile. "That's not so short. We could try for that long again."

"I'll probably have to take debs to balls and all that," Bruce says, "because -- well, you're stunning, but you wouldn't take off the mask, yes?"

His smile turns wistful. "Not yet, anyway. We'll have to talk about it when the occasion arises."

"I'll keep that in mind next time I redesign my costume." Nightwing kisses him lightly.

Bruce nods. "I've seen some of those old designs. If you want me to hire you an image consultant --"

Bruce grins. "No, that's what they tell the women of Gotham. How do you think I get dates?"

"Thank you. I'll try using it next time I need one. Weren't you horny a while ago?"

Dagmar is five minutes early on Monday, and really, that's ten minutes late, by the way Sawyer greets her when she gets in. She waits in the parking lot for Grayson, who's only two minutes early, sleek motorcycle and all. She catches him on his way in. "We have a new case and a possible suspect to talk to."

His on-the-job face slides into place immediately. He chains the bike up so fast she's half afraid he'll burn himself on something, then adjusts his collar, not quite fast enough to hide a bite on his neck. Well, as long as he's on the job when he's on the job -- and he is a kid. "Ready," and he swings into the passenger seat of the black-and-white. For all it's only been a few days, he's acting well-trained. Maybe it's impressive, or just him trying to stay on her good side and compensate for the hickey. Hard to say.

She can see him wanting to ask questions, especially because she doesn't put the lights on. He's tapping his foot, and then he stops himself. Makes himself relax. Good enough. She says, "They found another recently released inmate dead."

Dagmar glances at him. "Is it a lead, or a hunch?" It's early for the kid to have contacts in Gotham, and he came up with this a little too quickly for comfort. Maybe someone's following him from rooftops, and that's actually one of the better options.

She sighs. "As long as it doesn't have anyone's fingerprints but yours, Grayson."

"The Commissioner doesn't approve of non-PD help," Dagmar tells him. "Rule of the thumb, the help shouldn't be a bigger freak than the suspect."

"I didn't get help on this one." He wants that smile to make him seem sincere, but it mostly reminds her -- 'haven cop. "I didn't need help on Bosch, did I?" She shakes her head a little. "Don't push it, that's all."

The wistfulness in his tone surprises a very begrudging "Hmph" out of her. "We'll see how this one goes. Dental records say it's a man named Humaid Rashid, who abducted and -- apparently accidentally -- drowned a girl, Anjali Gupta, four years ago."

Dagmar shrugs. "Rashid's? Other than drowning, they're still looking into it." She peers at the numbers on the houses. "We're looking for 1039."

"Park in front of the white minivan," Grayson says. It's right in front of the building, and -- no hydrant. The kid has good eyes. He gives her a brief smile. "I'm not a rookie at parking in the city."

"Good thing, too." Dagmar flips open her notebook. "We want apartment four-ten. Anjali's father Yasir Gupta lives there, alone as far as we know."

She almost corrects him, then bites her tongue and locks the car. 410 is a walkup, and his limp is worse today than she's seen it so far. "Are you all right?" Dagmar asks on the third landing. They have no reason to expect Gupta to be armed, but she needs to know if Grayson's going to be slow.

"What?" And it fades for a second. He takes the next flight smoothly, naturally, as if he's never had so much as a stubbed toe in his life. "I'm fine."

"Oh, that. It comes and goes." He shrugs, and the limp comes back on the next step. 'Haven cops and their problems, maybe. Or maybe just twinges.

They reach room 410 and take out their badges. Grayson touches his weapon lightly, and Dagmar tries to remember if she's seen him pull it yet. But he's knocking on the door.

An Indian man, perhaps sixty, answers the door. He keeps his expression blank when they introduce themselves, and blank when they ask him questions. His tone is flat, his accent thick -- yes, he is Yasir Gupta, yes, his daughter died several years ago, tragically, yes, he lives alone, yes, he has family in the city, yes, he knew they were letting his daughter's abductor out of jail.

"How did you know?" Grayson asks, and Gupta goes silent. Grayson tries a, "Sir?"

"I am an American citizen," Gupta says, "and I watch the television shows with police. I know I do not have to speak."

Dagmar glances at Grayson. "We're looking for information about the man who killed your daughter, Mr. Gupta."

"If you have any information about him, please, share it with us," Grayson says, but Gupta's not looking up, so Grayson's sympathetic expression goes completely to waste.

"Mr. Gupta," Dagmar says, taking a sharper tone, "we have reason to believe that you have information about Humaid Rashid's whereabouts shortly before his death a week ago."

He's not a very good bad-cop. "We need to know, sir. If you do not tell us now, we may need to seek a warrant for your arrest."

Gupta shivers, once, and puts his hands behind his back. "I have told you enough. Do what you must."

"We're not placing you under arrest, Mr. Gupta, but we do need to know whether you know anything about Humaid Rashid."

"He is a bad man." Gupta looks up, meeting Dagmar's eyes. There is a coldness in his tone that goes beyond late-learned language. "I do not need to know more than that. Neither do you."

Dagmar looks at Grayson, who shakes his head a little. "We'll be back, Mr. Gupta. If you think of anything, please, call us."

He shuts the door as soon as Grayson's out of the way. "That was a wash," Grayson says quietly. "I know what you said, but I think we're going to need backup."

"Maybe. Let's start with a warrant, and while we're waiting for it, there's always someone else to talk to."

"I'm Detective Procjnow, this is Officer Grayson. We need to ask you a few questions," Dagmar says, showing her badge.

"Maybe. You gotta warrant?" Dagmar fights the urge to roll her eyes. One of those, then.

"Hey, I got privacy issues to think about. I heard this hotel got sued by some guy 'cause the girl at reception told his wife he was there." The manager, Ms. Duncan by the name tag, is dressed a black skirt and grey blazer, her hair pinned back, and still gives the impression that she's cracking her gum.

"Please, Ms. Duncan," Grayson interrupts. he leans forwards, getting her attention on him. "We wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"Yeah, you guys have got such a sense of proportion about these things. I got chased five miles and almost lost my license because of a busted tail-light."

"We think he may know something about a woman who was killed three days ago." Grayson's voice is blunt, but sympathetic. He doesn't do it like Tommy does, lines so obvious that Dagmar finds it insulting that they work, but he uses what he's got. Pretty blue eyes and we need your help sincerity that probably gets him discounts every time he walks into a store.

It's that, or the mention of the murdered woman that makes Ms. Duncan more cooperative. "I can check the book," she says, going over to the computer.

"We'd appreciate it," Grayson says, giving her one of those $50-tip smiles. "He would have checked in sometime in the last two weeks, and probably paid cash."

"No one named Chen," she says, and taps the screen. "But we got a guy staying on the fifth, checked in about a week ago. Could be your guy." she checks the keys hanging behind. "Looks like he's in. Room 513."

Dagmar makes eye-contact with Grayson. "That's what we're here to find out," she says.

"Looks like you were right about clearing up Ortega," Dagmar says as they watch the floors climb.

There's a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, which she ignores, knocking on it. No answer, so she does it again.

He was expecting them, or someone like them, because he opens the door in her face and shoves past her, knocking her into a side-table and running down the corridor. Grayson pulls him down before he's gone three feet, twists him into a basic hold and keeps him pinned while Dagmar gets up.

"Son of a--" She shakes her head. "Jie Chen, we have some questions to ask you about the murder of Antonia Orte--"

"That bitch killed my brother and she didn't even get jail!" he says. He's not skinny, built like he does construction rather than weightlifting, but Grayson's holding him easily. "She got fucking community service and five hundred in damages. It didn't even pay for the fucking funeral!" He jerks against Grayson, trying throw him off. "She bats her eyes and gets off for killing him, like he was nothing, like that's all he's worth, she drives into him and that cunt gets to walk awa--" He twists again. Grayson shifts position a little.

She rubs her back where it hit the table edge. "I'm fine. And you, Mr. Chen, have the right to remain silent--"

They hustle him past the front desk and Ms. Duncan. He doesn't go easily, but Grayson has him under control.

"I think you should take lead on the interrogation," Grayson says when they're back at the station. "You'd get a better response from Chen than me. His mother took care of both of them on her own. He's probably more conditioned to respect your kind of intimidation."

"What are you, a psychologist now?" Dagmar says. She's not unhappy -- she was planning on taking the lead role in the interrogation anyway -- but she's not sure how she feels about Grayson's rationale.

"Just someone with a healthy respect for the power of your disapproval," he says.

They go into the room and sit down. Chen's looking at them, sullen disapproval. Dagmar's a little more impressed with Grayson's restraint of him. Chen struggled a lot, but he's not got a mark on him now.

"Yeah, you said that already. Okay, let's start at the beginning. About two weeks ago, you got handed the current address of Antonia Ortega."

"Yeah, you do. You got on a bus and headed over to Gotham. You tracked down Ortega's local drinking hole, slipped something into her drink, killed her and dumped her body in a dumpster. You did a little decorating with some broken glass and ran back to your hotel room. That's first degree murder, in case you didn't know." She gives it a beat. "You've got some pretty extenuating circumstances. You might be able to argue heat of passion, if no one pays too much attention to you driving halfway across the country to do it."

"You've got a lot to say to us, Jie. You can start by telling us a little bit more about the package you got. Wasn't just the address, was it?"

"You want us to help you. Don't be stupid. First degree, Jie. You could get put away for a long time. You want your mother to lose both of her kids?"

"The person that arranged it," Grayson says. He sounds casual, sincere. "Someone used you to kill her," he says. "They gave you the address, they gave you the drugs. They gave you the glass so you'd make it personal."

"Pushed you into it, set it up so you'd do the time and they'd walk away with their hands clean. Nothing to tie you to them except Ortega's address in your wallet in somebody else's handwriting."

"You got more than just the address," Dagmar says, taking over from Grayson. "You got the means. You help us, and we can find them. The DA'll go easy on you, if you help us get the guy at the top. What'd you do with the package?"

"Did he tell you to do that? The only thing that might link him to your crime, that might help us to get him instead of you," Grayson says.

She sees Jie's eyes move as that hits. "What'd he say to you?" She says, going along with Grayson's setup. "How'd he persuade you to kill her?"

He crosses his arms and doesn't say anything more. The rest of the interrogation's a dead loss, and they head back out to the pen.

Dagmar shrugs. "No, it was a good call. Maybe he'll get smarter when the lawyer tells him how screwed he is." She rubs the back of her neck. "Let's try the piers. Maybe this time, someone saw something useful."

The piers around Pollings River, where Humaid Rashid's body was found, aren't anything like Gotham's docks. They're too many yachts, not enough warehouses and they're quieter than Gotham's docks ever get. Someone's playing music in the distance, and there are a few lights on, but it feels like a quietly abandoned neighborhood, built on water.

Dick's used to more noise where people live. He's not put off by the silence, exactly, but it's not comfortable either. Rashid was found here, tied up and thrown in the water, and as quiet as it is, someone should have heard.

But forensics have him dead at least four days, maybe five. The pier's quiet now, midweek, but maybe --

"Most people probably only come down here at the weekend," he says. "Little place out in the country, for people that like to stay close to town."

"Enough money to buy boats like this, too lazy to take them anywhere." he gestures at the yacht next to him. "It's a showpiece. If you really think you're gonna go wild, you can sail it a few miles down river and won't have to worry about someone calling the cops on you."

Dick shrugs. "Some of the big ones might have permanent staff. Might find some people having a midweek break."

She nods and checks her watch. "We can start knocking on doors on the North Pier."

She frowns a little, then nods. He tries not to look too much like he's just been let off the leash and heads down river. There's a bunch of shed-type things, presumably connected to whoever owns docking rights, some crates and storage.

He catches his breath a little and makes himself smile. "I didn't expect to see you here," he says. "I was under the impression that Bats were more urban creatures." He's impressed that he got his voice under control, and that his hands don't shake when he turns around.

Batman is big enough that it's impressive that he can still hide, even in Gotham's shadows, which tend to the deep and dark. He moves forwards, just enough that Dick can see him better, if not clearly.

"Are you here looking for a Bat-boat, or is this business?" Dick says, then regrets it. The banter's a little too obviously nervous.

"You mean you don't already know?" It's a little sharp. He's got a partner to check up on him; he doesn't need it from Batman.

Batman's presence is intimidating; it's designed to be. Dick's not a criminal, not some scared kid or overawed, inexperienced rookie, no matter how Batman seems to treat him like one. He's not going to let it affect him. "I'll take that as a no." He crosses his arms. He's dealt with disapproval before. He's learning not to let it affect him. "Jie Chen got a package in Utah, two weeks ago. He probably got it in person, but we haven't confirmed that. He definitely talked to the mastermind, and identified him as male. In the parcel, he got the GHB and the broken glass we found at the crime scene, as well as the location of Antonia Ortega. He says he burnt the package, but he's lying. He could have hidden it anywhere between here and Salt Lake, just taken the glass and the pills to Gotham."

He rubs his head, and when he looks up Batman is a little closer. That, or Dick moved forwards without realizing it. He can smell Batman's costume, the way the cloak catches something of Gotham in it, vaguely reassuring against the background smell of nature. "So what do you have for me?"

Batman throws something at him and he catches it automatically. It's a file. He opens it up and sees a picture of Rashid. "Looks like something from a security camera," he says. "Date-stamped." he flicks past it and the next one was taken by the same camera about a minute later. The angle's not great, but he can see Yasir Gupta's face in the corner. He looks up at Batman. "Should be enough to bring him in." He waits a beat. "Thanks."

Batman is too close, again, and Dick backs away a step. He only realizes it when he runs into the side of a boathouse, and the Bat is still there, still in his space. "This is your second chance. Don't waste it."

He can't admit he's intimidated, even if he backed away; can't get away, right now. And he doesn't want to, not when this is his, yes, second chance. And this time, there are no security cameras. He manages a grin, and hopes it's bright enough. "Trust me."

He kisses Batman again and wonders, with some hysterical part of his mind, whether this whole thing is normal for rookies. Be threatened by the Bat, kiss the Bat, and be pressed against a building by the Bat, all hard armor and demanding mouth. Dick's not sure when he gave up to it, when he spread his legs around Batman's thigh. It feels more solid and real than half the buildings in the city.

There's no give to it, to him, so Dick has to bend around him, open his mouth, let the armor press into him. Gives in and digs in. This wet dream in Kevlar can't happen to all the rookies in town, or no one would be afraid of him. Impressed, oh yes, but not afraid. He's too human like this, not the bogeyman. Just a guy. An intensely attractive guy.

Batman's hands are on his shoulder, his ass, as hard and cold as the rest of him, but his kisses are wet and vicious. Dick can feel his lips tingling already, and he's going to be in a bad way even if he manages not to come all over himself. He thinks about telling Batman that, but it's got to be pretty obvious, especially with the way Batman's rocking against his hips.

There's no way to tell in the suit if Batman's in anything like the same condition, if he's feeling it as much as Dick is. Nothing as obvious, just these little tells that could be wishful thinking -- the exact pressure of his mouth, the sounds he doesn't quite make.

Dick's having a hell of a time keeping himself quiet, but god knows who's out there, now, or where Dagmar is, exactly. Although -- Batman does have a cape, so they might be camouflaged still.

Camouflage isn't going to help his pants, but saying something would mean he had to convince Batman to stop kissing him, and -- not going to happen.

There's a ringing sound. Once. Twice. It registers that it's Dick's cell, and he groans, choking back all the curses that come to mind. The Bat backs away, and Dick can feel his knees give out. He leans against the wall and answers it. "Yes?"

He closes his eyes for a moment to see if Dagmar will suddenly stop being on the phone. When he opens them again, Batman's gone. "What's the address?"

It's early -- earlier than normal, meaning well pre-dawn -- when Nightwing climbs into bed, and there's a weight on Bruce's stomach, a square-edged weight. "Good morning."

Nightwing kisses his cheek. "It's not morning yet. But I brought you a present."

Bruce fumbles for the light and winces when he turns it on. His only consolation is that Nightwing is already naked, so at least he has something pleasant to focus on while he's trying to see. "What is it?"

Nightwing grins at him -- the dangerous, edged grin that he must smile right before he jumps off of buildings. "Open it and see."

"No, not vinyl." He can see Nightwing's fingers twitching, so he pulls out another piece.

Bruce holds up a piece. "No, it's too heavy for that, isn't it. What --" And then he wakes up a little. Enough to add two and two to get four. "Is it real?"

"Beautiful." Bruce rolls over to kiss him. "Beautiful. Are you going to wear it for me?"

Bruce blinks at him, then at the black material on the bed. Maybe it's Kevlar or something like that. "Really?"

"I don't know how these things work." Bruce gets up, though, and spreads out all of the costume pieces on the bed. "This is the -- shirt part."

"Right." Nightwing pulls out a softer piece and hands it to him. "Undershirt first."

Bruce thinks about sitting in a boardroom with armor-chafe marks on his chest and puts on the undershirt. It smells a little strange, but clean. "All right."

"That answers that question." He pulls them on, too, trying not to think about borrowed underwear. They're soft and cling perfectly. "Hm. You may be right about the size."

"Fair enough." Bruce picks up the cup and makes a face. "Couldn't you have had one of these things made?"

"Still." Bruce shakes his head. "Do you really mean you want me to put it all on?"

Nightwing gives him a wistful look that shouldn't work so well in a mask, but does. "Verisimilitude is important."

With Nightwing helping him, it's not that hard to get it on, and it does fit extremely well. Flatteringly well, if Bruce does say so himself. "I may need one of these for the next fancy-dress ball."

Nightwing strokes his now-armored chest and tries valiantly to pretend he's not salivating. "Do you?"

"It looks good. Don't you think?" Bruce turns around, feeling the cape swish. It's almost as heavy as Nightwing's eyes on him.

Bruce laughs. "Oh, I don't know about of course. Lucky thing we're the same size."

"You'll have to give me advice." Bruce swirls the cape. "I've never actually met him." He grimaces at himself in the mirror. "Ha-ha! I am Batman!"

Nightwing winces. "No. Not like that. More grim. And more bass. You have to glare more."

Nightwing shakes his head. "Come on. Just -- be demanding. And lower your voice."

"I'd say you should just seduce him, but I might get jealous." Bruce tangles his fingers in Nightwing's hair, and tries for another voice, rich and low and gruff. He can tell it works by the way Nightwing tenses. "Get on your knees."

"Oh god, Batman," Nightwing says, and slides to his knees, smooth and graceful. "Whatever you want."

Bruce tries out a Batman-style laugh. It's probably a little baritone for the occasion, but it'll do. "Are you always this desperate?"

Nightwing looks up at him with a pleading expression. It's hard to stay grim in the face of it, but Bruce tries. "I'll do anything you want."

"Obviously." Bruce strokes his hair, regretting the gauntlet that keeps him from feeling the soft strands. "I want your mouth on me."

And whatever experience Nightwing has had with the real Batman, he knows this suit, how to open its all too hard armor. His mouth is -- he is always eager, but this reaches a new peak of desperation. The moment Bruce can feel air on his skin, Nightwing's tongue is there, too, his lips, his mouth. Bruce touches his hair -- the gauntlets make his hands feel heavier than normal, heavy enough to push a little without even thinking about it.

Nightwing moans around him and goes with it for long enough that Bruce can feel his knees getting weak. He pushes Nightwing away, reluctantly but firmly. Nightwing gasps for breath, looks up at him, and says, "Jesus, Bruce."

Bruce laughs again, and -- that tension at the corners of Nightwing's mouth says he has it right. "Why are you calling me Bruce? I'm not Bruce. I'm Batman."

"I --" Nightwing bows his head for a moment, clenching his hands into fists. "Yes. I know."

He reaches for Bruce again, opening his wet, red lips, and it's damned difficult for Bruce to push him away. "Enough."

"I said, enough." The bass voice makes his chest vibrate. "Unless you don't want to come tonight."

"Oh." Nightwing pets him gently, sitting back on his heels. "That's not -- no, all right, I'll stop."

"Kiss me," Bruce says. No, in the Batman voice, it's more of a demand. A command. Everything is.

Nightwing responds beautifully to it, as he does to everything, and before Bruce can catch his breath, Nightwing is embracing him. He can taste the familiar tang of himself, and something else -- maybe something from the costume. Nightwing's mouth must taste like Batman, then. And he knows it, because when he gasps for breath, he doesn't make a mistake, this time; he says, "Oh, god, Batman."

"Spread your legs," Bruce says, keeping the sentences short so that he can maintain the right timbre. And Nightwing's response to that is oh, so gratifying, as it always is. It's entirely too easy to pin him against the wall.

He thinks for a moment that it's just the kiss, just another hungry grab at his ass, but Nightwing is fumbling with something on the costume's utility belt. "Here," he says, and takes Bruce's gloved hand. Bruce has to break the kiss to find out what it is -- the shine of lubricant.

Nightwing shakes his head. "Like this," and he pushes Bruce's hand down. "In me. God, please." So easy, so open, and Nightwing whimpers at every touch. Bruce wishes he had the glove off so he could feel this as more than pressure, but the texture makes Nightwing quiver and arch against the wall. "More." He kisses Bruce again, and he doesn't taste so much like Batman this time. He just tastes hungry. Starving. "Yes, Batman. Please."

"Nightwing," and it's not possible to purr that name, but almost everything in this voice feels like he's trying to purr it, anyway.

Bruce blinks at him before he remembers that his eyes are as whited-out as Nightwing's. "I need a --"

Nightwing kisses him again, biting his lips hard, and breaks it to give him a pitying look. "Who do you think you're fooling, Batman?"

"Nightwing --" Bruce knows perfectly well he should break character for this, even more than he already has. He can't think of a way to phrase it that fits his instructions on how to act like Batman, and it's not safe. But he is, after all, pinning a vigilante against the wall in his own apartment, in a borrowed, possibly stolen uniform belonging to the most dangerous man in the city.

It's not that hard a decision. Not when Nightwing says, "God, Batman, now," and ripples against him, spreading his legs farther to wrap one around Bruce's waist.

He feels wonderful. He always does, but against the wall, tipping his head back, spreading as much as he can -- Bruce is glad that Batman has to have some self-control. He thinks dark and nasty thoughts and bites at Nightwing's neck, leaving another mark there that will be under the collar line, but which will definitely show tomorrow. Let Batman know that Nightwing doesn't really need him, if he sees. If he ever sees any of it.

How anyone could look at Nightwing and not want to give him this is beyond Bruce's understanding. He wants to tell Nightwing this, but -- Batman wouldn't, so he can't. He confines himself to a small groan that makes Nightwing grab his hips and pull him in deeper on the next stroke. "Oh, Batman."

It's not the strangest thing Bruce has been called during sex, but it's on the list. If Nightwing didn't look so completely turned on by the whole thing, he'd peel the cowl off and finish this as himself, even if it is against the rules. "Nightwing," he says again, hoping it's within the bounds of acceptable Batman behavior.

"Yes. Yes. Harder." Anything that makes him writhe like that, thrust like that, is worth answering to whatever name he gasps. Bruce is sure the gauntlets are going to leave marks on his hips. Let Batman wonder, if he sees them. "Batman --" Bruce kisses him again and he groans. "Just -- yes --"

"Nightwing." Bruce isn't sure it's entirely Batman's voice, but it makes Nightwing shake, again, and come. All over the black armor of the suit.

"Oh god, Batman," Nightwing says, and he can focus again, clearly, because he's focused on making Bruce come immediately, with just the right rhythm and a kiss that would curl his toes at the best of times, and now makes him pull Nightwing close until he must have more bruises. It's perfect.

When Bruce can see again, he realizes he still has Nightwing pinned against the wall, and it's quite warm in the Batman suit. He kisses Nightwing's cheek. "You should have told me about this kink sooner. Damn, Nightwing. Keep this sort of thing up and I might really fall for you."

Nightwing stares at him from behind the mask and kisses him again. "It's not a kink. It's you."

Bruce grins. "Me and the Batman outfit, maybe. How do you feel about a big church wedding, if I can find the place? I mean, really -- as Gotham's most eligible bachelor I've seen a lot of people's impressions of cock-hungry nymphos, if you know what I mean, but -- that was exemplary."

Bruce laughs. "That's a terrible nickname for anyone but a porn star -- and you're not that, are you? I'll stick to Nightwing."

"Oh, you must be getting uncomfortable." Bruce helps him to stand up again, and looks down at himself. "This suit is a wreck."

"It's waterproof," Nightwing says. His tone is a little wobbly; perhaps he's tired.

"It's a mess, and it's too warm." Bruce peels off the cowl and sighs in relief. "You really have never had sex with Batman?"

"Bruce --" Nightwing hugs him again, apparently heedless of how sticky he's getting. "Let me take my mask off."

Bruce kisses him lightly. "What for? Don't you have a secret identity to protect?"

"Darling," Bruce says, as teasingly as he can manage. There's something there that he's in no mood to discuss. "We must keep our little secrets. I'm sure you don't know everything about me."

"Not now." Bruce tousles his hair. "Besides, you only want me because I'm dressed up as Batman."

"I --" Nightwing sighs, then straightens his shoulders. "Why don't we take a shower, and go back to sleep, and I'll show you just how wrong you are about that when we wake up again."

Bruce leaves a note on the pillow on Friday night -- "Meet me at the airport, outside Terminal B gate 20, at 7am Saturday. - B." The plans are all in place, and all he has to do is wait for Nightwing.

He arrives on a motorcycle as irresistibly sleek as he is at 6:45 in the morning, looking freshly washed. "What's going on?"

Bruce smiles at him. "We're taking a little trip. Come on." Every time he goes up the metal stairs, he feels like a movie star, even without a crowd of the press there, eager for a glimpse of Gotham's theoretically most eligible bachelor. With Nightwing costumed and climbing ahead of him, the impression only strengthens.

"Just an island off Florida," Bruce says. "You might want to buckle up." He hits the page button and speaks to the pilot. "We're ready to go when you can get clearance."

Nightwing's mask gives him the appearance of staring all the time, but now it seems a little more personal. "An island? For the day?"

"The weekend?" Nightwing unfastens his safety belt. "I -- I can't leave for the weekend, Bruce."

"I have responsibilities here. You know that." He frowns. "A city to protect. A job, even. The criminals won't take a vacation just because I want to. And I have a team I should work with."

Bruce lifts his eyebrows. "Oh? So you'd be leaving town either way. Does it matter where you go?"

He's never seen Nightwing hunch his shoulders at all. It's distinctly unflattering, and thoroughly contrary to the picture of confidence and grace he usually projects. "The Outsiders need me." He looks up. "And Batman would be disappointed in me."

Bruce waves a hand. "I'll write the Outsiders a check. Compensate them for your time."

Bruce rolls his eyes. "Give him my number. I'll talk to him Monday morning when we get back."

"You're serious," Nightwing says, sounding horrified. "We're really leaving town for the whole weekend."

"I need a vacation, and so do you." Bruce shrugs. "Buckle up, would you, you make me nervous."

Bruce frowns at Nightwing, who subsides into his seat and fastens his seatbelt. "We're ready, thank you."

"I know at least twenty ways to get out now and survive. And five ways once we get off the ground." Nightwing is looking small and crumpled again. "Why are you doing this?"

"You weren't in it much over the last few years, if the tabloids are anything to judge by."

Nightwing frowns. "Other people were. Robin. Batgirl. Oracle. But they're not here now."

"Still. It doesn't need you. If people really need superheroes, they can yell for Superman. It's not like it'll take him long to make the commute."

"Bruce." He looks pained, and it can't just be the mild g-forces of takeoff, not with all the swinging around he does on a daily basis. "Why this? Why now?"

"No. That's not it." Nightwing straightens in his chair. "Taking the weekend off -- I feel like I'm betraying Batman."

Bruce smirks. "I'm sure he can do without you for two days. No one ever died of loneliness overnight."

Nightwing buries his face in his hands. "Don't make me choose between you. It's not fair."

Nightwing's fumbling with something in his gauntlet. A little spray bottle of -- something. "Fine. If that's how you want to play it. I'm taking the mask off."

Bruce doesn't have many chances to use his CEO voice outside of the boardroom, but it's there when he needs it. "Don't."

"Weren't you around when Gotham was No Man's Land? I'm sure you didn't take it off much then."

Nightwing squirms miserably in his chair. "That was different. This is just you."

Bruce makes a show of covering his eyes with his hands. "I don't want to know. I like you dark and mysterious. Besides," and he peeks, but Nightwing still has his mask on. "There will be god knows how many photographers when we get there, and you don't want them to know, do you?"

"Fine. Fine. All right. But only if you've got sunblock. I don't need a mask-line in my tan."

"You think this is frazzled?" Nightwing laughs hollowly. "You should have seen me when I first got back to town."

Nightwing scowls at him, but there's no venom behind it. "I can take care of myself."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Right. Which is why you need me to kidnap you, just so you get a nap. Go to sleep, Nightwing."

Nightwing sighs and tips his chair back. "Oh, all right. But only so I don't have to hear you picking on me for a while."

He gets into the station early on Monday and looks over the reports in case an answer has magically appeared over the weekend. There's a note saying that Chen's public defender talked to him on Saturday. Nothing new, unless Dagmar found something over the weekend. He arranges the pictures on his desk, Lian front and center -- her grin deserves it -- and the snapshot Alfred took a little behind. It's easier to sit behind the desk when he's got something on, and he feels less obviously new.

Nesting. The thought makes him smile a little as he heads over to get some coffee.

There's a group there already, mostly MCU and a few others thrown in. he doesn't realize they've talking about him until he hears --

"--like the Falling Graysons! Hah!" The guy -- Officer McKenna? Someone from robbery -- doesn't even realize that no one else is laughing with him for a moment, then puts it together with the way they're all looking behind him.

Dick walks over to the coffee pot, past the silent cops and starts to pour himself one.

"You know," Dick says, keeping his voice casual, "there's a lot of things you could use against me. �Haven cop. Rich kid." He leans against the counter. "Pretty boy. Gyppo." He takes a sip of his coffee and looks up. No one's making eye-contact. "Lots of things, but you have to go for the time I watched my parents fall to their deaths in front of me." He takes another sip. "That's just pathetic."

It takes real effort to keep his hands from shaking as he walks away. More to keep them from holding his cup too tightly, and he gets a lot of looks. Even if people didn't hear them talking, they sure heard the silence after.

Dick nods. "Okay. for future reference, the next time you want to see someone take a swing at someone from Robbery, maybe you should do it yourself." All the anger he couldn't risk showing in front of those guys in his his voice now. "I don't like people playing games with me. And I really don't like it when they use my parents to do it."

Detective Allen looks at him, then nods. "Point. I should have said something. If you hadn't been there, I would've."

Dick looks at him, and makes the decision to accept it. The leftover good mood from the weekend's gone, and when he heads back to his desk, Dagmar's already over, looking at his photos. She taps the picture of Lian and Roy, identical massive grins just about visible in the mud that was a major part of Lian's last birthday party.

She turns it over. "Did you mail order the friends-and-family collection, Grayson?"

"Just thought my desk was a little bare." He sees her hesitate over the picture of him, aged six, standing between his parents, and turns it over. "Montoya and Allen got a case over the weekend."

Yasir Gupta falls silent when he sees the warrant for his arrest. No fighting, no denials, no protest. He bows his head with great dignity and allows himself to be taken to the station. With that same dignity, he sits in an interrogation room and refuses counsel. He also refuses to speak.

"Are you responsible for the death of Humaid Rashid?" Grayson asks, keeping the charisma toned down, for once.

"He was guilty of a terrible crime, wasn't he," Grayson goes on, but Gupta doesn't respond.

"Someone punished him," Dagmar adds. The good cop-bad cop rhythm isn't there like it would be with Tommy, but they might be able to make this work if Gupta was willing to say anything. "Drowned him, like he drowned your daughter. Tied up and left to die. You ever think about how she died, Mr. Gupta?"

"She died a terrible death," Grayson says, trying to hit the right note and, judging by Gupta not even twitching, failing. "And he suffered for it, didn't he?"

After two hours, they're both hoarse and he hasn't so much as asked for the bathroom. "Coffee?" Grayson offers, getting up.

Dagmar sighs. "Fine." He leaves, and she begins again. "Mr. Gupta, if you know anything about Humaid Rashid --"

Grayson's gone what seems like half an hour. He comes back, looking hopeful, but he glances at her blank notepad and loses that sparkle. "Mr. Gupta, two men who identify themselves as your sons are here."

Grayson gives Dagmar a helpless look. "If you would cooperate with our inquiries, it would be easier to say what will happen next."

It doesn't move him. Nothing does. They end up releasing him on bail, still silent, guided home by his sons.

"We'll have to work on putting this case together tightly," Dagmar says as the Guptas leave. "He's going to have the sympathy of the jury."

"Rashid killed his daughter. He's speechless with grief, maybe. Better this, for sympathy, than yelling." Dagmar frowns. "I hate it when they're not entirely wrong."

It's late by the time Dick gets back to his house on Monday -- probably one in the morning, and he's deeply grateful that his next shift isn't until one in the afternoon. It will take at least twelve hours to recover. He unlocks the door, and, as always, thinks of what Alfred said when he saw the place: "But it's so small, Master Dick."

It's only small by comparison to huge mansions, anyway. It always feels echoingly empty to Dick; he doesn't have that much stuff, and he's used to having other people around. But after Blüdhaven, it didn't seem right to live in the same building as anyone else. God knows what's coming next.

He hums to himself, trying to figure out what the melody stuck in his head is, and stops when the shadows in the kitchen shift.

He's still not used to having a gun, not used to reaching for it, but he makes it smooth. "Who's there?"

There's a breath of air, and he sees a glint of light off of plastic. That shade of black -- he puts the gun down; Batman and guns don't go together. "What are you doing here?"

Sometimes it seems like Batman's eyes should glow, even though it would be a dead giveaway in his line of work. "Waiting for you."

"Some of the security cameras in the bank had information that didn't make it to police files." A soft thud. Dick glances down at the folder on the kitchen table. "Also, the present whereabouts of several people you may not have considered."

"Are you rejecting my help?" Batman is in his space again, looming and using every inch of height he's got over Dick.

"Then there may, possibly, be hope for the police department." Batman cups his cheek with one cool gauntlet, condescending and gentle at once. The idea of Batman calling him something more than rookie -- the gesture suggests 'son,' and that's too much.

Dick makes himself laugh to break the moment. Batman moves his hand away. "Good to hear. Did you want to explain those files, or are you going to disappear as soon as I blink?"

"If you're as competent as you should be, you know the answer to that." Surely Batman will back away soon, fade into the linoleum Alfred had replaced. But he hasn't, yet.

"I don't know why you're here," Dick admits. "You could just have left the files." He tilts his head back, just a little, to meet Batman's eyes, or where his gaze probably is. "It's not like I have a whole lot of mysterious informants. I could have guessed they were from you."

It sends a chill down Dick's back -- the posturing, and the threat of having to work alone, make him uncomfortable. He tries to laugh it off. "I'm not competent enough to stop you when you decide to go."

He expects Batman to say something. Call him on the fact that he didn't, technically, answer.

He's silent, except for his presence, which is very loud and impossible to read. There's too much, and Dick can't quite deal. He's coping with Batman being in his home, standing next to him and watching him like that, but only by floating on the surface. Not thinking about it too much, because if he does --

It actually reveals about as much as the mask does, firm, expressionless right now, but it's not. It's -- not exposed, because that just doesn't go with Batman. But it's something that means Dick could touch it.

Not appropriate to Batman handing over information to the police and Dick should move, but he can't, not when Batman still hasn't.

"And you're wrong." It feels like blasphemy to say it, but it gives Dick the moment he needs to move back a little, get some space. "You're wrong about this. I'm good here, I'm--"

There is perhaps a foot between them for a moment. Then a moment in which he could, should dodge, and Batman has him pinned against the wall of his own kitchen, against wallpaper Alfred picked out, his hands over his head. "You're not safe."

"God," is all Dick can manage to that. Batman cups his groin and even the incoherent curses fade. "Oh --"

"No control," Batman says, curtly, dismissively, even as he unfastens Dick's uniform pants. "No defenses."

"It could have been anyone in your kitchen. Anyone at all." Batman kisses him deeply, so quickly that the groan that begins in the middle escapes to echo in the kitchen. "Anything could happen."

"This time." Batman squeezes his wrists before letting him go to kneel in a whisper of cape -- so quiet for so much material. He pulls Dick's pants down, lets them puddle around his knees, and looks up at him with those forbidding not-eyes. "How many risks will you take?"

"This isn't a city where--" and he can't speak, gets cut off mid-sentence, because fuck, Batman is touching him. Cool feel of those gauntlets, taking him out from his boxers and he can't quite balance, has to lean back and brace himself on the wall.

Because Batman isn't doing anything yet. He has Dick out, leaning against a wall and trembling, and he's not doing anything. Like maybe this is just him proving another point, and he won't -- oh god--

Maybe that's what Batman was waiting for, because he moves forward and his mouth --

"Oh, god," Dick says, because it's only the first touch, and his brain is already melting into a puddle. So hot, so wet, and so right. He lets his hand fall, and is half-surprised to find the inhuman material of Batman's cowl instead of hair. It makes it more real and more surreal at the same time. He wishes with an impossible hope that he could look down and see Batman's eyes.

His lips, stretched and wet, are fascinating enough. If he could meet Batman's eyes -- what color are they, behind that white? -- he wouldn't last the time between this gasp and the next. As it is, his hips jerk without his wanting them to. Batman moves a hand to his hip and holds him against the wall, grip heavy, strong. Maddening.

Dick's voice is hoarse in his own ears when he says, "Not fair." It's weak, and he knows Batman is scornful, laughing somewhere behind the cowl. The impassive look is damaged when Batman hollows his cheeks with one good, long suck, but Dick can't keep his eyes open long enough to appreciate the image. "Oh -- I can't --"

He stops, lets go, pulls away. Dick lets his head fall against the wall, hard. "I hate you."

"Control yourself," Batman says, gruffly, command voice sharp even with his lips swollen.

Dick braces, opens his eyes and tries to focus on something, anything. Batman is touching him again, sucking him off and his hands are on his thighs, pushing them apart. The way Batman's tongue looks, wetting his lips, is going to kill him, and he'll die happy. "I am. Dammit, I am."

For once he's glad that he doesn't live in an apartment; the next touch of Batman's tongue makes him wail and lean hard on the wall. "Oh, fuck," he gasps.

Batman stops again -- the curse? surely he's heard worse. Dick reaches for him, even though it's a terrible idea. He manages to touch the slick cowl again before Batman takes his wrist in an iron grip. "Pathetic, rookie."

"God -- I can't." It's too much. He closes his eyes. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"Everything you're capable of," Batman says, stroking him, then sucking him in again. He doesn't, doesn't fall down, doesn't swear, doesn't do more than whimper. He can't buck with Batman's hand on his hip, can't fall to his knees. He feels as though he should hold himself together with both hands. Every brush of tongue is tearing him apart.

"Please," Dick says, and he knows he's begging, which is probably against the rules. He just can't take it, and every time it's almost enough and his breath is rough, Batman slows down. It's the most exquisite form of torture, the most torturous form of sex he's ever experienced, and his hands aren't even bound. He could force this -- if he wanted Batman to throw him to the floor and leave. He can hear himself whimpering, almost sobbing. "Please."

Batman pauses again and Dick feels his knees give out. He scrabbles for a hold on the wall, and Batman pushes him up against it, holding him in place. "Patience."

"Really, I can't. I can't." He's trembling, now -- and he can feel skin against his thigh, around his cock. Batman takes off his gauntlet, and when he begins again, it's a softer texture and a harder grip, faster, until Dick can't do anything but say, "Please, please, please." Batman squeezes his hip and makes a soft noise; he can't hear it over his own inarticulate noise, but he can feel it, and it's enough, it's permission to lose himself in it even if he can't buck or fall or curse. There's nothing more in the world than Batman's mouth and hands on him and the wall behind him, and then there's nothing at all but release.

He comes back to himself with his hands balled into fists, vaguely aware that he's breathing like he's just run a marathon. "Oh, god." Batman lets him go and he falls, finally, onto his knees, into Batman's arms and against the armor on his chest. "That was -- oh, god."

"You have no defenses at all," Batman says, somewhere between disgusted and rueful.

Dick's throat is rough from all of the noise he's been making, but he still laughs at this. "Do you want me to have defenses against you?"

"You should." But he doesn't, and he has to kiss Batman again. His mouth is still within reach, even if the rest of him is closed away. It only lasts a moment -- salty, sharp, and familiar -- before Batman pulls away.

"Why?" Dick asks, reaching for him. His hand slides off the armor as Batman gets up.

He could, if his knees were working, stand up too, but not yet. As it is, the Bat looms over him more than ever. "You shouldn't trust anyone, rookie."

That gets him a cape swirl as Batman turns around. "You may come to reconsider that, in time." And he's gone, down the hallway, into the deeper shadows.

Maybe he's disappeared, but Dick says, "No, I won't. Not ever," in case he's still close enough to hear it.

"You have excellent legs," Bruce says. He runs a hand over the left idly. "I've made some study of the subject, so believe me, I know what I'm talking about."

"Thank you," Nightwing says. His voice is amused, and he looks pleasantly debauched against the maple headboard. Hmm. Perhaps mahogany would be better, or cherry, even. Bruce makes a note to have that seen to and lingers for a moment on a particularly appealing stretch of calf.

"I don't know that I'd call them your best feature," he says. He moves up a little. "Well, perhaps in public. Although your costume is tight enough that it does advertise certain aspects nicely."

"It's skin-tight," Bruce says. "How practical can that be? There's not enough room for any armor."

"I don't like heavy armor," Nightwing says. He sounds irritated, but automatic, repeating old arguments. "The suit gives me enough protection. More would slow me down, and doesn't suit my fighting style."

Bruce shrugs and adjusts his position, kneeling between Nightwing's legs so he has a nice angle to appreciate them, tracing the scars. There are a number, though less than there should be, maybe, and he makes a note to catalogue them. "I'll take your word for it. Your choice of costumes in the past is obviously beyond my understanding."

"There was that one, with the collar." Bruce makes a vague gesture on his own. "I can only assume it was designed to distract your opponents."

"It was a tribute," Nightwing says. He sounds amused and Bruce has obviously stumbled across another old argument, but one Nightwing's comfortable with.

"And I'm sure the gods of Disco appreciate it. Was that one with the yellow a tribute too?"

"You know a lot about my old costumes. I wouldn't have thought Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, would pay so much attention to one vigilante."

"Bruce Wayne needs something to think about in meetings, or to research while hiding in my office from vicious secretaries." He smiles at Nightwing. "At least the yellow did distract from the hair."

"You sound like--" Nightwing swallows whatever he was going to say. Bruce raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't continue. Someone the boy doesn't want to mention to him? An old lover, maybe? It is a little crass to bring up the past in bed.

"It does seem like a shame to cover up so much skin." Bruce runs his across one of the more recent marks, and is impressed by how little it seems to affect Nightwing's movement. It's a memorable scar, enough that he could pick Nightwing's legs out of a line-up even if he hadn't spent so much time studying them. "But I suppose it is the lesser of two evils." He moves up a little closer. "Though I will say that your original costume had something to recommend it."

He's close enough to catch Nightwing's discomfort, even if he does cover it quickly. "Such as?" He says. His voice isn't blank, but Bruce recognizes a cover of mild amusement, enough that he can pretend it's genuine.

"Bright colors, easy access. Nice as your current costume is, it's not exactly easy to get into."

"You seem to manage." Nightwing moves, spreading his legs wider in an admirable attempt at distraction. "And I'm not exactly in costume now."

"I had noticed." He gives Nightwing's body the attention it warrants and he relaxes under the look.

"And I thought you liked the new look," Nightwing says. "More in line with your sense of style."

"And the Robin costume was all yours?" Bruce says. "No other influence in its design." Nightwing's mask is only rarely remarkable these days, but there is something about the shape than any Gotham resident would notice. Bruce doesn't say anything, but Nightwing's observant enough to see his point anyway.

"It was a great uniform for me then," he says. "Now, I need something different."

"I was a kid," Nightwing says. "And I get enough comments about not thinking things through now." Said with something that's at least kissing cousins to anger.

"You weren't a child at the end." He strokes Nightwing's thigh. He looks up and makes sure Nightwing is looking at him when he moves his hand. "The Robin costume was more colorful. Brighter. I can see you in it now, all enthusiasm and cheerful acrobatics." He strokes Nightwing. "Charmingly reckless."

"I'm not that kid anymore," Nightwing says, and Bruce can hear the anger in his voice before Nightwing pushes him off and under, rolling on top of him. "You--" Whatever he was going to say, he changes his mind and uses his mouth for a higher purpose. The kiss is hard, determined and almost distracts Bruce from the fact that Nightwing is grabbing his wrists and holding them against the bed.

Nightwing moves away from his mouth, moving down his body. He's not looking at Bruce, focusing on his work, and Bruce has no objection to that under normal circumstances, but he's in the mood for something different tonight. Nightwing's fingers, though undeniably talented, aren't enough to deter him.

Neither is the sight of Nightwing licking his lips, but it's close enough for him to rethink it.

"Nightwing." He draws out the name, saying it with a vaguely offensive smile. "I'm not one of your colleagues, no trained soldier or member of alien royalty, but I can take more than this." He sighs. "Really, you're far too cautious. It's not a quality I look for in a lover."

Nightwing's expression goes blank, not even able to put on an amused look in defense. Bruce isn't sure what did it, the comment about aliens, the caution, but he'll have to find out, because he's being turned over and pulled on to his hands and knees. It's easy, sometimes, to forget how strong Nightwing in favor of his pliancy, his breathtaking ability to bend and stretch and take, but he moves Bruce around like he's nothing. Moves over Bruce and for a moment Bruce just feels his weight on his back. He pushes against it. and is rewarded by Nightwing stopping him with a hold that's probably effective even when his opponent isn't actually looking to be held.

Bruce freezes. Nightwing's kissing him, fast brushes of tongue and lips that leave no visible marks.

"Did you grow out of the hickey stage with the Robin costume?" he says, trying for curiosity, rather than malice. "Or was one of your exes just picky about it?"

"Don't anything, Bruce." He gives Bruce's name an extra little bite, though not literally -- to Bruce's disappointment. He want to push him more, maybe play on one of those excellent buttons he's discovered, but Nightwing did just give him an order, and Bruce wants to encourage that. He moves one hand to Bruce's dick and gives him one casual stroke before moving on.

"I know," Nightwing says. Ah, well, of course he would. He feels Nightwing reach over and there's a familiar bunch of sounds. Nightwing starts to stretch him, one finger then two, not slow enough to be a tease, but not hard enough to be a punishment. Just efficient, effective, preparation, and Bruce might appreciate it under other circumstances, but...

"You're still being too careful," Bruce says. "Were you like this when you were still Robin? Is that why you had to--" Fuck, because Nightwing's just added a third finger, and Bruce would have appreciated some warning.

Or, well, no, he wouldn't have. He grits his teeth and tries not to push back, then gives up and goes for it. It hurts, a little. He was expecting it, but that's not quite the same as ready. It's been a while since he was fucked and he feels Nightwing go still while he adjusts. He gives him just long enough -- very observant, that boy -- and then his fingers move and yes, that's it, but Nightwing takes them out. He feels a hand on his hip, holding him in place and then--

It's slow, slow enough for Bruce to wonder if this is Nightwing's way of punishing him. He tries to move back on to it, but Nightwing grips his hips with both hands and Bruce can take a hint when he wants to. Nightwing adjusts his angle, changes his grip on Bruce's hips and yes, that's it, that's almost perfect. Another slow thrust, and then another, a little faster, but still too controlled. He needs to do something, say something to make Nightwing lose it.

"Did you do this back then? With your little gang or--" And he has to brace himself on the headboard, because that was hard, perfect enough that he keeps his head away so Nightwing won't see his expression. "Or your new one, though there is some--" Another thrust, and the only reason the bed isn't shaking is because Bruce was very specific in ordering its design. Nightwing's hands are gripping him hard enough to leave bruises and his fingers are white where they're gripping the headboard. He grunts at every thrust, and he can't let go long enough to get to his dick, but he really needs...

"Is this what you wanted, Bruce? You--" Nightwing bites back whatever he was going to say, moves one hand from Bruce's hip and moves it to his cock. It's such an obvious question Bruce doesn't see any need to answer it, even if he could get the words out right now. The next thrust does it for him, and he's coming, loudly and messily.

Nightwing pulls away and Bruce manages, just, to remain more or less upright. He'd like to collapse, but Nightwing hasn't come yet. Frankly, that's just selfish, and Bruce isn't going to tolerate that in his bed. He moves, pulling Nightwing against the headboard and moving down on his hands and knees. The position is a lot like how they started, and the symmetry pleases him. He can feel Nightwing watching him, but he's not exactly rushing to refuse him either. Well, no-one has ever refused this from him for anything less than terminal straightness and temporary insanity.

He pulls off the condom and replaces it with his mouth. Nightwing's hands tangle in his hair, gripping, but Bruce doesn't give him time to pull him off or pull him forward. It doesn't take much at all, but Nightwing's coming, and Bruce relaxes to his side with the satisfaction of a job well done. Nightwing's fingers are still in his hair, stroking it softly. There's companionable silence, or at least, post-coital lassitude, which is close enough in Bruce's experience.

"I really think I don't. You know, you don't have to play these games with me," Nightwing says. He sounds frustrated, tired.

"I'm a playboy," Bruce says, reasonably. "Playing games is what I do." He shrugs. "Besides, you're a hero. You've no doubt had your mind toyed with by the best. My little efforts were hardly going to take you by surprise."

"I don't expect that from-- my lovers," Nightwing says. "Though I should by now." He's still stroking Bruce's hair, but Bruce can feel the distance growing.

Bruce would prefer to lie there, dozing off, but needs must, so he moves up and kisses Nightwing, slow and satisfied. "You should get some rest," he says. He makes a face at the wet patch, but his bed is big enough to avoid it, and he makes a space next to himself for Nightwing and stretches his arm out around him. Eventually, Nightwing relaxes and moves into it, and he falls asleep almost immediately.

Hm. Some useful buttons found, but he'd have to adjust his gameplan slightly next time.

Grayson's already in when Dagmar gets there. She's not late, but she feels like it, too many long shifts and not enough time between them.

She's been a cop too long to be anything but suspicious at that much good humor. "You're in a good mood," she says. She tries not to make it an interrogation, because she doesn't want to know, except Grayson's practically shouting it out. Doesn't need to check him for hickeys to see that.

"Really." His smile goes sincere, before fading back into that just-got-laid grin.

He looks like he's on the verge of bouncing, like he's a six year old at a birthday party that got into the cake early. It's gonna be tears before bedtime. She shakes her head to clear the mother from her mind.

He nods. This is where Tommy would say something, but Grayson just keeps smiling like-- Christ, like the captain of the football team asked him out. He keeps his voice low. "I've got something that might be-- hey, Stacy."

"Hey, Dick." Stacy smiles back, more than she's done in a while, but not with the same force that Grayson has, thank God. At least he's shopping outside the family store. "I got that information you wanted. Need me to print it out?"

"It's what I'm here for," she says. Dagmar sees Stacy takes in the smile. "You have a good night last night?"

"'Uneventful,'" Dagmar says, just loud enough for him to hear. "You look damn happy for 'uneventful.'"

"Quiet night, good breakfast. It doesn't take much to make me happy," he says. "Good night's sleep and a decent meal's about all it takes."

She shakes her head. He probably didn't get any sleep at all last night, and he's got too much damn energy for her to be anything other than resentful. "So what do you have for me?"

"I made some connections last night," he says. He puts a couple of print-outs in front of her. "We were concentrating on the three people that were killed, because our guy seems to go for murder, and blood-relatives."

Grayson shakes his head. He's got another damn hickey on his neck, like he's still seventeen. "No. Not as obvious as that. One of the people that was shot was Ms. Carolyn Kirkman." He looks up at her. "She was pregnant."

"It's not--" He looks uncomfortable. "She was a little under three months, not showing yet. Because of the plea-bargain, the details of her injuries weren't made public."

Dagmar looks at him and crosses her arms. "She make any public statements about it? Some of the others got pretty vocal about the sentencing." She tries to keep her voice calm.

"Dagmar--" He looks at her, almost sympathetically. "It came to me last night," he says, lightly enough that anyone listening would assume it was a joke.

"What did you expect?" He's still looking almost sympathetic, maybe even curious.

"This isn't an address, Grayson. It's not a name or a parole report. This is something we shouldn't know." This is why Renee's right about the Bat, and it's why Cris is, too. Exactly this reason.

"Her husband, Jonathan Riley, hasn't shown up for work for a week." At least he's not smiling any more and he's taken that look off his face. "Dagmar, it's ours. I know it." he says it softly, absolutely sure. Stupid, dumb, kid.

He shakes his head. His smile slides back on, a little softer. Trying to appease her, maybe. "No, but I've got a number and an address for her."

He looks at her, his expression a little frustrated. It makes her want to smack him down, remind him that he's still a rookie in this town. "It's what we needed, Dagmar. It's what we were looking for."

It's wet enough to make driving that little bit nastier, get everyone in cars, not so much that people stay home. Idiots with SUVs and suicidal cycle couriers don't do much to help her mood. Nothing does until Grayson passes over a thermos of coffee when they get stuck in traffic.

It's good enough that she must look a little surprised, because Grayson grins. "I had a very though education on how to make coffee," he says. "Hours spent slaving over an espresso maker. You don't want to know what the tea training was like." His good mood is back again, and he's tapping out some song she doesn't know on his leg.

"Huh? List of stop-offs between New York and Utah. I talked to the drivers. Chen made an impression on them. One was pretty sure he was on something, or delivering it, the other guy figured he'd just caught his wife cheating or something. Figured he was coming to New York to--" he mimes shooting. "Long drive, not much to do. They get bored. The point is, there are three stops en route. Chen stayed on for all of them, except the last, in Jersey. 15 minute stopover. That's when Max, driver one, figured he was making a delivery, because when he came back, his backpack was noticeably lighter."

She looks at him, hands back the thermos and gets ready to move with the traffic. "You get this done last night?"

"This morning, mostly. Stacy was pulling a list of train stations, gyms, places that might have a locker around there. I'm thinking there might be one with a match to something on Chen's keyring."

She looks at him, shakes her head and pulls out of the morning traffic. "You had a busy night. Don't you need sleep?"

"I slept!" He sounds like he's used to that accusation. "I just don't need much sleep, you know?"

No, actually, she doesn't. At least Tommy's got the decency to look a little wrecked when he's spent the night not-sleeping. He doesn't look rejuvenated like Grayson does.

Ms. Kirkman works at a bank. Different branch than the one she got shot at, and she's in an office, not behind the counter, but she comes right out when she sees them. She was expecting them, or someone like them, because she ushers them straight into her office and sits down behind her desk. There's a picture of her and a guy who must be her husband, big broad grins, her in a nice white suit holding flowers. Wedding day, maybe.

Kirkman sees them looking and she turns the picture towards her a little, and then her hands go to grip the desk. "Jonathan. You're here about-- have you--?" she stops talking, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She opens them and looks at Dagmar. "Have you found him?"

Dagmar shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Ms. Kirkman. We were hoping you could help us find his whereabouts."

"Carolyn," she says. She's running on automatic and Dagmar can see her hands go white where she grips the desk. "He--- he hasn't contacted me. He left a message on my voicemail a few days ago, but--"

"Can we hear it?" Dagmar says. She keeps her voice formal, professional. Sympathy would probably break what's left of Ms. Kirkman's self-control.

Ms. Kirkman looks at them. "Why do you want to?" Protective instinct slams down in front of them. "Who are you? You said you were police, but--"

"We're with Major Crimes. Ms. Kirkman, we're afraid your husband might have been involved in an incident last week."

Grayson leans forwards and looks her in the face. "We don't know for sure, but we need to ask him some questions. It's possible he's been involved in something serious." His voice is only sincere, low and honest, and Dagmar's just relieved he's not smiling any more. "We're very concerned about him."

"It's not like him to disappear like this, is it?" Grayson says. "Not unless he's been provoked in some way."

"I think--" her face crumples. "He might have done something-- it was hard for him, he thought he should--" Her face crumples in, ugly like it is when people try not to cry. "You, you put your faith into these things, and then something bad happens and you, you just trust that they're going to--" She takes a deep breath, "--to make it make sense. You don't ask for it to be better, but you trust in some kind of-- answer. Something to come out of it. And then they fail you and there's nothing, no answer and no justice and no--there's just bad things happen for no reason and it doesn't count for anything, doesn't matter to anyone but you." She looks up at them and manages something not even close to a smile. "I was born in Gotham. You'd think I'd know that already."

"No. No, he really didn't. That's why it was so hard for him." She shakes her head and lets go of the desk with one hand, reaches into her pocket and brings out her cell. Dials for voicemail and hands it over.

"It's the first message," she says. "I'm worried what he'll do." What he'll do, not what he's done.

Grayson leans in so he can hear Jonathan Riley's tinny voice over the line. "It's me. Don't try to find me. I'm okay, but-- I'm sorry, Carolyn, I'm so-- I couldn't stop myself. I didn't want to do this to you, but please, just-- I'm sorry, but I couldn't let him go and it's made everything-- I'm so sorry. I love you." The message ends.

Dagmar meets Grayson's eyes. The message sounds more like a cheating husband, except that Riley sounds two steps away from the edge and thinking about jumping.

"He's a good man." Ms. Kirkman isn't looking at either of them. If she doesn't know the details of what happened, she's got a pretty good guess.

"Good men suffer where bad men don't," Dagmar says. It's a cliché, but it's also true.

"No, it isn't." She stands up. "I'm sorry for your loss. Please contact us if you hear from him again."

"He'll be close," Grayson says as they get into the car. "He's staying away from her, because he doesn't want to get her in trouble, but he can't go too far away, because he loves her."

Dagmar nods. "We can check hotels in the neighborhood. Show his picture. He doesn't know how to hide."

Grayson shakes his head. "No, but you heard her, you heard his message. He wanted justice. He put his faith in the system, trusted it to do the right thing, and now he's killed a man. He wants the system to work, Dagmar, he needs it to. Probably the only reason he hasn't turned himself in yet is because of what it'd do to her."

"Faith in the system," Dagmar says. It's not a good sign when the thought of it makes her shake her head in disbelief.

"You gotta have faith. He's a good man. He wants to do the right thing." He gives a half smile and digs through the glove compartment for a map of the city, finds a page and circles an area, then taps it thoughtfully. "You think Ms. Kirkman eats at the office?"

"He wants to stay close to her," Grayson says. "Doesn't want to get her involved in this --" he makes a vague gesture, "-- but he doesn't want to leave her. I'm betting he's either checking up on her through friends, or keeping an eye on her in person."

"You got all that from one conversation, or did you get a psych profile on him, too?"

Grayson shakes his head, shrugs and gives a smile that's half pleased and half embarrassed. "It's just a hunch, but -- I had good teachers, Dagmar. I'm good at figuring people out." She looks at him. Grayson gives another shrug and his smile gets older, but still honest. Too honest. "As long as I'm not too close to them," he says. He looks back at the map and draws another few shapes. "I think he's going to be close, but not too close. Between here and here, probably," he says, pointing between two rough circles.

"We missed lunch," Dagmar says. "But Ms. Kirkman's not gonna rush back home after work." She leans over the steering wheel and looks around.

"Doesn't want to eat alone." She points at a Café Nero. "Sandwich, coffee. Stays there for an hour or two, maybe."

Grayson waits pretty well. He doesn't get bored and he doesn't talk too much, and he spots their guy only a second after she does. Jonathan Riley's wearing a hat and a scarf that covers most of his face, but she recognizes the walk. Checking everything out twice, nervous, guilty, trying not to be seen. It calls out to every cop instinct she has.

She nods at Grayson and they get out the car, heading over. Riley's so busy watching out for something, he doesn't see them until they're right in front of them. Close up, she can see the red eyes and bags under them.

"You're police," he says, and Grayson must've been right with his psych guess, because Riley looks pretty much relieved at being caught.

He looks around, checking for his wife, maybe. She lets Grayson read him his rights and they take him back to the car, pat him down and cuff him with his hands in front out of courtesy. He doesn't complain, and when the get him in the car, he leans his head again the window.

"She had nothing to do with it," he says. "Carolyn wouldn't-- I swear, it was just me."

"You're not the kind of guy to plan a murder," she says. "You got given the address, the gun, the set-up. All you brought was motivation."

"I didn't think it would make it better," he says. "I'm not-- I just couldn't take it. We didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl." His voice crumples like his wife's did earlier, but he gets it under control, mostly. Puts his head in his hands, and when he looks up, his eyes are red, but not crying.

She wants to say something, which is why she doesn't. Stupid, this whole thing's too damn stupid and messy, and she really wishes her partner was there. He's not, and thinking about Grayson makes her head hurt.

"You were given a choice," Grayson says. She doesn't jump, but it's close. She wasn't expecting him to say anything. "Whatever you did, it would have hurt you, you would have lost." He turns around to look at Riley, and his voice is low, clear, effective. "Mr. Riley, do you want other people put in that situation?" He pauses, and maybe Grayson should be in profiling or on stage, because that's just the perfect length of time before he says, "In your wife's?"

Riley looks out of the window again, an automatic check. "Carolyn--" He straightens up. Dagmar doesn't like sympathizing with the suspects, but this case makes it hard. She can hear Grayson saying, "He's a good man. He wants to do the right thing." and she's not surprised when Riley nods and gives them directions to the hotel.

The files from the Bosch case, the Ortega case, what little they have on Gupta, and the most recent stuff on Cole from Riley are spread across Dagmar's desk, and Grayson is eying them for the third time today.

She sighs and leans back in her chair. "Okay, once more from the top. What do all our guys have in common?"

"All were either born, or spent significant time in Gotham, as did their victims. All of them served less than two years in prison for their part in the death of another. All of the original crimes took place two to three years ago."

She nods without looking. "Riley and Wallace were sent information pretty much as soon as their guys got parole. Gupta, we don't know, and Ortega never did time."

Grayson reaches over for a file he probably has memorized by now. "Rashid was released four months ago. He spent some time in New York and only moved back to Gotham eight days before his murder. Ortega was living with her father in Utah while she went to college and moved back in with her mother in Gotham a week before her death."

She turns her head to look at him. "Cole ran with a gang out of Blüdhaven, right?"

Grayson nods. "Yeah. Got some family there, but he moved to Gotham a couple of years before he pulled the bank job."

Grayson flicks through the file. "No more than he made in Gotham." He frowns. "Bosch's wife moved to L.A. after his conviction. They were never legally separated."

"So they all had other places to be, but they came back here. Maybe someone doesn't want people like that in Gotham." She shakes her head. "The only thing worse than a freak is a self-righteous freak."

"We've got the note from Chen, but the note doesn't match the file," she says. "Who uses a typewriter anymore?"

Grayson nods. "And the note sounds personal. Formal, but personal. The file though--"

"Lot of PIs in Gotham," she says. "Makes it easier to carry concealed legally." She stands up. "I got someone at Gotham Pen I can call. See if anyone's been requesting a lot of parole transcripts lately."

The guy is actually a friend of Tommy's. He's taken enough money off Tommy for Dagmar to call him up and get a little information along with a get-well for her next hospital visit.

"Simmons is single. No kids, never married. No reason to set up something like this."

Even when he's carrying a gun, Dick never feels entirely secure in Gotham. Something beyond the pale could always happen.

For example, someone could grab him off his feet and swing him through the air into an alleyway where it's even darker than the normal night. When that kind of thing happens -- even if halfway through the swing, he knows who it is -- he doesn't feel terribly embarrassed at gasping.

"So you're taking in Simmons tomorrow," Batman says in his ear, close enough that the rumble of his voice makes Dick's toes curl.

"Yeah." He feels like he could lean on that voice, into it, like a pile of black velvet. "With your help. Thanks."

"You'll have to finish it on your own. Prove your worth." Batman lets him go, and his bad leg gives out just a little, just enough to make him reach out and touch that smooth armor again.

Batman looms over him, glowering, and pushes him backward a step. "You have to be capable of this without assistance."

"I am." Dick looks up at him, trying like hell not to be afraid. It's just Batman. Just the guy who's been helping him since his first day on the job. "Even if sometimes you give me an advantage."

There's plenty of vehemence there, but Dick manages to grin at Batman. It's probably not going to help, but it's worth a try. If he's not there to talk about a case -- then there's something else. "Sure. Call me Dick."

"What do you think this is?" Batman pushes him back another step and something hard hits him behind his knees. He falls back and catches himself awkwardly on something low and smooth.

Dick had managed to calm his breathing, but he can hear himself gasp again. "I don't know."

"Your deductive skills need work." Batman leans on him, pressing him against whatever it is he's fallen on. Dick turns his head to look -- a black car. Why is there a car in the alley? But Batman's mouth is on his ear, hot, wet, his teeth nipping, and it doesn't matter why there's a car. It's better than the ground, and when Batman leans on him even more, the shocks sigh a little.

"God," Dick says. "But -- what am I supposed to figure out?" As if he can think about anything, really, when Batman's pinning him to this car.

"Hopeless." There's going to be a hell of a bruise on his neck tomorrow where Batman's teeth are now, and it's not going to matter. Everyone will stare and right now Dick's just trying to breathe, trying not to arch against him and writhe.

"Jesus. I'm not. I'm not. You're not --" How Batman can unbutton his shirt with those gloves --"it's not fair. I can't even touch you."

Batman pins his hands over his head and bites his nipple. "Fair, rookie? Do you think this is a game?"

Dick tries to stop the moan, tries to make it more of a laugh. He succeeds until Batman moves against him, and then he loses it. Batman is entirely too good at making him react. "Oh. Yes. It's a game."

"Really." And Batman stands up, lets him go, moves away, until Dick sits up and reaches for him. "Just a game?"

He could pull his shirt closed, hide the marks that are already on his chest, but it wouldn't help. Batman knows damn well they're there, and why. "Not just a game, no. An important game." Dick spreads his arms, feeling like he's begging for a hug even though Batman wouldn't hug him, ever. "But I'm a game to you. Just some stupid rookie, and you're -- well -- you're Batman. You don't need me, and you might want this, but you don't need it. Just -- don't pretend I don't need you."

Batman's face is cowled and shadowed. Whatever reaction he has, if he reacts, is lost on Dick until he says, "Needing me means you're not good enough."

Dick makes himself laugh to cover the wince. "Yeah, but it means you're winning."

"I don't need you to do my job." Dick slides off the hood of the car and stands up, trying to stand evenly though his leg hurts. "To do my job spectacularly -- you're a big help then. But I could actually protect and serve even without your files. And I will, with the Simmons case."

"Then you don't need me." Batman's backing into the shadows. If Dick blinks, he'll be gone.

He takes a step forward, another, and -- that hurts too much. He doesn't mean to fall, doesn't mean to catch himself on Batman's cape and armor, but he's there, and Batman's catching him, too. "Yeah, I do." Any second now, Batman will drop him and disappear. He puts an arm around Batman's neck, and that's allowed. Good. "Half the cops -- more than half of them -- go through the motions. You never do."

"You shouldn't be on the streets if you're injured." Batman's running a hand -- who knew he could touch so lightly? -- down Dick's hurt leg. "This makes you inefficient."

"You have to heal." Batman puts an arm around him, lifts him as if he weighs next to nothing, and sets him on the car again. "You're not a good enough detective to rely on those skills alone."

"I'm fine," Dick protests. It gets him another glower. "Oh, come on." He kisses Batman and gets less than no response. "Like you don't have a whole station full of rookies wishing they could work with you. Any one of them would be as good as me, if not better."

"The signal is broken, and your colleagues have reservations." Batman runs a gloved hand down his chest, cool against the bruises and older marks. "They know enough to know I'm dangerous, and stay away."

"I know that, too," Dick protests, and kisses him again. A little more, this time, a little warmth, and then Batman turns his head. "It's the danger that makes you effective."

"You're addicted to danger." Batman finds one of the bruises on his chest, below his collarbone, and presses it until Dick winces. "Hm," he says, a small, satisfied noise, as if he's confirming his suspicions. "You're right; I don't need you. Thrill-seeking idiots can't help anyone."

Dick shakes his head and tries to get a grip on the cape, though it's entirely too slick for fabric. "That's not what this is. I -- god, I can't be the first person to want you." Batman goes entirely expressionless, and Dick grins at him, throwing every last charming trick he's got at the problem. "Tall, dark, and handsome, built, competent -- you can't tell me people don't throw themselves at you."

Batman breathes at that. Not a laugh, just a breath. "Most people have more sense."

"Well, there you go. That's what I can give you. Recklessness. The willingness to rush in where angels fear to tread. Maybe I'll even manage to make you smile." Dick kisses him, and this time Batman does kiss him back, lean on him until he lies back on the car again. "I hope this thing is yours."

That's another not-laugh, and Batman's got his hand on Dick's stomach, glove to skin. "Yes."

"Then I won't worry about the paint job." It's hard to brace himself right with only one leg that doesn't hurt, but it doesn't take a lot of movement to get Batman to stop hesitating and undo his pants. "God. Do you ever undress for this kind of thing?"

"No." Batman strokes him through his briefs until Dick has to bite his lip hard.

He can't read Batman at all, even when he gets a good long look to do it in. "Fine." Batman strokes his cheek with one hand, then runs his thumb over Dick's lips.

Dick is about to ask, "What?" when he gets it, and says, "Oh," instead. "Really?"

"Then do it." Batman isn't murmuring in his ear, now, but his voice is as compelling as ever.

Dick licks his lips -- a stupid nervous habit -- and brushes Batman's thumb with his tongue. If it was anybody else, he'd laugh it off. "I -- all right." Hard to know if he's meeting Batman's eyes behind those lenses. The glove feels strange between his teeth. He can't get a grip on the very end. Again he makes himself not laugh, not make a stupid remark. He just opens his mouth a little more and doesn't think about it so hard. Fortunately, Batman's human enough under the armor to push his thumb into Dick's mouth.

As he does it, he sighs. It's the softest sound Dick has heard from him yet. It would be worth hearing again -- but he does want to feel skin, not just the texture of gloves, so he tugs on the gauntlet as best he can with his teeth. It doesn't make any damn sense to do it this way, except that it makes Batman sigh. So few things do. Dick grins around the now-empty thumb of the glove, lets it go, and sits up a little, reaching for his index finger. That earns a veritable twitch at the corners of Batman's mouth, so he plays with it, ignoring the weird texture and thinking about the way fingers ought to feel against his tongue. Well -- start with fingers, because anything else is going to be way too distracting.

"Nothing at the moment." He pulls the glove off with his own teeth and tucks it away, bringing his hand back to Dick's cheek. It feels impossibly soft and real after the glove, and Dick turns his head to kiss his palm.

Batman breathes, again. Dick wonders how many of those not-laughs he needs to count them as a point. "Take your pants off."

"Oh god." The words "public indecency" come to mind, but -- at least the vice cops tend to be easily bought in this town. The smooth hood of the car is not the easiest surface to maneuver on, but he manages to take them off without too many more wrinkles. He puts his shoes on again, though -- naked in Gotham is stupid, but barefoot is suicidal. Batman's watching him and it makes him shiver more than the thought of being interrupted by anyone.

Besides, that's what the cape is for, isn't it? He drops his pants, thinks about it and pushes his boxers down with them. He tries to keep his smile less and grin than a smirk. "I don't always wait for orders," he says, and Batman's on top of him again, bearing him back, covering him under that voluminous black swathe. "Rookie mistake." His mouth is hot on Dick's neck. That's another bruise that's going to show tomorrow, he's sure of it.

Batman pushes his shoulders down against the car, then runs his bare hand up Dick's newly naked thigh. "You're here because this is dangerous."

"It's not the only reason," Dick protests, even though the adrenaline is making his stomach jump.

"You have no idea how dangerous this is." Batman kisses him again, leaning on him. It might be easier with a blanket, or in a bed, but he can't ask for those. All he has is his shirt between him and the car.

And a little bravado, even if he is almost entirely naked, even though Batman is standing between his legs, pinning him down. "Don't I?" Dick manages to grin at him again before Batman presses a finger inside him, hard, fast, and slick -- slick, god, whatever he has in that belt comes in handy. He has to bite his lip to keep from making a noise far too loud for some alley.

There's another of those sounds that must be the only way Batman laughs. "None at all." He pushes in again, harder.

"God." Dick pulls his uninjured leg up so his knee's against his chest, blessing the flexibility he's still got. He may not use it on trapezes anymore, but it's there. The move makes Batman -- no, it can't have been a chuckle. Not possible. "You're --" Dick says, and leaves it incoherent. It's safer that way.

"You're still green," Batman says, an edge in his voice. His silhouette is bizarre like this, looming above Dick. At some point, he opened his armor, because now when he leans against Dick, he is hard in a more human way. "Still don't know what you're doing."

"So young." Batman kisses him, and it's not the hunger he's used to. This is softer, far stranger than a demanding kiss would be. It doesn't match the insistent push of his fingers at all. "And so foolish."

"It doesn't matter." Dick kisses him back the way Batman should be kissing him, all need, open-mouthed, biting his lip. "None of that matters."

"It's the most important thing." Batman straightens for a moment, tall and dark as shadow, then presses into him. There's the hunger, again. There's no patience left in him, and the sudden fullness takes Dick's breath away. "You don't understand anything."

Dick reaches for him, but he's not naked enough -- the armor on his hips is still slick, as is the hood of the car. "God." He can't get purchase anywhere, can't thrust back as much as he wants to. He manages to put his arm around Batman and hold on, sort of. "I'm trying." Batman has enough stability for both of them, like this, and Dick can use that, with the right angle, to spread a little more, make it a little smoother, and arch off the car enough to meet him. "Please --"

The rhythm makes the car rock a little, enough that a voice makes stupid jokes in the back of Dick's head, but Batman's not laughing, now. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Wish I could see your face," Dick says. He can hear the breathiness of his own voice, even if Batman doesn't sound any different than before.

"This is my face." Batman kisses him again, strokes him with his bare hand, and now it matches. Everything lines up with the insanity of fucking on a car in an alleyway in the middle of Gotham, where anyone could walk by, where anyone could see, and the kiss may as well be on the rising bruises on Dick's neck. The alley doesn't matter, the car doesn't matter. Only the relentlessness does, and Dick can't take much more. It's too good, too insistent.

"God, Batman." Dick makes himself open his eyes. "You feel --" He reaches for another kiss and gets it, just soft enough, just hard enough. Batman shudders against him, and speeds up. Dick breaks the kiss, fights for breath. "I needed this from you -- so badly --" one more stroke, right there, just that hard, and he's coming --"for so long, I've needed this so long --"

Dick clings to him, catching his breath, for as long as Batman lets him, until he moves away. And then he lies back and clings to the car, feeling boneless and not particularly caring that he is, for all practical purposes, naked. "Damn."

He sits up gingerly. "God, I'm a mess." There doesn't seem to be anything for it -- Batman is staring at him, but offering no help. He'll just have to shower when he gets home. And dry clean the uniform in the morning. It feels almost too normal to be dressed again, so he leaves his shirt a little unbuttoned when he slides off the car to stand up again. "That was --" He can't help grinning at Batman. "That was a hell of a ride."

For a moment, nothing happens. Then Batman descends upon him, there's no other way to say it, and kisses him until he'd almost want to have sex again, if he wasn't so sore, if it'd been more than five minutes. As it is, he wants to wrap himself around that armored chest and make Batman take him home. The smell of Kevlar is starting to be one hell of a turn-on. "Oh, fuck."

"It wasn't." Dick reaches for him and doesn't even catch the hem of his cape. "Please."

"I don't think I could ever have enough of you," Dick says. Batman just gets into the car. Dick has to get out of the way, and then he has to figure out where he is. "Well. Good night, anyway."

There's no answer except the start of the engine. Conversation over. If Dick wasn't kind of sore -- and if he wasn't going to have bruises way the hell above his collar -- he might think the whole thing was a Gotham wet dream. But -- no. It was real, and he has to find his bike and try not to think about it, all the way home.

Simmons has an office in a warehouse. It's a combination of smart and seedy that probably appeals to a certain kind of client and Dagmar mentally upgrades him from basic thug to hired gun. Not big time, but smart enough to get paid to make personal calls when you want something more than random violence.

He fakes calm better than most, trying for wounded innocence as they work their way through his office, but he starts looking panicked when Grayson calls out.

"Brown paper packages, wrapped up with string," Grayson says, coming around the corner and holding one in his hands. The paper's loose. He opens up the box and looks in it. "I'm pretty sure storing lighter fluid like this isn't safe. Hey, Dagmar, do the names Samuel Crane and Hanson Holdings mean anything to you?"

Fire and-- she nods. "Bunch of apartments burnt down last year, just in time to sell the land on. Fire's cheaper than eviction." Arson, according to a guy she knew in the fire department. Accident according to the arson investigator. "I think I remember this Crane guy making a lot of noise in the papers, accusing them of setting it up on purpose." She turns to look at Simmons. "So, do you want to explain what you're doing with the firebug stuff?"

Simmons goes still. "Hey, I never looked in the boxes. Client confidentiality. I just stuck the file on top and sent them off."

"You want a lot more than that." She smiles a little. "The way I see it, no one's gonna push to hard to convict some poor father for avenging his daughter's death, but you-- Using their grief for your own little murder spree isn't gonna make you popular with the D.A."

"Think the judge'll see it like that?" she says. "Conspiracy at the least, but this town doesn't go easy on masterminds that don't at least make the effort to wear a costume."

"And the sad thing is, you'll probably get put in general pop," Grayson says. He sounds almost cheerful. "No special protection. You better hope that you get luck--"

She's not expecting it, but Simmons full-body shoves Grayson into a cabinet and kicks him in the knee hard, making him buckle. He cracks his head on the wall and she's getting her gun out when Simmons throws something at her. She gets her hand up in time to block it a little, but it hits her head hard enough to make her stagger, black spots flashing in front of her eyes.

Simmons pushes past her and she makes a grab, but can't hold him. She can barely stand, barely see anything, but she tries to follow him, only to see Grayson push past her. Grayson swings over the railing, dropping on to the ground.

Simmons gets him the same leg, but Grayson gets his feet as he goes down, pulls him off balance and Simmons hits the ground with a crack. Grayson's on him before he can get up, pinned and with one knee in his back. Simmons groans, but the kid's got him in a good hold.

Grayson looks up and she can see the strain in his face. Simmons got him twice in the bad leg, and that jump couldn't have helped. "You got some spare cuffs on you?"

They get Simmons in the car and she has a dizzy spell. locking him in. One side of her face is just pain and she can't see clearly out of one eye. The coat's probably ruined, and the scarf, too. "Can you drive?" Dagmar asks.

Dagmar can see how he's standing though, and she hits him hard on his arm. "What the hell were you thinking, jumping off the landing like that?"

"We were trapeze artists, Dagmar," he says, like it should be obvious. "I know how to fall."

"Two, two good shots, Grayson. and you jump off the first floor like you still think you're in the circus. What are you gonna do if you did some permanent--"

"Dagmar, can you just-- not, okay?" The kid's expression closes up. "You need me to drive us back to the station?"

She hands over the keys and he walks over to the driver's side, limping. She doesn't say anything until they get back to the station. Simmons gets booked quickly and Maggie calls them into the office. She looks them over. "Do you miss Tommy so much, you want to get hospitalized too?"

"We've still got to interview Simmons," Dagmar says. "He's not the guy behind it all. We need a name. We're so close, Captain."

Maggie frowns. "Montoya and Allen know most of the details of this case, right?"

Dagmar starts to nod, the changes her mind when it feels like her head might fall off. "Yeah. One of the cases was theirs, originally."

"Then they can interview the guy. You two, you're getting checked out right now."

She gets butterfly stitches, a prescription and strict instructions to get her head x-rayed tomorrow at the latest and heads out to see how Cris and Renee are doing with the interrogation while Grayson gets his leg looked at.

"Want to tell me why you picked these cases? Lots of people fall through the cracks, but these were the ones your worked on." Cris pauses, shrugs and looks down at the paper in front of him. "Just their lucky day, right?

It's just a casual remark, but Dagmar can see Simmons's eyes flicker. Renee and Cris see it too. Renee leans forwards. Simmons is trying not to look at her.

"You ready to tell us who was pulling the strings," Renee says. She looks at him. "See, I'm guessing it's someone we already know. A familiar face--"

"Someone's that hasn't been around for a while," Cris says. "But who was active in Gotham last year." He waits a beat. "Is there a reason you're not looking at my partner?"

Renee leans forwards. "So why'd you do it? It's not like he's going to chase you down for breaking a contract now."

Simmons laughs. "You don't break a deal with guys like Two--" he shuts up, but it's too late. In the room, Renee's gone stiff, frozen, but then she nods.

"You don't break a deal with guys like Two-Face," she says. "Even when they're not guys like Two-Face anymore."

Dagmar can't stop herself from reacting. She was expecting it, maybe, but it's still a shock. More than it should be, maybe. In the room, Simmons is shrugging.

"Yeah, I heard that too, but who really thinks that's gonna last? You know what those guys are like." He puts a little extra emphasis on 'you,' and Dagmar wonders if he was part of Two-Face's gang when he kidnapped Renee.

"He hasn't had any contact with any of his old associates since his treatment," Cris says. He sounds certain, and Dagmar guesses that he's been keeping an eye on the surveillance logs for Renee. "You're going to have to come up with a damn good reason for following his orders now."

Simmons shrugs again. "Maybe I just don't want to be on his bad side when it comes out of the closet."

She's heard enough. She steps back, and when she does, she realizes Grayson's there, looking in at the interrogation room. "Harvey Dent," he says, and shakes his head. "Damn it." He shakes his head. He looks like it's a personal blow, and she wonders why for a moment before it clicks. She'd heard that Dent and Wayne were old friends.

Grayson shrugs. He's got a pair of crutches and it makes the movement awkward. "Kind of. Not really. He was one of Bruce's -- my -- my father's best friends. I ran into him a couple of times since he got better." He shakes his head. "Fuck." He looks at Dagmar. "He doesn't remember everything from back then," he says. "Big black spots in his memory from when he was being Two-Face."

Grayson shrugs, then nods. "Bruce does." He looks at the room where they're wrapping up the interrogation, then looks away. "How's your head?"

"The doc let you get away with that? Did he say when you should get it looked at?"

She crosses her arms. Her face is throbbing, like it's getting crushed against her skull every time she breathes, but she's glad to have something else to think about. "I'm not your mother, Grayson. I'm not gonna tell you that you need to look after yourself. You're a grown man, you know--"

"I know, I know. Tomorrow. I promise. After we-- I have to be there, Dagmar." He looks at her and it's a damned good thing Tommy isn't here taking notes, because she's nodding before she thinks about it.

"We should be in there," Grayson says for the fourth time, and the uniforms are just going in, no breaking the door, calm as anything.

Dagmar moves her icepack a little so she doesn't have to glare at him and leans on the patrol car. They're out of range of most of the weapons they figure are likely to be in the building -- and the people figuring probably include Grayson's informer, so she feels pretty safe. The view of the office building is nothing to write home about; it's too dark to see anything. But that doesn't matter, because whatever's going on in there, nobody's going to tell them to come in. Not after Simmons' goons. Not while Dagmar's seeing double and Grayson's walking on one leg. "They don't need us."

"They wouldn't be here if we hadn't done the work," Grayson says, and he fidgets a little with his crutch.

"Take a deep breath," Dagmar advises him. "You want another hit in that leg of yours? How fast do you think you are compared to a bunch of slags who haven't been taking hits on the job all day long?"

Dagmar shakes her head and immediately makes herself stop. That's going to be a habit to avoid until she's healthy. "They know. Everybody in town knows that."

Grayson scowls and hunches his shoulders like he's going to charge into battle, bum leg and all. "If anything happens --"

"They've all been on the force longer than you have, Dick," Dagmar says, and it's a struggle not to roll her eyes at him. "If anything happens, they'll deal with it." It's a lot easier to growl at him than admit that, yes, she'd like to be making that arrest instead of letting Montoya and Allen do the honors.

"But --" He shakes his head, quickly, and glares at the building. There are no hints of anything going wrong, no gunshots, no nothing. "Dammit."

"Yeah. I know." Dagmar moves the icepack again and hopes that the throbbing pain goes away before too long. It's hard to keep her eyes open.

"Nothing," he says, and his voice is too nonchalant. He's definitely hiding something.

"It's not about you. It's Gotham. It's Dent." The images of the last time he got arrested are all too clear in her mind, still, all the publicity pressing down on Montoya, who's in there with her partner and maybe enough backup. "Of course he's here."

"You should stay right here. We're not working with anyone outside the PD on this bust, and we can't afford having anyone think otherwise."

"Look, Dick. You can accept his help -- god knows we've done it before -- but you can't tell him thank you in front of everybody. That's not how it works. Especially not when we're officially not working with him at all." Dagmar scowls toward the shadows.

Dagmar looks at the office building, though it's hard to focus. There are cameras -- there are always, always cameras. But it doesn't seem like a dangerous bust. Renee's got Dent cuffed, his head down, Cris is backing her up, and no one is even shouting. They get him into the car with the minimum of flashbulb pops. "Well -- good."

"Maybe he won't end up in Arkham again." Dagmar shrugs and regrets it. "We'll see."

With Dagmar in the hospital and everyone else giving him a wide berth, Dick has almost everything from the drawers in the box they gave him to clean out his desk by the time anyone says more than "Hello." He hasn't dealt with everything on it, yet. One phase at a time. While he's picking up the last pens from the drawer, Montoya comes over. "So you're leaving already."

"For a while." He looks rueful. "I can't run fast enough, and they want me on R&R."

"Maybe." Dick picks up a penny from the drawer, trying to avoid her eyes. "I'm not sure. I might move back to the 'haven."

She picks up one of the pictures on his desk -- Barbara. "Where'd you spend the quake?"

"I know Gotham, and I know she gets in your blood if you lose enough of it for her." She taps the picture of Barbara and sets it down again. "We'll find a place for you. Get better quick."

"You'd damn well better. Gotham needs cops like you." Montoya sets the picture down. "See you when you get back, kid."

He was expecting it, waiting for it, and it's not exactly a relief. he doesn't turn around. He pours the brandy, rather more than etiquette demands, and swirls it in the glass.

"I was wondering when you'd drop by," he says. He holds the glass up and looks at it, admiring the color, but he has no actual desire to drink it. There are times when he really wishes he got into the habit of drinking at times of stress.

"Bruce, I'm sorry." Nightwing sounds like he means it, sincere enough to be exactly the voice he uses on whatever victim of the night he's pulled from the fire.

Bruce's back tenses. "Why would you be sorry? It's your job, isn't it, putting away the freaks. It's probably a relief to have someone so prone to-- sudden slips safely put away before he can make any fresh damage. "

He feels Nightwing move to stand behind him. The brandy is still there, but it's not the best response to this.

"As far as we can tell, the situation was set up before his latest recovery," Nightwing says carefully.

"Which means what, exactly? That because he's sane now, he'll be sent to regular prison? That he'll be sent back to Arkham for treatment while everyone waits to see if there are any more surprises waiting to pop out the woodwork. Like anyone ever gets better in Arkham."

Nightwing touches his shoulders in a gesture that's probably mean to reassure one of them. "Don't let this eat you up. It's not--"

"It's really none of your business, Nightwing. How I choose to react to my friend being arrested for-- what charges did they settle on? Conspiracy to commit, or good, old-fashioned first degree? Whichever, it's my own affair. Something for me to deal with, without the intrusion of your presence." He feels Nightwing's hands tense and hovers between satisfaction and guilt. It's not his fault, not anyone's fault, really, even Harvey's, but that never makes it easier.

"I just didn't want you to think you had to deal with this alone," Nightwing says. His hands move like a good masseuse. It's probably unconscious, but Bruce grabs one with his free hand, pinning it against his shoulder.

"You didn't want to leave me alone? How thoughtful. Really, are you here to make me feel better or yourself? Be honest, Nightwing." He tightens his grip and puts the brandy down. The alcohol could provide one form of analgesic, but this may be a better distraction. Nightwing moves his other hand away and Bruce can feel it hover uncertainly. It really isn't a good thing, to take it out on Nightwing like this, not healthy for either of them, but if he chooses to be with Bruce at times like this...

Bruce drops that thought quickly and presses back against Nightwing. It's not what the boy was expecting, which makes Bruce want to shake his head in disappointment. What did he think would happen if he came here?

"Bruce -- I know he's important to you. And I should have been able to do -- something."

Bruce shakes his head. "No one can do anything about it, Nightwing. He's -- he's insane."

"Jesus Christ." Bruce turns and kisses him. "Maybe Batman could have -- should have been there. Should have done something --"

Bruce could scream. Or he could say, "I don't feel like talking right now," and that is easier, so he does it. He keeps his voice light, casual, the product of a thousand and one surprise interviews and boardroom games. He keeps his hold on Nightwing's hand and moving it to their sides, folding it by the wrist. He rubs his fingers over the slick surface of the suit, thin enough that he can feel the pulse underneath it, then over the palm of the hand where it turns rougher, less slippery. It would be easy enough to let his hand hold Nightwing's. It's even a little tempting.

He doesn't. Instead, he pulls on his wrist, surprising him into a rare lack of grace and kisses him before he can recover. He grabs Nightwing's other hand, twisting both slightly and pushes him backwards, walking with him until he hits the couch.

"Which is true for both of us, but I'm really not in the mood for--" he leans against him and rocks, gets the groan he wants, "--for conversation right now. If you want to talk, you can--" he takes Nightwing's hand and bites down on the back, feeling the slick material against his teeth. "You can leave and find someone else to do it with."

"Let me take off-- just the costume, I'm going to--" He'd cover Nightwing's mouth with his hands, but he can't do that and work the all too complex fastenings on his costume at the same time. He settles for a kiss, hard enough to be almost what he wants. Nightwing stops protesting, at least for a moment, and just moans.

When Bruce moves away enough to unfasten his own pants, though, Nightwing says, "Wait."

"Do you want to leave?" Bruce kisses him again, as fiercely as he can, thinking about the force it would take to bruise, and how a vigilante as devoted to his job as Nightwing is can explain away any number of marks.

He's apparently gotten the idea at last, because instead of answering in useless, empty words, he wraps his legs around Bruce's waist. Bruce presses him back onto the couch again, and Nightwing flinches. �"Bruce," he says. Those bruises on his leg, whatever battle they're from, must still hurt.

"You should be more careful," Bruce says, and presses harder. There's a mark on his neck that would be hidden under the collar. Bruce knows he didn't give Nightwing that one.

"You're-- not subtle," Nightwing says, closing his eyes behind the mask and moving into the bite. It's enough to make Bruce be that little bit more vicious, and he wants-- he's not sure what he wants, or he's not sure what he wants first.

Nightwing starts to put his hand on Bruce's shoulder and Bruce grabs them both and pushes them against the couch. He almost wishes they were on a floor or against a wall, something harder, rougher.

There's a voice in the back of his head that points out that none of this is Nightwing's fault, not his responsibilty, that it should have been B -- Bruce who--

"Of course it's not my fault," Bruce says, and even to his own ears his voice sounds harsh. "There's nothing I could do." He nips at Nightwing's ear. "Except, possibly, letting you do your damn job more efficiently."

"You couldn't help him, anyway." Bruce bites his neck, reinforcing an older mark -- perhaps one he left there, perhaps not; sometimes it's hard to remember whose fault they are. "You don't know enough."

"God." Nightwing braces himself on the couch enough to rock their groins together. "I do what I can."

"It's still not enough." Bruce bites him again, more harshly, then pushes him down onto the couch, keeping his balance and backing away. The blue chevron on his chest clashes with the brocade; something should be done, if it ever matters again.

The abandoned brandy would, at least, decline to beg him for forgiveness. He turns away from the couch. "Are you sorry, then?"

Bruce sighs at the resignation in his voice, but he's telling the truth. "You don't sound contrite."

"Bruce, please." There's a rustle and the springs make a soft noise as Nightwing sits up. "I know what I have to do. I can regret that I have to do it, but -- that's as far as it goes."

It's enough. Bruce turns to look at him again; he's taken off his shirt, and with that collection of bruises and scars he looks both resilient and vulnerable. "That's as far as it should go." It would be impossible not to join him on the couch and kiss him again. "You must be tired." He runs his fingers over Nightwing's scars and strokes him, the weight and thickness of him no less attractive for its familiarity. "Stay for breakfast. Alfred knows your favorites."

Nightwing gasps -- the touch, or the invitation, or both -- and says, "Yes. All right." He opens a panel on one of his gloves and takes out a little bottle, moving his hands to his mask. "Let me --"

Nightwing frowns, but when Bruce pins his wrists over his head and kisses him, he stops protesting.

Pay No Attention and Moonlighting