Reconciliations with Darkness (Rated R)

[IVIaedhros]

I've cleaned up the story and separated it from Teen Titans VS Justice League of America so as to prevent any confusion.

Act I: In His Footsteps


The heart is a unique set of muscles designed for the sole purpose of maintaining a pressure gradient throughout the body’s vascular system. Cardiac muscles are unique in that they have an unusually long refractory period designed to prevent muscular summation. Instead of normal synapses, cardiac muscles possess gap junctions, which use direct physical links instead of chemical synapses. This allows for faster transfers of action potentials and far greater synchronization of muscular firings. There are four layers of the heart. They are, from superficial to deep, the peri-

A red light flashed on, followed shortly by the low pulsing of a warning alarm.
Forcing his thoughts from the comforting drone of recitation, Robin’s jaw tightened almost unnoticeably as he took a deep breath through the nostrils. Blinking unseen under the mask, the Boy Wonder got up from his place on the bare steel chair to replace the clear plastic bag suspended on a chrome skeleton.

“Careful now…twist counter-clockwise a quarter turn, break the seal and lift…reinsert the catheter, be careful; if there’s an embolism or infection, well, that’s all she wrote.”

Robin’s hands were visible now instead of concealed under a bright green, his standard NOMEX based gloves discarded in favor of a pair of clear vinyl medical gloves, carefully disinfected to prevent phlebitis or worse, a potential septicemia. With carefully exaggerated patience, Robin finished reinserting the catheter into its resting place over the subclavian vein. Within seconds, a fresh supply of blood was rushing through the large bore IV and directly into Beast Boy’s heart.

The masked vigilante stood silent witness over his friend, who had lain unconscious now for thirteen hours under Cyborg’s care before he had finally had to take time to recharge or risk involuntary shutdown.

Robin’s gloved hand absently rested on his friend’s brow, his thumb working in circles as if he were giving a massage. He felt had a curious numbness since watching Cyborg perform surgery on Beast Boy. Robin’s fingers curled into a fist as if he were contemplating ripping out the IV and all the vital tubing running through his comrade.

Weakling. Insufferable little weakling, always grating at their nerves in some plea for attention. He resisted work at every opportunity, subverted his authority, even though Robin had proven time and again it was all for their own good.

He felt his mouth curving itself into a sneer. All Beast Boy’d had to do was listen to Robin when he’d said to train harder so he wouldn’t loose his edge. Heck, even looking at the gym would’ve been an improvement, but nooo.

“Geeze, you’re such a tight-ass Robin.”

“Cum’ON Robin, we’re not all machines. Some of us have, like, LIVES ya’ know? Ever hear of that concept?”

“Oh, give it a rest Bat-head. Can’t you see that you’re upsetting Star?”

The kid was an idiot. They were all idiots. Why couldn’t they see? Always, always they wanted to take things easy, to skip out on training, to…to…

Live. Have some sort of heart. Be exactly what he’d wanted to be when he’d fled Gotham.

The consuming anger fled as suddenly as it came, leaving only cold ashes in his mouth. He’d failed. He’d failed. Oh my God, he’d failed, he’d failed, failed!

Starfire hovered above the streets, raining down starbolts like some killer angel, Cyborg and Raven were mowing down the genetically altered moths left and right. The terrible surge of pride he felt watching them was magnificent.

Spin-turn-thrust-parry-spin-thrust-thrust-parry-lunge-die. Twelve freaks down, hundreds more to go. A good night, everything was falling smoothly into place. He was surprised that Killer Moth was so inept at pla-

Cyborg’s inarticulate scream carried over the whole battlefield with ease.
Robin turned around to see Killer Moth standing over Beast Boy’s pronated form, hand drawing back and dripping red.

He was running towards Beast Boy. Someone had been screaming…? Oh, yea. Him.

Robin would later find out from Cyborg that the changeling had been flying after several of the rogue mutants when he’d taken a corner wrong and plowed head first into a building and plummeted to the street below. Killer Moth had kindly decided to try and wake Beast Boy up by shoving one of his claws into Beast Boy’s abdomen. Cyborg’s sonic blast kept him from finishing the job, but that was a small blessing. There wasn’t much to finish.

Raven immediately teleported to their fallen comrade’s side. His wounds had been terrible. The power transfer briefly knocked Raven into unconsciousness, but it didn’t matter. Beast Boy would live.

Yea, he lived now by clinging to the ragged edge of life, his spirit so close to departing that Robin could’ve sworn that the reason Beast Boy looked so insubstantial wasn’t the anesthesia, wasn’t the blood loss, but the fact that his soul was already partly detached.

“One good gust of wind and poof.”

Robin automatically checked the windows to see that they remained closed. They were closed. His eyes ran back over to the IV bag, examining them one last time to make sure the precious blood was flowing in properly and not going to waste.

Beast Boy’s blood was unique and they could only maintain a finite supply. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if the neurotoxin that Killer Moth used hadn’t caused Beast Boy to go into the transformational equivalent of epilepsy. His body kept morphing in a hundred small ways, reopening the wound and driving his system further into shock.

Cyborg had flooded his body with morphine to inhibit the malfunctioning nervous system, but it drove Beast Boy’s already depressed blood pressure so low that that his heart had stopped. As it was, they just had to keep him in near coma and pump him with blood faster then he could bleed it out. His body’s natural systems were containing the hemorrhage until Raven recovered enough to restore him to full health, but it had been so, so close.

Robin felt himself becoming sick as he stared down at Beast Boy’s broken form. Under the endless white harshness of the operating lights, the shape shifter seemed to deflate before his eyes, the grotesque little cannulae tubes snaking into him made all th-

“He...He just…mother f…”

Robin started pacing back and forth, back and forth.
“I tried everything, but it won’t work. There’s always something. A piece of equipment didn’t get the right maintenance, a tactic we haven’t rehearsed and, hell, ah, I-I don’t, raagghh!”

The snarl had barely ended when images of his teammates dying began flitting randomly through his head. Every time they’d been hurt or there had been an argument, every time he’d failed as a leader, “Why can’t I just get things right, why couldn’t I just get things to work?”

Robin stopped pacing, his face contorted in anger. They’d start training as soon as Beast Boy recovered, no, that would be too long. Tomorrow, no, that was too soon, it would have to be in three days at the earliest, but by God he would make sure they trained until they were ready to drop dead from exhaustion. Robin didn’t care how much they hated him, they would get better, they would improve. They would be alive.

Robin stopped, took a moment and really forced himself to stare down at Beast Boy’s washed out face, forced himself to memorize the lifeless expression that had come over his once animated friend, the way the temporary sutures stood out like some obscene knitting job gone horribly wrong. His hand instinctively went to his mouth as if to stop vomit from escaping. Robin found himself wishing he could vomit. Perhaps then the sickening feeling would go away.

“M-my, friend. My teammate, my little brother my, my s-”

Ever since he’d first brought them together, they’d been more than his teammates, so much more. He had listened on those quiet, thoughtful days when his friends had talked about being something of a surrogate family. They thought of each in relation to the other as brothers and sisters and, on occasion, love (or maybe just lust) interests. For him, they were even more special, more precious.

The first time he’d laid eyes on the assembled Titans, he’d felt like driving his head into the wall out of pure frustration. Teaching them sound fighting doctrine and teamwork often seemed like trying to get infants to master non-linear algebra, never mind that his ego was just a big a problem as anything, never mind that they were almost his age or older, sometimes wiser and more mature. Frustration had quickly given way to dedication, dedication to passion and finally to love, even obsession. He looked at them and instinctively thought, “MINE.”

Was there anything that he wouldn’t do to see them be the best, to know that they would come out alive? He knew the answer already and it disturbed him quietly that he was not, in fact, disturbed at what he would unhesitatingly sacrifice to achieve it. Perhaps he was simply selfish. He would ensure their misery at his own hands so he wouldn’t have to feel the pain of losing them.

A mellifluous voice echoed into his head, taunting him with his own naiveté. It laughed at his audacity to have dared believe he could’ve given better than what was given to him, “Betrayal, destruction, revenge. We really do think alike.”

His stare never left Beast Boy’s ruined face, “That was vicious, dishonorable and ruthless. Excellent work. You’re becoming more like me every second.”

No, he would not sell his soul as Slade had done. Only perhaps, perhaps if one day, all of what he counted dear was taken from him, then he might follow Slade to appease the call of retribution. Robin vowed that it would be a cold day in Hell before Robin allowed thing to go that far.

Robin pivoted on his back heel and started pacing the room agitatedly. Hours of pain and exhaustion tinged with the bitterness of knowing he’d never be good enough began creeping up from his memories.

He couldn’t figure it out. Bruce seemed to have left all together. It was like someone else was speaking through his voice, “Rule Number One: You give me one hundred percent.” The air left Dick’s lungs in one painful rush as his right side was smashed against the still too-solid training mats.

“Rule Number Two,” he was aerial again. Bruce had picked him up and thrown him like a flyweight, “Then you give me more.” Dick was panicking as he tried to figure out what he could’ve done to earn this sudden shift in attitude.

Dick was already moving into a shoulder roll, legs flung out to halt him in a stable tripod. Something very fast and very, very large hurtled towards him. BAM he was pinned under Bruce’s weight as his mentor effortlessly propelled himself through the air and flattened him further into the ground.

“Rule Number Three,” There was a disquieting lack of humanity in his guardian’s iron grip as the blood supply to his head was cut off, bringing him to within seconds of brain death, “I make the rules.”

That had been the beginning of the transformation that would lead Dick Grayson into his current role, that of a supposed hero. Robin remembered very well the reason why he had left Bruce: wrong, imperfect, silent stares, love and devotion rebuffed unfeelingly. He had never been good enough, no matter how hard he tried, how much he broke himself. Complete trust could never be earned. The slightest deviance was inevitably followed by swift recriminations. Even if his actions turned out to be correct, he was lucky to get a simple, “good job”.

It hadn’t always been like that, but as soon as Dick had taken the mantle of Robin, everything had changed and their relationship slowly declined. Robin had hated him for it, hated him for dragging a young orphan back from the hell his parents’ deaths with empathy and love only to dash him against the rocks again when Bruce chose to close himself off to the outside world in order to chase after some puritanical ideal of crime fighting.

He had left Batman’s shadow for the Titan’s to finally be himself and not worry about his imperfections. Sure, he had wanted to prove himself to the world, to earn his own glory, but it was more than that. Robin would devote himself to helping others, pour his life out in the service of justice, but he wouldn’t lose his feeling, his compassion. He had dreamed of a smiling daughter bouncing at his knee, trust and wise console, confessions of weakness and need to his friends.

And now-now he was following Bruce again like the lowly shadow he was. The very team that he thought would allow him to be free to laugh and be human was now the reason that he nightly wished he could sell his own humanity. Humans were weak. Humans were fragile. They had to sleep, had to eat, they got sick, could be offended or hurt, could be killed. So forgive him if he chose not to be so indulgent if it meant something so important as saving someone else.

“Unnngh…,” Beast Boy’s eyes struggled to open against the anesthesia. The changeling’s cloud and bloodshot pupils gazed listlessly into the blank whites of Robin’s mask. “Ooohhhh, what, I-“

“Shhh,” Robin carefully removed the medical gloves and ran his hand lightly through the grass meadow hair, a faint smile on his lips, “you’re fine Beast Boy.” Robin watched as his teammate was reclaimed by oblivion.

“You’re fine. You’ll all be fine.”

Red Notes

1) I’m going to go say right off the bat (hah, pun) that Robin is probably OOC for most of you. I realize this, however, I’m trying to convey how I often feel about going into the Army as a lieutenant. I want to try and convey that hollow, raging chaos that I get when I know perfection is needed, while still knowing that I am far from it and my peers and those under me are even farther and that, even worse, they don’t care. That’s a frightening place to come to, when you realize that your screw up means you have to write home to some parents and say, “Sorry, but your little boy is dead.” I sit here and worry about papers in abstract physiology when I could be learning tactics, we BS around when we could be out in the woods practicing land navigation. If I was really going to be accurate to my inner thoughts, this chapter would be far more illogical and there’d be a lot more cussing, something that I rarely do as a courtesy to others. In a way, I’m trying to connect the various portrayals of Robin. On the one hand, we have the never serious little jester who runs around in pixie boots and primary colors. On the other, we have the angry and embittered loner who becomes Nightwing. On the third hand that I have freakily conjured up, we have Robin of the animated Titans, the hard core, Slade obsessed leader who also happens to still be a teenager capable of smiling, dating, laughing, showing embarrassment, apologizing…etc. etc.

2) The medical jargon might be confusing, but the situation is pretty straight forward. Beast Boy is basically receiving a constant, massive blood transfusion via a central IV. This is because his morphological powers have become unhinged as a result of Killer Moth’s attack, thus making his body unstable and causing his wounds to be continuously be reopened. Normally bleeding wouldn’t be a problem, in fact, I imagine Beast Boy’s natural healing ability is extremely good, given his ability to seemingly fit into any shape he wishes. However, the neurotoxin has him all jacked up.

3) I’m not actually sure when I would want to place this story chronologically. Technically, this little one-shot could be just about anytime after the first season. Additionally, the first three chapters could probably be interchangeable. I like to think that the events in this story would happen first, perhaps months or more than a year before the little bit with Alfred. Does it matter that much? No, not really. What's more troubling to me is that I've used catastrophic injury as a major drive in plot. I suppose that's to be expected, given our main characters' occupations, but it is rather annoying to be repeating myself.

[IVIaedhros]

Act II: Consecutive Miracles

Although born as a city of the day, Gotham had long since become a child of twilight. All through the afternoon, its barren concrete and dreary industry lay quiet as the teeming masses go about their lives. Lines distinct and clear divide the have’s and the have-not’s. Tall sky scrapers of glass and steel gleaming stand mere steps away from patches of corruption and decay, the rotting corpses of apartments and skeletons of warehouses. Walking side by side together on repetitious grids are the wealthy aristocrats and sons of whores, princes and paupers existing together, but never acknowledging one another.

Such is Gotham by day: an eclectic mix to be sure, yet hardly unique. However, as the sun’s golden red rays gradually recede from its streets, something uncanny happens. Darkness creeps in through the east, covering everything in black oblivion. For a few moments, what had been solid and real simply ceased to exist. Then, one by one, the lights came on, following the retreating following darkness, blending with it, never dispelling it completely.

Fluorescent, LED, Halogen, Neon, all were there, swirling in endless variance. And as they come alive, so does the city. Gotham is no longer simply a construction of steel and stone, it is a living thing, pulsing with unsteady life, its sentience marked by twisting shadows, its bones with the weirdly gothic structures, its blood in those strange souls who trust themselves to wander its paths.

Yes, Gotham is alive in a way that no other city has been and probably ever will be, yet for a long time, it was alive only in its corruption, like a man slowly dying of plague with no friends brave enough to put him out of his misery. There were many poor souls who had lived and died in Gotham, seemingly trapped in the warped streets its twilight and corruption grew. For them, there was nothing other than the endless despair of trying to get through the next day, the next night, with their lives intact. Sometimes they didn’t even get that.

That was, until HE came. Over a decade ago, when crime had reached its zenith, Gotham was named the murder capital of the world and the city finally began to succumb to its own disease. Just as it seemed as if the city had finally tumbled too far, there were suddenly whispers in the shadows, whispers of hope, wonder, and a little bit of fear where before there had only been despair.

For over a decade, the Dark Knight had waged an unceasing war against the city and for the city, striving to keep it from killing itself and dragging its people down with it to Hell. For a decade, Bruce Wayne, happy child turned pathologically obsessed avenger, held the city suspended over a yawning chasm by the strength of his own will.
However, the same obsession that gave him the strength to hold the city also made him incapable of holding onto anything else. As he held city, the weight only got heavier and its corruption slowly made its way into his own heart and mind.

Others tried to take some of the burden from him, but Bruce could never really let himself rest, not even with Alfred, not even with Dick, the boy he’d adopted and honed into Robin. Ten years after he first begun his war, he seemed to damned to die before he was dead.. The Bat was the only true thing about him. Bruce Wayne had disappeared long ago and with him was any chance of reconciling any of his old relationships. Surely, it must have been thought that he doomed to live life only alone and anguished, if he lived at all. So it was thought.

TTTTTTTTTTTTT

Peace. Thankfulness. Love. To Alfred Pennyworth, it seemed as if he were suddenly bathed in them. Those were the closest things he could compare to what he felt as he opened the oven door to pull the apricot and honey glazed ham out. Alfred loved feeling of warmth and smell rolling out in waves. It felt like Heaven, which was good, because Heaven’s blessing was especially wanted tonight. Tonight, Mrs. Ariel Wayne would try to convince her husband to reconcile himself with the boy he had raised, Dick Grayson, Robin.

With practiced deliberation, he easily placed the ham and still bubbling sauces on a bed of stuffing. Yes, everything had to be perfect. Sweeping his hand under the heavy load, he balanced the groaning silver tray expertly on the palm of his hand and walked the marbled path towards the master dinning room. It would have been a surprisingly long walk for someone who was unfamiliar with the Wayne Manor, but to aged butler, it seemed no time at all before he was suddenly in a cavernous room full of chandelier light, flying arches, and a table that appeared to stretch forever.

“Your dinner, Master Bruce, Mrs. Ariel.”

It may have been impossible, but the monstrous table actually seemed to sag under the immense weight of Alfred’s creations. The ham was only main course with sides of rich French onion soup, crisp beans and tomatoes, topped off with a bottle of fragrant raspberry liquor that had cost a small fortune. Never mind desert…

“Alfred….” An annoyed voice grated.

“Hmm?” The keeper of Wayne Manor glanced down at the cocked eyebrow of his charge. “Something wrong, Master Bruce?” Of course, he already knew. Batman may have been famed for his seeming omniscience, but when it came down to certain things IE knowing himself, the World’s Greatest Detective had nothing on Alfred Pennyworth.
Bruce simply gestured out to the lavish spread overflowing the edges of the table in front of him. “Isn’t this a bit…much.” Indeed, there was enough food to feed a family of five plus all near and distant relations, but then, Alfred never believed in being niggardly, especially not tonight. No, not tonight.

For a long moment, he and his son in all but name held one another’s gaze. Alfred had never backed down from looking Bruce in the eye. Alfred was one of five who could claim that distinct honor, and Thomas and Martha Wayne were long dead. Still, it sometimes hurt to stand up so to Master Bruce, even if he would never allow himself to show it.

“Bruce, stop badgering Alfred and dig in. These green beans are delicious.” Bruce’s attention was immediately shifted away from him to the woman comfortably sitting at his right.

“You haven’t eaten them yet.”

No, she had not, but Ariel Wayne wasn’t about to let this little fact get in her way. Being another one of those privileged five (now three) who could look both Bruce Wayne and Batman in the eye, she calmly held up a finger before explaining, “One: I read the grocery bills and if they taste half as good as they cost, they must be wonderful. Two: they look and smell delicious. Three: Alfred made it.”

A nod graciously given, graciously received. “Thank you, Mrs. Ariel.” Although Alfred often received compliments on his cooking, it wasn’t everyday that your culinary genius was declared to be natural law.

“You’re welcome Alfred,” came her purposefully overly emphasized politeness, “and drop the ‘Mrs.’ ”

With a tacit nod, the venerable servant uncomfortably sat down at Bruce’s left. It wasn’t natural: butlers sitting down at their master’s table, especially not when that butler was Alfred Pennyworth. Unfortunately, as she had just demonstrated, Mrs. Wayne had no compunction against rewriting natural law.

One of her first edicts was that Alfred would sit down and eat with them. It was a fight every meal, but she had begun to win with increasing regularity. Alfred had not fought her this time either. Nay, he had eagerly given in; anything to give her an extra edge tonight. She would need it.

The couple had almost finished their main meals. Alfred watched as Bruce and Ariel seemingly communicated through the tiniest gesture. A tip of the head here, a request for the pepper, a muttered, “thank you.” Alfred, as had been the sad case for the past five years after Dick had left, was reduced to being little more than a helpless observer.
Although he had never stopped being proud of what his “son” was doing, he had grown increasingly worried as he seemingly became more and more like the criminals that he fought. Oh, Batman would never reduce himself to killing, to crime himself. That would be anathema; wrong on an almost spiritual level.

That didn’t stop Bruce from becoming increasingly cold and distant, locking away his humanity in the dual fear that he would be hurt or his humanity would cause him to falter in the critical moment. The culmination of his efforts to isolate himself came when Master Dick broke off contact with Bruce, leaving both sides furious and hurt.

He had been dying by slow degrees ever since. That was, until a year ago, when several miracles occurred almost simultaneously and he had somehow ended up marrying the Ariel Holloway, former foster parent, unofficial head of Gotham’s child care services, and part-time Sunday school teacher at Jubilee Church.

Batman had broken a kiddie porn ring and overnight there were thirty-four minors who desperately needed new homes. As Bruce Wayne, he’d contacted Ariel and together they’d found them those homes. She proved extremely proficient and Bruce, impressed with not only her intelligence, but her passion for her often thankless job, had continued to call on her.

Ten months after Batman delivered thirty-four terrified children into the arms of Gotham’s Police, Alfred received the biggest surprise of his life. He was bringing in the groceries when he noticed the entrance to the Cave was open. Walking down, he saw Bruce and Ariel standing hand-in-hand over the massive abyss that took up so much of the Cave. Two weeks later, the celebrity world was turned on its ear when the couple publicly married. The uproar was unbelievable, given the wildly different socio-economic positions of the two and it was only made worse when the press discovered Ariel had once been suicidal.

Until he’d walked in on them in the Cave, he’d never even suspected the courtship. This alarmed Alfred, far more than Ariel’s old scars. If anything, her own hardships would allow her to understand Bruce. No, the problem was that it seemed too reminiscent of his previous loves; fires burning hot in the dark that scorched him even as they warmed him. Selina, God help her, was a perfect example of this.

Ariel, however, was a firm anchor and Alfred had a strong suspicion that Bruce had finally realized that it was either grab onto something real or lose himself completely. At times Alfred felt a hint of jealousy that it hadn’t been him that Bruce had finally reached for, but he didn’t begrudge them that. There was no great passion and there might never be. After all, Bruce was forty-five and Ariel forty-nine. However, in saving one another they were saving themselves.

Alfred couldn’t help but rejoice as Wayne Manor gained a life that it hadn’t seen since a certain young acrobat had first stepped through its stately doors. “Speaking of a certain young acrobat...”

“How’s Dick doing Bruce?” Ariel had finally stopped beating around brush.

“He’s fine.” Alfred recognized that tone. “Drop it now,” it said.

“How do you know? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you talk to him.”

The silence, to use a perfectly appropriate cliché, was deafening. As the newly minted Mrs. Wayne, She had eagerly joined with him in his quest to reunite the two estranged heroes when he had first told her the tale. They’d schemed for the past week to get Bruce sufficiently committed to this dinner that they could finally confront him with fixing his broken relationship with his old crime fighting partner.

Alfred sighed inwardly, vaguely aware that voices were being raised. The real fight to make one more attempt at Robin was about to begin. Alfred suddenly felt very tired. He hoped he hadn’t ruined one miracle by reaching for another.

“I wonder how it will end?”

Red Notes

1) As I mentioned earlier, I’ve cut a ton of stuff. Much as it killed me to do it, I axed about 3500 words worth of content from this chapter. The cut section dealt specifically with how Ariel met up with Bruce. The reason being I realized that no Teen Titan’s fan was going to sit through that much detail when it doesn’t have the slightest hint of the Titans or action. However, if you are interested in reading that cut content for enjoyment or for ideas, feel free to message or email me.

2) Some quick factoid checks… As you may have noticed, I’m not really following any one continuity, though I do try to keep it grounded in Batman: The Animated Series and Teen Titans the cartoon. I also try to be accurate when possible, but telling a good story is my main concern. I’m not sure about the Jan 15th date or about the exact number of years that Robin stays with Batman. Thankfully, I’m using the animated Teen Titan’s Robin, so I can afford to fudge a little. Just a quick clarification: ROBIN IN THE TEEN TITAN’S IS NOT ANY ONE OF THE ROBIN’S FROM THE COMICS! It has been stated by the creators of the show that he is an amalgam of the three, though he appears to take after Dick Grayson more than anyone else, hence why I use that name. Finally, Stonegate is the substitute name used by the Animated series for Blackgate. I use it because I think it sounds a little less cheesy.

[IVIaedhros]

Act I: Replaced



“YEAAARGGGH!!!//AHHHH!!!”

BOOM!

RIRKKKCTINNG CRASH

“Dead.”

Cyborg was pissed. It’s hard to tell sometimes with him sometimes. He is half machine and it makes it much harder to read his body language, but Robin had had a lot of practice at reading the metal man: five years, three months, two days, and nineteen hours to be exact. But at the moment, Robin didn’t need experience.

It was expected given that Robin had just used his Bo staff to impale Cyborg through his vulnerable shoulder joint, not mention nearly ripping off his head with a back handed strike to the occipital lobe. And it especially didn’t help that he stood on top of the partial human with the splintered remains of his staff only millimeter’s from Cyborg’s neck.

“DUDE, THAT WAS LIKE…LIKE…” That was Beast Boy. He was much easier to read.
“Unnecessary.” That was Raven. She was a great deal harder to read than all the rest combined.

“WAAAY OVERKILL!” Beast Boy again. The corner of Robin’s right eye twitched involuntarily and he was suddenly presented with a very wide and very appealing array of options of how to shut the little changeling up, most of them involving swift violence applied to pressure points. You know that you’re in a bad mood when your first thoughts involve involuntary tracheotomy…damn, he really was in a bad mood.

Robin sighed. He couldn’t be indulging in pointless anger. It was childish and he was their leader. Right, Leader…he had to fix this quickly. Stepping back off his friend, he collapsed the remains of staff and hooked it back into his utility belt before reaching down with both hands to the still supine Cyborg.

He glared at Robin a little bit before accepting the gesture. With an almighty jerk, Robin did his best to help as Cyborg stiffly sat up. Robin vaguely regretted the offer to help as he felt something twinge in his back. Cyborg was heavy, very heavy, and it really didn’t help him any when Robin pulled. Still, it was the idea that counted.

“That was a good fight…you almost had me there with that last sonic blast,” Robin said as Cyborg absently dusted his outer steel shell off, “I got a little carried away…it was a good fight though.” The repetition was a little lame.

“Yea, I’d say you got ‘a little carried away’ there,” Cyborg looked up at Robin before his expression softened slightly and he said, “but it was a good fight…something eating ya’ Fearless?” Robin recognized that expression. “Hey man, lets just forget this whole thing happened. Say, ya’ wanna go work on the T-Car?”, it said.

Not wanting to risk any more drama when he’d already had more than enough, Robin took the surest route he could think of to cement the peace. He told the truth or a piece of the truth anyway, “Family trouble.”

“Oh, uh ok…” Cyborg’s artificial eye seemed to flicker slightly in his puzzlement before he replied, “Well, I need to get back into my shop. Can’t have my arm messed up if the alarm goes.”

Glad to have avoided any further conflict, Robin silently allowed the half human to stand up without him futilely trying to help. He’d played on Cyborg’s appreciation of honesty and his guilt for joining in on tormenting the Boy Wonder for the past two weeks.
His “paranoia” had become something of a joke among his friends as the crime rate reached all time lows and his teammates had often ribbed him mercilessly about his insistence on continued alertness. Cyborg, being the most mature of all of them in some ways, had felt guilty the most guilt for teasing. Besides, it was naturally understood that family problem could put anyone into a foul mood.

“Great, now I’m manipulating people like Bruce…just wonderful.”

His foul mood took another turn for the worse when he came to that unpleasant realization. He would have to go running now or maybe lift some weights…at the very least smash something that wasn’t one of his teammates. The punching bag, yea, that’d be good.

“I think we’ve earned an early break today team. Training is canceled for the rest of the day.” There, that would make them happy and get out them of his hair at the same time.

For a brief moment, his teammates gaped at him. Robin, calling training off because he’d thought they’d earned an early break? Impossible! “I call Gamestation!” Or not. Beast Boy was already racing out of the sparring room and into the hallway. Cyborg forgot all about his busted shoulder and ran after the green shape shifter.

“No way, Beast Boy! I just rented Super Grand Prix and if I hear that stupid monkey game of yours one more time, I’m going to blow a circuit.”

“Wait for me friends, I wish to join you on the station for gaming!” The metallic clanks of Cyborg’s metal boots receded into the background noise even as Starfire literally flew out of the room.

Robin allowed himself a brief smirk as he said, “Some things never change.”

“-but others do. Since when do you call off training early?” Robin turned around to see Raven still firmly planted where she had been standing during Cyborg and Robin’s sparring match. Robin wasn’t surprised. She knew him and his tricks far too well.

“I wanted them out before I said something I’d regret,” he answered simply, turning back the man-shaped training dummy. As he went through some simple repetitions of various crippling strikes to the brachial plexus, he began to explain the situation to her.

“I’ve been in a bad mood lately,” he began.

“That much is obvious.” Raven, as usual, had no patience for it.

“You’ve been on edge this entire week and you risked putting Cyborg out of action for who knows how many hours when you nearly shredded his arm. What aren’t you telling me? Is it Slade?”

Robin couldn’t help, but cringe slightly at the mention of his nemesis and at the implication that he was still dangerously obsessed with the sociopath. He wasn’t angry though.

When the full meaning of Raven’s prophecy had finally become clear to him, he’d been crushed with guilt. Too late, it seemed, did he understand why Raven was, well, Raven. As a leader and a friend, it nearly drove him mad to think that they had left to her to deal with unimaginable horrors every day, every night.

He simply couldn’t be mad at her. Besides, even with the defeat of Trigon, Raven remained abnormally unemotional and trying to be mad at her was like trying to be mad at the paper a letter is written on. Still, just to be safe…

His hand shot out and caught the dummy on the side of its jaw. Robin followed by grabbing the mannequin’s opposing hand and performing a one-armed shoulder throw. He followed through to the ground before executing a simple, yet effective arm bar.

“It’s just like I told Cyborg: I’ve just got some family trouble.” Robin hoped that would satisfy her, but he doubted it.

“Right” she drawled, “I’m too tired to wring the answer out of you know, but don’t think I’m dropping this.”

Robin watched her head for the door. She would be back later and she would figure out what was going on. She always did. They all would eventually. He just had to decide how long he wanted to drag the process out.

“Bruce is going to have a son; a real one.”

Oh well, if she was going to find out, then he might as well have it on his terms. “Things you can control, and all that. Raven looked appropriately shocked by his statement. She knew who Bruce Wayne really was and what he meant to Robin.

“What do you mean, ‘a real one’? Did you suddenly cease to exist?” He was really having this conversation, wasn’t he? Yes, unfortunately, he was. Robin really hated talking about his personal life. Robin walked out of the training room, making his way down through the hallways as the sounds of the Gamestation ran passed them.

He may have committed to telling Raven what was eating him, she was an empath and would find it out anyway, but he certainly wasn’t going to risk the rest of the Titans finding out before they needed to.

As Raven fell silently in step with him, he said, “He’ll have his own biological son from the wife he married, not some kid he adopted.”

Their footsteps were now the only sounds besides their voices and the distant echo of Starfire celebrating some achievement on the station of games.

Raven’s response once again demonstrated her knowledge of his personal life, “So? Bruce considers you his son doesn’t he? Why are you worried?”

Her eyebrows knitted together as she listened to the Boy Wonder’s reply, “That’s the thing Raven, I don’t know what I am to him.”

“Don’t you get it Raven?” Robin asked as they neared the elevator doors. The was an electronic ding as the doors to the Tower’s elevator slid open for the two young heroes.
“It’s almost like I’m being replaced. Hell, I am being replaced.” The doors slid back together and the elevator smoothly began climbing upwards. Robin pressed the button for the roof.

“Why do you say that? If your parents had lived and you’d had a little brother, you wouldn’t be saying the same thing.” Robin grimaced slightly out of irritation. She just didn’t understand. The elevator dinged again as they reached the roof of the tower and the doors slid open. Together, the two Titans walked towards the edge of the roof and sat down with their legs dangling over space.

“You’re right that I wouldn’t care, but these are hardly normal circumstances.” The sun just beginning to head down to the ocean from its peak in the sky and it was hot enough still that Raven dropped her hood.

“Bruce adopted me, trained me. We’ve saved each other’s lives more times than I can count. As much as I sometimes hated, still hate, how he did it, he raised me. Eventually I even considered him my dad.” Robin paused to shield his face from the sunlight reflecting off the waves, “but he never tried to officially adopt me. I was always, his ‘young ward’ or ‘charge’ or ‘that poor boy’…never ‘son’, not even in private.”

Raven didn’t respond to that and Robin didn’t ask her to. He knew she’d have some well-thought out advice or question for him later. That’s one of the things about their friendship that he valued most and it was part of the reason that there was very little he held back from her when the rest of the world saw only his mask.

Cyborg was his firm grounding in the everyday and the quiet contentment that spilled out onto the rest of the team. Beast Boy was in many ways his conscience because despite his years and hardships, he still saw very little beyond what should be right. And Starfire, she was beautiful and not just physically. Her genuinely pure joy was awe inspiring and it made the rest of the world beautiful. Robin had seen too much in his life not to need that. And Raven, she was his second in command, his sounding board, objective reasoning; thus the reason he felt no need at all to ask her what she would think.

For now, he was content to sit and enjoy the heat as it soaked through the poly-synth fabric and laminated body armor of his costume. He absently noted that his hair gel was starting to melt a little.

“Perhaps he was simply afraid of your own parents. Maybe he thought he couldn’t measure up to them.” He cocked his head towards the dark empath. It was a good guess he supposed, but it didn’t fit.

With a slight snort of disbelief, he said, “Raven, this is Batman we’re talking about. Why would he care about my parents when they’re dead?”

She shrugged, “Why don’t you ask him?” Robin simply shrugged himself and went back to staring at the waves as they broke on the rocks. There were some vicious currents in those rocks and a really killer rip-tide about fifteen meters off to the left. He knew: he’d tried to swim in the area shortly after the Tower had been set-up.

“Well…?” He turned back to Raven to find her staring pointedly at him. Robin was vaguely surprised. He’d thought she’d been asking a rhetorical question.

“Uh, Raven, you can imagine how well that would go over. ‘Say Bruce, I just heard you’re finally happy and even managing to have a son of your own. I’m really pissed off about that and I’d really appreciate it if you would officially name me your first born instead of the new guy.’ So, what d’ya say, eh?’”

Robin finished his acting and turned back to Raven to see her response. Her left eyebrow was cocked up to the side as if she didn’t have a clue how his defective brain functioned. For some reason, the expression was priceless on her: classic Raven. Maybe it was because she always managed to look like she was questioning the sanity of her fully mortal counterparts. He started laughing and was rewarded with an eye roll. Robin suddenly felt much better.

They sat there for a while in companionable silence, both of them content to simply enjoy the view and mull over their own thoughts. Silence had been the norm between the couple for most of the time they’d know each other and it was still a comfortable routine.

“Why not talk to Alfred?”

TTTTTTTTTTTTT

Robin couldn’t believe that he was calling Wayne Manor without being called first, especially when he should’ve been trying to snatch a few hours sleep before night patrol.

“You seem to be doing a lot that you can’t believe lately,” his inward voice said, “besides, since when did you start sleeping?”

There was a brief burst of static before Alfred Pennyworth’s strangely timeless face appeared on the view screen in front. Robin almost asked how he was doing when he remembered that he hadn’t taken his mask off. It was in his room and it was a secure line. No big deal.

“Ah, Master Dick, what a pleasant surprise. Shall I wake up Master Bruce?”

Now this was a big deal. Bruce in bed before the morning hours? “He’s actually asleep? But it’s only 11:30!”

“Why, so it is.”

Robin could’ve sworn that Alfred smiled slightly at that, but he couldn’t be sure, “he and Mrs. Wayne retired to their room at around ten. They’re sound asleep.”

Robin couldn’t quite believe this. Trigon’s return to the physical plane had been less a sign of the Apocalypse than this.

“Alfred…why did Bruce never decide to make me his son? Why am I being replaced?”

The Apocalypse had to be coming. This was the second time in one day that he was honestly discussing intimate details concerning his personal life, never mind that it was with Alfred and Raven.

Alfred was absolutely shocked, but true to form, his discomposure lasted only a moment before his faultless “Butler” expression was back in place, albeit with a much keener stare.

“Is this because of Thomas?” Robin’s eyes narrowed at that, “Thomas, Bruce’s father…of course he’d name it that.”

“He is not an it Master Dick.” Robin suddenly realized that he’d been thinking aloud. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Alfred suddenly looked very tired, something that was uncharacteristic of the seemingly unchangeable butler, “If I may ask Master Dick, why are you so worried about your standing with Master Bruce when you’ve made it clear you want nothing to do with anything connected to him?”

Robin managed to keep his face blank at the underlying rebuke, but it wasn’t easy. He’d hurt Alfred and Barbara too when he’d left like he had. He’d been so angry and hurt that he’d said and done many things that he’d wished he could take back.

“I’m sorry Alfred.” He knew what Robin was talking about.

The aged servant’s face creased in a slight smile. All was forgiven. “I know dear boy, I know…”

Robin’s eyes were starting to hurt from staring at the screen. He glanced at the clock. It was getting close to patrol time and he still hadn’t resolved anything here.

“Master Dick…” Robin looked back up; Alfred had a very curious expression. “Master Dick, please come back home; just for a visit.”

“I am home,” he regretted it instantly, even if it was true.

Alfred’s kindly expression dissolved back into sadness again. “Yes, of course Master Dick…I need get to bed myself: early morning driving the Masters to their work.”

“Alfred, I…”

“Try to get some sleep in Master Dick.”

“Alfred, wait!”

“Master Dick?”

Robin frantically searched his memory for some excuse to go to Gotham. He had to make things right, if only because he’d been such a colossal jerk. If he didn’t go and apologize, at least to Alfred, he’d be no better than Bruce.

“Wasn’t Bruce holding some sort of charity fundraising ball at the Manor this weekend?”

Alfred was clearly puzzled, but he went along anyway, “Why, yes there is: 8:30 this Saturday. Are you thinking of attending?”

“Yea…yea, I think I will.”

The face on the screen smiled at him once again, the old Alfred back where he belonged.

“Good night, Master Dick.”

The screen winked out and Robin was left alone in his room with only the faint, phosphorescence from his alarm clock as illumination.

TTTTTTTTTTTTT

“---and now with a new and improved formula! Just once daily applic---“

Click

“---but I love you Kari! I’m sorry Richy, but I must go. My coun---“

Click Click

“If what you said was true, the sword is a powerful symbol: one that---”

Click

“---‘night at---

Click Click Click Click Click

“Impossible.”

Robin’s gloved hand stood poised over the remote, almost as if afraid of moving from the daily cooking show special, Adventures in Thai. The hesitation only remained for a second though. His finger moved to the back button.

Click Click

“---used armor-piercing rounds. Here you can see a picture of one these. Notice the distinctive tip. They’re actually fairly common, especially in Army bases that house Stryker brigades.”

Robin unconsciously leaned forward in his seat. If his mask were removed, his eyes would have been in danger of popping out. There was suddenly a slight tinkling noise as the glass in his hand shattered. Robin didn’t notice. His total attention was on the boldly outlined title next to the talking head’s ear.

Batman Dead?


No, they had to be mistaken. Batman couldn’t be dead. Bruce was too good. He was one of the best, no, he was the best; better than Superman, Wonder Woman, all the rest of the League combined. Bruce couldn’t be dead because Bruce hadn’t decided to die yet. It was that simple.

Robin abruptly realized that the talking head was still talking and, no, he couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing. “I never even got around to talking to him.”

“---and here again, this time in slow motion, is the actual shot. Even with the poor quality of a hand held digital, you can make out the slight jerk Batman makes when he gets shot. There, there’s the second. See, you can see his hand moving towards---“

“Hey, Robin, we’re all out of food! When are you going shopping?!” Beast Boy had picked a very unfortunate time to walk in. He rounded the corner just in time to see Robin’s mentor take the second round to the gut.

“Holy,” he breathed out. For a moment, he too seemed unable to take in the drama that was playing out before his very eyes. It was only for a moment though.

“Guys, guys get down here! Batman’sbeenshot, Batman’sbeenshot!!!” He was off and running through the Tower before Robin could grab him. It wasn’t too long before the rest of the team arrived. Starfire arrived first, her speed causing the mound of pictures she’d been going through to be sucked in behind her in a swirling vortex. Raven was next, teleporting to his side even as he was screaming at Beast to just come back and shut. Up. Now.

“---goes Hawk Girl. She was almost hit too, but she manages to dodge it. Vance is lucky he wasn’t killed. As it is, he’ll never walk again without a limp, if he walks at all that is. Now here to answer the question of, ‘Did the Batman survive long enough to get a hospital?’ is former combat veteran and Chicago EMT medic, Isaak Sears.”

All of the Titans were clustered around him now, jabbering away about what was on the news or their concern for him. He couldn’t make sense of a single thing they were saying and he didn’t particularly care either. All he wanted was to be able to understand the blasted commentary. No go though, his teammates were making too much noise.

“QUIIIEEEET!”

His throat and lungs were raw, but it had the desired effect. The entire Tower was quickly silent except for Mr. Sears and his live analysis that was being broadcasted into the Titan’s living room, courtesy ATC News.

“Jerry, I’ll tell you again, there’s no way to know for certain. First off, we don’t know what kinda damage those two rounds did. Normally getting hit with that small of an AP round is like getting hit with an ice pick. In and out. As long as you don’t get hit somewhere vital, you’re hurting, but you’re good. Trouble is, we know Batman wear’s body armor. That could’ve fragmented. It might’ve caused the bullets to bounce around inside him, all sorts’ah stuff. We know he was carried away by Hawk Girl and that he wasn’t checked into any nearby hospitals. It all depends on whether something bad got hit and how fast the Justice League got him somewhere they could treat him.”

As the anchor thanked Isaak for his commentary and prepared to go into re-reexamining the tapes, the Teen Titan’s stood in muted shock amid the scattered piles of old pictures and random trash that Starfire had dragged down with her rushing down.
It was Starfire, once again, who reacted first, “R-Robin, I am sure that the Man of Bats will be ok.”

Robin nodded mutely as the rest of the team returned their attention to their distraught leader. Several attempts to speak were made, but they all died before any sound came out. Robin could see their mouth’s twitching. Pretty soon, they’d be talking again, trying to comfort him. He didn’t want their comfort. He didn’t want anything.

“Guys, I’m going to be gone for a little while.”

TTTTTTTTTTTTT

Numb. That’s what Robin felt: numb. That was wrong, wasn’t it? You didn’t stare down at the broken body of the man who had been your father and not feel something.

Bruce Wayne lay in a coma in front of Dick on a large, mechanized bed. Numerous tubes and IV’s snaked in and out of his body, connecting him to the machines that had taken over his vital functions. Despite his bulk, Bruce seemed to visibly deflate under the harsh glare of the light.

It was so painfully obvious that he was nothing more than a mere human that Dick almost couldn’t believe that it was Batman who lay without waking in a coma. It was as if by stripping him of any place to hide the doctors had also somehow exorcised Bruce Wayne of Batman.

“One day, that will be you,” Times such as these tended to awaken those mean little voices that he normally squelched under his iron will and cocky ego.

“I know, I know.” He wasn’t going to bother this time though.

Was he simply in a state of shock? He dearly hoped so. Logically, he knew that something like this was a long time coming. Through his years with working with Batman, they’d had numerous brushes with death, but somehow, he’d managed to continue believing in their own immortality.

If anything, their seemingly endless string of victories in the face of death and dismemberment made the lie easier to believe in. Sure, the first few times he nearly falling off a high-rise or strangled by some thug had kept him up at night, but eventually-eventually it just made him feel more alive.

The Joker changed all that, the first supervillian to go after the Boy Wonder instead of his mentor. Neither of them had expected the shift in attention until it was far too late.
Dick still had nightmares, probably would until he was dead. He’d been on a routine beat when he’d heard the all to common cry for help. He’d looked down from his perch to see two thugs cornering a pretty blond in a trench coat, the usual. So, without thinking, he jumped down to the rescue. Next thing he knew, he was lying naked on an old operating table, leather straps biting into his skin. And there was that laugh, that horrible, horrible laugh.

It took Batman and Batgirl four agonizing days to find the Joker’s hideout in the old Arkham Asylum building and they only managed that because of Harley Quinn. When she’d learned about the Joker’s plans of breaking his mind and mold him into a “son” of sorts, she had grown jealous.

It was only because of her deranged possessiveness that Batman and Batgirl had swooped in on an unsuspecting Joker in the midst of one of his “cooking sessions” (the Joker was extremely fond of sulfuric acid derivatives) and proceeded to beat the madman senseless. Ironic, considering Harley had played the bait in their little trap.
Those four days of living hell were when he fully realized his mortality and now he truly knew that Bruce was mortal too. Only, instead of ruined skin and sleepless nights, would a life be the price?

Inexplicably, he felt of a rush of hot anger licking at his insides, even as he began to sob uncontrollably.

“Damn you Bruce! Are you going to die here and leave the guilt on me when it’s you who deserve to feel guilty over me?”

Dick was vaguely aware that someone was standing behind him. Alfred, he knew. He’d worn the same style of hand made Forzieri leather shoes for the past eighteen years.

“How is he, Alfred?” As if it were possible for him to not know.

“The doctors…they believe there’s a good chance that he’ll wake up in the next week or two.” It almost did him in to hear the kindly butler so scared. He had thought, a little callously, that the elderly man would’ve been used to this sort of thing by now.

“You really are an idiot sometimes Grayson.”

He owed Alfred more than he could ever repay for all the nights he’d spent gently caressing his hair, for the reminding Bruce of his birthdays and that he hated broccoli, for all time he always spared for “Master Dick”. Life, he mused, was truly unfair if it was going to hurt someone like Alfred after how much he’d given.

But then, it’d already demonstrated its cruelty with Bruce. The poor bastard had finally, impossibly begun to move towards some semblance of a normal life and then, oh, I’m so sorry, but now you’re in a coma.

Gently, Dick placed what he hoped was comforting hand on Alfred’s shoulder. For the first time in his life, it was his on hand on the butler’s immaculate coat and not the other way around, “He’ll be ok, Alfred. He’ll wake up, he’ll wake up.”

Oh God, he hoped so. And not only for Alfred, he realized, not only for his new wife and for Gotham and the whole world, but for himself.

Red Notes

1) So far, deciding what events to actually write about has been a real challenge. I keep finishing a page or two only to end up thinking that I should’ve left out what I wrote and instead write about something else. It’s very frustrating to say the least and I loose a lot of work.

2) As many of you know, Dick Grayson was never captured by the Joker. That was Tim Drake in The Return of the Joker. Dick experienced his first loss of confidence due to a failed hostage rescue attempt involving two face. Later, he was shot by the Joker through the shoulder.

[IVIaedhros]

The fourth Chapter of Reconciliations with Darkness has been made into a separate fanfiction, Teen Titans VS The Justice League of America (http://forums.toonzone.net/showthread.php?p=2514702#post2514702).

[IVIaedhros]

Hopefully this reorganization will help people keep track of the story better...I've also reposted everything using only my revised copies. Originally, I posted my rough drafts here in hopes of getting corrections, which I could then apply to the Fanfiction.net version. That didn't work out so well. From now on, only the latest versions will be posted here. Oh, one more thing...

***Looking for Beta readers***

Beta for me: If you're interested in beta reading any of my ongoing work, just send me an email. I'm always interested in finding new beta readers. That said, I don't want people who aren't going to help me. Reviews are free to be as short as possible, but I expect a lot more from beta readers. I expect detailed feedback on what you did and didn't like, why you didn't like it, how I might change it, possible plot suggestions, grammar corrections, etc. and I don't feel like waiting so long for critique that I've already finished the story. In return, I'll be sure to give you full credit as a beta reader and I'll also attribute any specific ideas that I get from you, to you. Though, of course, I always try as much as possible to make a story my own.


Beta for you: It's only fair that, if I demand so much from my beta readers, then I extend the courtesy to others. I will almost always agree to beta reading provided I know I can find time to give you a good effort. I tend to read and reply very quickly and if you've ever had the (dis)pleasure of getting some reply from me, then you know I can ramble on forever about a single comment.