Theo had not slept properly in three nights.
It was not the kind of thing anyone commented on directly, because the Nightwing household had learned, over the last several weeks, to give him a certain distance when it came to anything that touched on Rex, Diana, or the specific combination of the two.
But the evidence was there for anyone who looked closely enough to see it. The shadows under his eyes had settled into something permanent rather than transient, deep purple bruises that no amount of rest could heal.
He moved through the mornings a half step slower than he used to, the specific delayed quality of someone whose body was present in a room before his mind had fully caught up to it.
He had stopped correcting the junior guards during the early drills, something he used to do reflexively, because correcting them required a kind of engaged attention he no longer seemed to have available to spend.
