NO CELESTIAL / dick grayson

three, midnights

  THEY WERE ALL trained to be nocturnal. Each and single one of them had been taught how to force their bodies to the absolute limit, to be awake at hours when everyone else was asleep. To neglect slumber for days until they could not carry on any longer. Remiel had done her best in the past year to adjust her sleep schedule, but insomnia was still something she constantly suffered from. She was used to using meditation as a way of getting rest. Since she had to meditate quite regularly to regulate her qi anyways, it had sometimes replaced sleep for her altogether when she truly could not fit the time in.

  But when she had slept, she'd always been taught never to sleep too deep. Always be on alert, even when deep asleep. Every muscle was still tight even when she was asleep, and the slightest of sounds woke her up. In a city like Hong Kong, filled with constant noise, it was sometimes impossible to sleep properly. And she was always too afraid to wear earplugs, afraid that something might happen and she'd be too late to react.

  So it wasn't shocking that she was still awake when the clock struck two.

  Well, it wasn't fair to say that she hadn't slept at all. She'd gone to sleep at eleven, and managed an hour and a half before waking up. And then she laid there for half an hour before she realised she couldn't sleep, woke up and meditated, and now she was thirsty and wanted a drink of water. Except she'd already finished the water in the thermal flask that Alfred had given her.

  She sighed.

  Taking it in one hand, she left her room, gently closing the door behind her. When she walked by Damian's room, she could see from the slit that the light was off. She hoped that he, at least, was enjoying his sleep.

  She'd made this journey hundreds of times. And she was perfectly allowed to move around the house, but there was a sense of worry, as if she was sneaking around somewhere she shouldn't be in as she headed downstairs for the kitchen.

  Most of the lights in the house were off, but the dark had stopped bothering her long ago. She wouldn't have lasted that long as an assassin otherwise. Somewhere down the line the dark had stopped being something to be afraid of, and somewhere that felt more like home.

  The lights of the kitchen were on.

  It didn't deter her. She walked in to see Dick's back facing her, even though she knew perfectly well he'd have guessed who it was at this point. Damian's footsteps were lighter, and he had a certain sense of arrogance in the way he walked. Bruce was far heavier. And she'd observed that Tim took slower but longer strides than her.

  He was making himself some toast. He'd changed out of his Nightwing costume, probably taken a shower along the way, now wearing a cotton white shirt and shorts. She was dressed rather similarly, in a purple t-shirt that belonged to Barbara and was a bit too large, covering the shorts she had beneath.

  "Good night?"

  He glanced up at her. "Run-in with Dr Freeze."

  "Ouch."

  "Sent him back to Arkham."

  "As expected."

  She picked up the kettle and moved to the sink to fill it up.

  "Bruce tried to take Damian out on patrols for the first two nights, but he's far too... bloodthirsty."

  "He's been taught to kill and not show mercy. Of course it'd be a bad idea." She turned, leaning against the counter as she waited for the water to boil, arms crossed in front of her chest.

  "You weren't like that. You listened to everything Bruce told you to do."

  "I've always been like that. And my entire goal was to play a role and lower your suspicions. Of course I couldn't be trigger-happy murdering people."