"I just want you to know," Peter said, wringing out the warm washcloth and laying it over Sylar's forehead, "that I'm not here for you."

Sylar's gaze was unsteady. His eyes kept wandering, as though Peter's image was floating here and there. "Course you're not," he mumbled. "You still think your... big brother's in here somewhere."

Peter looked down at him. With the washcloth trailing droplets of water down his already-clammy forehead, bundled up in blankets and shivering along with his fever, Sylar looked less like a killer than Peter had ever seen him. "No," he said. "I've given up that ghost. I just..."

"What?" Sylar's eyelids had drifted closed. A shudder wracked him, and he clutched his fists into the blankets, pulling them tighter. "Can't let me suffer alone?" The pointed tone that would cut Peter to the quick any other day had fallen into near-incoherence with the illness. "Too good of a guy, Peter. 'S you."

"Maybe it is." Peter gave him a soft smile. "Maybe I just want you to know just how different we really are."

"We're..." Sylar rolled into the pillow, nearly displacing the cloth. "not different."

"And how do you figure that?"

"We both have... high opinions of ourselves. Sylar said, then groaned as his muscles complained.

"Actually," Peter said, "that's not the reason I'm here, either."

Sylar sneezed loudly, sniffled, and looked up at him with suddenly sharp, pointed eyes. "Then what is?"

He met a gaze just as pointed. "Do you remember whose power I'd taken when we last fought?" Peter said. He leaned down to brush his lips across the shell of Sylar's ear. Sylar shivered at the contact.

"Why do you think you were able to get sick?" Peter whispered.

Sylar's eyes widened.

"You're right," Peter said, "we're not so different. We both like to watch our enemies suffer."

"Dad, Dean's gone missing."

Dean was a goddamn idiot. It probably wasn't the kindest sentiment to feel when the boy was nine shades of banged up, blood puddling down his neck from one ear and a goose egg the size of John's fist tucked up behind the other, but hell if he had other words for his son right at the moment.

A series of voicemails from Sam had put John on this hunt. The first had been just as pissed and surly as ever, with barely a hint of the fear that would come with the later ones.

"I got the creature. Cold salted iron took it down and I burned it after but I can't find Dean. It took him and I can't find him. You need to come help me find him."

He might have ignored it. Had ignored ones before with equally dire messages. He'd put aside his own panic when Sam had called to tell him about the rawhide, had refused to panic when Dean had been dying. But he'd been able to track his boys' progress that time, had been able to make sure they'd make their way to someone who could help a hell of a lot more than John could. Dean being missing, missing on a hunt for a creature that devoured not flesh but soul, well.

There were certain things a father could be asked to put up with and then there were others that were just beyond him.

Made it easier that Dean was unconscious. Worrisome, after three days trekking through half frozen mud and melting snow, that Dean couldn't look at him but it was better this way. Dean would be fine, there were no other options, and it would be better all around if neither of his boys had any idea that he'd been here.

"Where are you? Don't you even care? Iteats souls, Dad!"

John reached for his knife and got to work on shredding the ropes bound too tightly into Dean's wrists. The skin below was reddened, rope burnt, with white slips of flesh rubbed up and half off. No matter. Sam would have antibacterial cream and bandages for them. Dean might get a few odd looks from walking around with both wrists trussed up, but it would do.

He paused to run his hands lightly over his son's limbs and chest, seeking out breaks or swellings. Dislocated right shoulder, Dean would bitch about that, but this wasn't the place to set it. Otherwise, nothing that John could easily find. Few other places where he'd been cut up just a bit and the blood had caused his shirt to stick to his skin, but there weren't any wet patches and there was no lingering iron taint to the air. Nothing wrong with Dean's ribs anyway, which was the important part. Made the next bit that much easier.

The focus whites out the pain, puts it on the back burner as he forces his body to press forward. At this juncture, he's forcing his body just to move at all and that is when the situation elevates to a new level of dangerous. Pride keeps him walking; keeps him from letting the disorientation overwhelm his senses until he's collapsed on the floor of the alleyway. Ten stories without a line. It was never the fall that killed. His shoulder is dislocated, his head bleeding beneath the cowl. Somewhere in his left hand, he can sense the hairline fractures in the many bones there.

There's cackling from above and words that he can't quite discern. Why do they always feel the need to monologue? He looks up from his place along the wall. The brick offers stability, keeps him on his feet. Oracle is in his ear, asking if he needs help. He is not above asking for it but not yet. His hand reaches for his utility belt, fingers trembling just a bit with the effort until they wrap around what he needs.

He aims. Fires. The shot is dead-on despite the way his vision has blurred, despite whatever chemicals are currently being pumped into his system. Joker and his goddamn toxins. Focus.

The cackling continues until the Joker realizes what has happened and when the lunatic looks down at the grappling line that has been fired around one ankle, no witty remarks are exchanged. Instead, he gives one solid yank on the line and proceeds to haul the Joker off the same ten story building he himself has just fallen off of. The landing is loud. There is a sick cracking noise that is oddly satisfying and as he walks to the Joker's body, he looks down at it with nothing less than disdain.

"Enjoy Arkham," he grunts and the same hand that is splintering with tiny breaks is used to knock the Joker out. The police can clean up. "Oracle. I need a pick up."

The job is done. He lets his mind go blank. He lets the darkness in.

When Batman awakens in the familiarity of the Cave on a gurney whose sheets he'd picked out himself, he smiles at the taste of his own blood in his mouth. He smiles because in the most cliche of ways, it reminds him that he's won another night and that Gotham will see him again.

He tries his hardest to hold onto Tim through the racking sobs. It's a difficult prospect, made worse by Damian jumping all over the place.

But he can do this. He can hold him together just like this. He can.

His chest aches though. Because Tim is in pain and he can't really make it better, not right away. It always hurts more when Tim is pain.

Always and it's a distressing thought. He doesn't want to think about what that might or might not mean right now.

He plants a kiss on his forehead and rocks them. Maybe that will ease something.

This did weird things to my head!

Hammond took a deep, shattering breath. It tore though his lungs with gut wrenching effort like he’d forgotten how. The car was motionless but for the plinkplink of cooling steel. The only other sound he could hear was his own blood, pounding though his veins faster than the car could ever go.

No... there were another sound...voices... close but too soft to hear clearly even though they were shouting at him... He let his head loll, waiting for the world to sort out its own volume control issues.

It was Jeremy shouting, deep and booming. Richard could feel the vibrations but couldn’t make out the words. James was there too but he wasn’t talking. He was just standing there – shock white and trembling, his thumb nail between his teeth.

The camera crew kept their distance as the medics patted him down, flicking a thumbs up to move him. Jeremy and James helped him to his unsteady feet, their hands strong and supportive as he found his balance.

“Did I wreck it?” He asked, his own voice cracking and odd in his ears.

Jeremy’s hands flew to his face in despair. “For the love of-” He bit the rant back. “All that and you’re worried about the car?”

James didn’t let go, he just held on to Richard in an awkward half hug, taking the smaller man’s weight. “Leave it Jeremy. Not now.”

Jeremy’s rage died as fast as it had come and he wrapped a supporting arm around the Hamster’s narrow waist. “The car’s not that bad really...all things considered.”

“Neither am I... all things considered. I could go again.” He flashed them both a bright, cheeky smile but knew neither of them were buying it.

“No.” James’s voice was soft but sure, surer that he normally sounded. “You need to get checked out properly and then you need rest. No more filming today.”

Without realising Richard’s grip on James’s arm tightened.

But Jeremy saw it and stepped closer, holding him between them. “It’s alright. We’re not going anywhere. You can’t lose us that easily. Just think of the hate mail if we’d let you die...”

Set somewhere around the end of BFTC, but not necessarily canon

* * *

Jason knows a broken spirit when he sees one. Watching the Baby Bird from a distance, he can't help but recognize all the signs, the way Tim has become sloppy in everything he does, the way his shoulders droop and his feet drag when there should be a lightness to his steps that only being a Robin can instill. It's like watching himself, looking back on how he was after Bruce chose the fucking Joker over him.

And he hates it.

It takes almost all night, waiting for the right moment, but that moment finally comes when Tim squares off against a bunch of low-class thugs and manages to get the shit beat out of himself for his efforts. Snatching the kid from the mouth of the alley he'd been watching from, Jason hauls him around and slams his surprised brother against the closest brick wall.

Tim doesn't so much as flinch, just looks at him then with exhaustion lining his eyes around his mask and sighs slowly, like all his strength's just gone, drained away like so much water through a sieve. "Here to finish me off?"

And that just kicks Jay in the gut. "The hell? That's seriously what you think? After all the shit we've been through, you think I'd try to take you out when you won't even fight back? Bullshit."

Tim barely cocks an eyebrow, his lower lip twitching where it's split and bleeding dark crimson. "Why not? Not like I give a crap anymore, anyway."

Jason almost can't stand seeing him like this, and simultaneously hates himself for it. "Dammit, Baby Bird.... C'mon, let's go," he says, and hauls Tim away from the wall, toward the nearest fire escape. "Somebody's gotta clean your ass up, and it's pretty clear you can't be left on your own like this."

To absolutely no surprise, Tim just follows wordlessly, letting Jason support him as they climb to the roof, and Jay's damn glad he got to him when he did.

* * *

I would but I don't have their voices in my head anymore... :(