Chapter Text
Hood can’t make anything easy, can he. Turns out, when Hood knows Nightwing plans to yank him away from the dark side by any means necessary, he becomes spontaneously deaf to pleas to stop the gratuitous violence, unnecessary casualties, and very mean nicknames.
They do two more missions, one clearing out an up and coming drug lord’s lab and inventory stash, and another busting a trafficking ring out of Burnley. The traffickers conscripted a handful of women out of Crime Alley, so Hood called dibs.
For their fifth total job together, Red Hood and Nightwing intercepted Black Mask’s largest weapons import to date, took out the security and transport teams, and called it in to the GCPD.
“You aren’t even going to help, are you?” Nightwing mutters as he forcibly resets a goon’s dislocated hip, his gloves slippery with blood from the two bullet wounds he just bandaged. Poor bastard. The other fifteen henchmen are scattered around the wharf in various states of consciousness. At least four are dead.
As Leg Goon curses Nightwing’s mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, Hood shrugs, not budging from his position leaning against a large shipping crate, not lifting a finger. “After I went to all that effort to break him in the first place? No thanks.”
Nightwing pats Leg Goon’s other leg. “Don’t move until the GCPD and an ambulance get here.”
“Do I look like I can afford a fuckin’ ambulance?” he gripes, his face tight with pain.
Nightwing looks up at Hood, gesturing to Leg Goon forcefully. “See? See what you did?”
“I took out half a dozen of Black Mask’s men,” Hood says flatly, “which means Blackie will have to recruit a new batch who are less trained, less organized, and more expensive after hearing what we did to the first batch.”
“There was no ‘we’,” Nightwing says as he gets to his feet angrily, “You, you did this.”
“And proud of it,” Hood says, his voice cold. “If you don’t like the way I work, the exit is right there.”
Nightwing flips him off as he strides to inspect the arms shipment Hood so violently stole.
“I’m not making you do anything,” Hood adds mulishly as he pushes off the shipping crate. “You’re the one who insists on gatecrashing my jobs and being a pain in my ass.”
“I think you mean, Thank you, Nightwing, for watching my back and being the best partner ever, Nightwing,” he mutters under his breath as he opens the shipment and starts counting.
“For the last fucking time,” Hood says, and even with the vocoder, Nightwing can tell he’s speaking through gritted teeth, “I don’t do partners.”
“But we work so well together,” Nightwing protests, sifting through the straw to add up 200 grenades. He moves onto the next box, which contains semi-automatics. While the Commissioner has gone a long way in cleaning up the GCPD, the Bats have a policy to log any dangerous inventory themselves in case any go “missing” on the way to evidence lockup.
“So says you.”
“Alright,” Nightwing tosses Hood an annoyed look over his shoulder. “Why would we be such terrible partners, then?” he asks.
Robin was the first hero partner that showed heroes could have partners in the first place. It wasn’t a weight he signed up for at eight years old, but one he now shoulders gladly, as it saves lives and gives him and his friends purpose. Moreover, Robin partnered with the most prickly, particular hero out there at the time. He founded and led the Teen Titans – if there’s anything he does well, it’s teamwork.
And, full offense to Hood, but Hood has nothing on sitting with Bruce for a five-hour stakeout in the Batmobile when Batman hasn’t showered in four days, slept in three, and eaten in one.
“You’re bossy,” Hood says immediately.
Nightwing rolls his eyes. It’s not like he hasn’t heard the same from Wally or Donna. And he knows Tim heard the same from Cassie and Kon, once upon a time. Hazards of being raised by a control freak who has NSA-level surveillance capabilities on the entire eastern seaboard.
“You’re too critical.”
Nightwing purses his lips as he mentally jots down 50 semi-automatics. He’s actually worked on being less critical since the first time he made Beast Boy cry in a debrief after a disastrous mission.
Into the lingering silence, he glances up at Hood questioningly.
“And I hate you,” Hood says defensively.
Nightwing can’t help his broad grin. “Now, I know that’s not true. You love me.”
Hood squares his shoulders. “You come onto me again, and not even Batman’s gonna find your body,” he growls. “Everyone else might think you’re god’s gift to mankind, but you’re no better than the rest of us. You fuck up. You have daddy issues the size of Gotham Harbor.” He breaks off. “You leave dishes in the sink.”
“I was going to say,” Nightwing steels himself, “you love me like a brother.”
Hood takes a step back. “Shut up,” he says, his voice eerily flat. “You have no idea what you’re talking about –”
Nightwing carefully straightens from his crouch over the crate. He cocks his head. “Don’t I?”
Hood inhales a sharp breath. “No,” he says, “you don’t.” He shakes his head. “I’m out. Handle the pigs yourself.”
“Hood –”
Hood rounds on him. “Don’t you ever fucking quit?” He throws his hands in the air. “You’re Dick Grayson –”
Nightwing blanches beneath his mask. What is he –
“You’re the golden boy,” Hood continues savagely, “the one who always makes the right call, the one he always saves in time. Well, newsflash, you can’t always save everyone. Get over yourself.”
“Hood,” Nightwing hisses, his internal warning bells going off at the pure venom in Hood’s words. “No names in the –”
“Don’t worry, Dickiebird,” Hood cuts him off with a sweeping gesture, “They won’t live long enough to tell anyone.” He pulls out his gun.
Bang.
Leg Goon slumps over.
“No!” Nightwing cries out, but Hood is gone, sprinting between the bodies and executing the ones still breathing.
Hood kills three more of Black Mask’s men before Nightwing intercepts him. With a harsh laugh, he dodges Nightwing’s fists. Nightwing tries a roundhouse kick, but Hood grabs his foot out of midair and throws him against a cement pillar.
“Couldn’t resist showing off, could you, Circus Boy?” Hood calls as he strides towards a group of tied up goons. “Always with the flashy moves. You never learn.”
Nightwing scrambles to his feet, his heartbeat stuttering with each gunshot. Four more dead.
No, Jason –
Nightwing leaps after Hood again. Hood ducks his first two punches but takes an elbow straight to the sternum. With a grunt, he staggers back a step, and Nightwing presses his advantage. Hood may be strong, but Nightwing is fast. By the time Hood thinks of his next move, Nightwing has already dodged. Nightwing kicks at his knees, the weak points in Hood’s armor, but Hood’s stance is too solid, and, instead of falling, Hood just stumbles.
Nightwing slams his arm down on Hood’s right elbow, and Hood drops his gun with a swear. Nightwing kicks it out of the way, but Hood has already pulled a second one from the holster on his thigh. Before he can aim, Nightwing swings his leg up and around, knocking that one to the ground too.
“What’s the plan here, Dickie?” Hood taunts as he aims a punch at Nightwing’s neck. “Gonna take me in? Lock me up in Blackgate? You know I’d get out sooner or later.”
Nightwing shakes his head. “None of that has to happen!” he says, sounding way too desperate for his liking. “If you –”
Hood unleashes a flurry of blows.
Nightwing catches one to the cheek and another to the gut. He goes for a feint to the neck and ducks low to jab Hood in the kidney. It’s mostly blocked by his body armor, but Nightwing is rewarded by another stumble back. He flips back, out of reach. Time to regroup.
“Enough,” Hood thunders. He pulls out his third gun from the small of his back. “You know nothing about me. We are not partners,” he spits the last word, “and we certainly are not brothers. I am not a vigilante; I’m a crime lord. And you keep fucking forgetting that fact.”
“But –”
“Just listen to me for once,” Hood roars.
Nightwing jerks back, white-hot pain flaring in his right shoulder. Hood… shot him?
Actually shot him?
“Hood –” Nightwing tries again, and, like an idiot, doesn’t dodge as Hood sends another bullet slamming into his left thigh. Agony radiates up and down his leg, and shock really can’t come fast enough. He missteps, just managing to catch himself against a cement pillar.
Hood prowls towards him, and inklings of actual fear crawl up Nightwing’s throat. He needs a second to regroup – how the hell did this go south so fast? He’s been in stickier situations with Batman, with the Titans, on his own in Bludhaven, but they’re hard to remember as Hood gets right up in his face, stinking of bitter gunpowder and coppery blood.
“We’re done. You hear me?” Hood hisses. “If I see your face again – in the mask or out – the next one,” he waves the gun in Nightwing’s face, “goes through your skull.”
Nightwing ducks the wicked right hook to his cheek, but his bad leg crumples as he leaps back. He lands ungracefully on his ass.
Hood makes a disgusted noise and stalks out, pausing occasionally to finish off Black Mask’s remaining men.
At every gunshot, Nightwing recoils.
The door slams shut behind Hood.
With half an ear out for incoming sirens, Nightwing applies pressure to his leg with both hands. He needs to stop the bleeding, to get up, to get out of this graveyard.
But all he can do is press his forehead to his good knee, trying to keep himself together. Breathe. It’s only two gunshot wounds; he’s had worse.
So that’s how Operation Friendship Helmet ends, with two bangs and a whimper.
* * *
Dick makes up a story about a motorcycle accident. Two and a half weeks pass.
He reads about Hood’s next attack on Black Mask in the evening paper. Apparently, Roman Sionis’s 19th floor office was blown up with a rocket launcher.
“Makes you glad we’re not Gotham for a change,” Amy says as she drops a fresh cup of coffee on Dick’s desk. “You staying much longer?”
“Yeah, got some paperwork I’ve been putting off,” Dick says. “Thanks, Ames.”
“Just make sure you’re not burning yourself out along with that midnight oil.”
Dick wraps his hands around the hot cup. “I’ll be fine.”
Amy shakes her head as she heads out.
Dick sighs. His healing leg itches, and the sling hangs his arm at the exact right height to bump against his desk.
As usual, everyone has already left the station, leaving Dick to wrap up the shift’s work alone.
He puts in another forty minutes until the tiny words on the ancient precinct computers swim before his eyes. With a groan, he leans back in his chair and stares hard at the yellow-streaked ceiling panels. Decades on decades of cigarette smoke buried in every crack and divot.
Bludhaven is a shit show, and the precinct even more so.
Amy’s good people, but Dick can’t clean up an entire police force with one officer from one department. He has no idea what he was thinking. He moves to scrub his hands down his face but stops halfway as the bullet hole in his shoulder protests.
He can’t do this.
Maybe he just needs a good night’s sleep. He’s been avoiding seeing his friends too, dodging texts from Wally and the rest of the Titans. When was the last time he saw Tim? After he got shot, Alfred patched him up in the Cave, and Tim helped him limp up to the Manor movie room to relax. He put on some mindless monster movie, and Dick fell asleep within minutes. The next morning, Dick left with his tail between his legs and booked it to Bludhaven.
God, he hasn’t seen Tim since then.
Dick groans as he shuts off his computer. What a good big brother he’s shaping up to be. And after Jason too –
Dick roughly shoves printouts of his riskier reports in his bag and hauls himself to his feet. He marches out of the precinct, nodding to Scott at the reception desk on his way out.
At the first crosswalk, his phone rings.
Dick’s eyes widen as he takes in the blank screen. “What’s going on?” he asks, getting straight to the point. Bruce, Alfred, or Tim wouldn’t call him from the Batcomputer line for anything less than an emergency.
“Master Dick,” Alfred says, his normally composed voice speaking just a hair too quickly, “do you have a way to contact the Red Hood?”
Dick stops dead. “Why do you ask, A?”
“It seems Batman and Robin have been taken, and I’ve lost contact. Black Mask has sent out word that whoever brings him Red Hood will get Batman and Robin in return.”
Dick swallows. “You sure?”
“Quite, Master Dick.”
Dick runs his good hand down his face. “Yeah, I have his number. I’ll be in Gotham in 30 and try to set up a meeting.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll get ’em, A,” Dick promises before he hangs up. “I’ll bring them home.”
In his apartment, he pulls on his Nightwing suit for the first time in two weeks and hops on the Wingcycle.
Nightwing makes it to Gotham in 20 minutes.
Hood doesn’t respond to his texts or calls. Big surprise. But Dick has other ways of getting in touch.
The city seems to be holding its breath. Hot, heavy, humid air hangs low over the skyline, and the breeze off the harbor blows the taste of salt and waterlogged garbage over the highway into downtown. He weaves between late night traffic and blows every red light on the way to Bohnes Alley.
The screaming has him jumping off the Wingcycle in record time. He creeps towards the mouth of the Alley, escrimas in hand.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Claire’s unmistakable voice shouts as two men limp out onto the main street, one practically carrying the other. As the pair passes under a streetlight, blood falls on the sidewalk in spurts. One of the men is missing a foot, blown clean off.
Grimacing, Nightiwng peeks around the corner.
The number of ladies has been cut in half. Claire stands in front. Two splatters of blood have turned her sky blue blouse into a horror show. Brown Eyes is nowhere to be found, but Nightwing recognizes Sunflower, now wearing a shirt decorated with embroidered irises. Two other women huddle behind Headband. They look young, seventeen at most.
Claire’s widen as she catches sight of him. “Don’t come any closer!” she shouts, throwing out a hand.
Nightwing straightens as he tries to look as non-threatening as possible. “I’m not going to hurt –”
“I know that, dumbass,” Claire says in a carrying voice. “But… look.” She points up, and, through the gloom, Nightwing makes out a shadowy figure on the rooftop of 38 Bohnes Alley. He’d bet his trust fund, if he shined a light up there, it would bounce back with a red and shiny glint.
“He has a semi-automatic,” Claire says flatly, “and he’s shooting it at anyone who looks at us funny.”
Nightwing freezes. “Thanks for the heads up?”
Claire gives him dismissive once over. “I owe you my sister’s life.”
He softens. That’s right, Claire hasn’t met him in the mask.
“Far as I’m concerned,” she continues, “we’re square. If you wanna take on Red now, it’s your funeral.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Nightwing says absently as he scans the alley, cataloging possible places to shelter, blind spots, and leverage points to get him up to the roof. “Any particular reason why he’s picking off your clients?”
“He protects us,” Sunflower chimes in as Claire just clenches her jaw. Clearly Claire has mixed feelings about the type of protection detail Hood offers. Sunflower continues, “And with that hit out on him, more than a few guys have tried to get to him through us.”
“As if he’s not busy enough protecting his own back,” Claire gripes loudly, her voice raised to carry up to the roof. She narrows her eyes at Nightwing. “This is all your fault, by the way.”
“Mine?”
Claire moves as if to cross her arms over her chest, glances down at the blood splatters, and thinks better of it. She places her hands on her hips instead, saying fiercely, “If you didn’t try to get so cozy with Red, he wouldn’t be in this situation. He worked alone until you came along. Now Black Mask caught wind that he works with the Bats, and – ” She sweeps both arms out to gesture to their general predicament.
“But he doesn’t work with us?” Nightwing says, perplexed. “He hates us. Everyone knows that.”
“Well, he worked with you,” she says, and the past tense doesn’t slip past Nightwing. Hood’s been keeping her updated. Nightwing’s frown deepens. At least the bastard can keep one friend.
“And Black Mask heard about it,” Claire keeps going, “and, since he’s a fucking idiot, he assumed Hood started working with all you masked weirdos.”
“Sorry?” Nightwing says distractedly. He cranes his neck to get a better view of the rooftop. Hood chose his position well; Nightwing doesn’t see any way he can vault from ground level without exposing himself to gunfire for at least half of his trip up the building.
Okay then.
“Be right back,” he promises.
“Whatever,” Claire says.
From the other side of Park Row, Nightwing grapples to the roof. It’s a longer distance to swing than he usually attempts, but it’s not like Nightwing feels less at home in the air than on the ground.
Landing silently, he straightens to find himself face-to-face with a semi-automatic gun trained on his face, no doubt pilfered from the last job they did together. Hood stands amid a half dozen bodies, and when Nightwing takes a step sideways to stabilize his stance, his boots stick a fraction of a second too long, tacky with the blood pooling in every depression on the roof.
Hood breaks the silence first. “Can’t say I’m surprised to see you here.”
Nightwing holds his hands up in the universal gesture of no harm. “I come in peace.”
“Is that right?” Hood drawls. “’Cause the way I figure, you get to knock two birds with one stone. Get your Daddy Issues back and Robin 3.0, and take me out all in one blow.”
“I wasn’t going to do that,” Nightwing says in a neutral voice.
Hood makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. “Fuck no you’re not, not if you want to keep your kneecaps in one piece.”
Nightwing rolls his eyes behind the mask. “I’m not going to hand you over to Black Mask.”
Hood falters and the semi-automatic dips a fraction “What? Why?”
“Because he’s going to kill you?” Nightwing says slowly, and maybe one of Hood’s many attackers got in a good blow to the helmet before Hood put them in the ground. “And I’m not the type to send men to their death.”
Hood snorts. “No, I guess that’s never been your MO.” He lowers the semi-automatic. “I shot you.”
“I know,” Nightwing says shortly. “I was there. Thanks for that.”
“And you’re not going to take me in?” Hood asks, and he honestly sounds confused.
“No,” Nightwing says, a tad impatiently. From the scant research he did on the way over, Black Mask didn’t give a deadline for Hood’s (helmeted) head on a platter, but he’s not a man known for his patience. Nightwing gives him Black Mask 24 hours before he spreads news of the hit order outside of Gotham. At that point, who knows who will answer the call.
Hell, who is Nightwing kidding. Deathstroke will answer, 100% guaranteed, and Nightwing is not in the mood to deal with Slade or Rose.
He continues to Hood, “Now who’s not listening?”
Hood drops the semi altogether. It hangs by its strap off his shoulder. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m hilarious.”
“Says the guy walking off two gunshot wounds.”
“That was weeks ago. I’m fine.” Internally, he winces at the expression Alfred would make if Dick said that to his face.
Hood crosses his arms over his chest, and Nightwing has no idea how a helmet can look so skeptical, but Hood manages it. “Okay, so you’re not interested in Blackie’s offer. What the fuck are you doing here?”
Nightwing inhales a slow breath. “I’d like your help extracting them.”
Hood barks out a laugh. He sobers. “Wait, you’re serious.”
Nightwing nods.
Hood swings his rifle back in position and turns away from Nightwing. “Fuck off, Dickwing. I’m not heading into BM’s lair to rescue the Bats. They got themselves into this mess; they can get themselves out of it.”
Nightwing’s jaw drops open. Rage trickles through his veins, and gushes into a flood as Hood turns away from him, clearly done with this conversation. “I can’t believe you,” he says, fighting to keep his voice from shaking, as Hood crouches down to resume his sniper position over the alley. “They didn’t get into this mess. They had nothing to do with you for months!”
“They signed up for it when they put on the masks,” Hood says dismissively without turning around.
For one glorious moment, Nightwing considers pushing Hood off the roof. It is only a five story drop, and Hood undoubtedly knows how to land without dying. The helmet would crack open like an egg –
Dick silently gags. No, not even Hood. He couldn’t watch anyone fall.
“You’re…” Nightwing searches for the right word, “impossible.”
“In more ways than one,” Hood mutters, so quietly, Nightwing’s not sure he was supposed to hear.
“Heartless,” Nightwing adds venomously.
Hood fiddles with the safety. “Look,” he says, his voice quiet, “Good luck, I guess. But I’m riding the pine on this one.”
Nightwing takes a step closer. “Hood –”
The helmet swivels around to stare at him. “You don’t want to try to force my hand.”
“I wasn’t,” Nightwing says through gritted teeth. “I am just asking. I – I can’t do it alone,” he admits, and the words physically hurt to force out.
Hood snorts. “Sure you can. You’re Dick Grayson.”
Nightwing’s mouth twists. “I don’t get you. You say my name like it means something, but weren’t you the one who just told me I’m nothing special?”
“I contain multitudes,” Hood deadpans. At the sound of a metallic clang a story below them, Hood spins back to attention. Someone is climbing the fire escape. “Not so fast, fucker,” he snarls as he opens fire.
Amidst all the noise and screams, Nightwing leaps off the roof. Hood is clearly busy, and Nightwing can’t argue with him all night. He has better things to do.
* * *
Nightwing scouts out Black Mask’s newest hideout, an old Janus Cosmetics building in the Diamond District. He slips past the CCTV on the roof, sticking to the shadows and timing his footsteps with the beat of a nightclub’s EDM track across the street. Apparently the Golden Griffin does good Friday night business.
He folds his body into the shadows of a low-hanging eave and hacks into the security cameras.
Dammit.
Too many floors to clear and too many guards to eliminate.
Nightwing exhales a slow breath.
He can do this. Just because he doesn’t have his team or backup doesn’t mean he’s down for the count. He’s pulled off solo rescue missions before. No need to panic.
One problem at a time.
1. Where are Batman and Robin?
Easy, the basement. Even Black Mask isn’t stupid enough to hold them near any sort of window or skylight. It’s why the roof is the easiest access point.
According to the lower level cameras, this building was built on top of three floors of chemistry labs – sterile, protected by ID scanners, and brightly lit.
2. How to get there?
The elevator can take him through the office floors, but he’s on his own once he reaches the labs. He’ll need to steal an ID or hack into the security system, which would make cracking these cameras look like child’s play and take time he (and Batman and Robin) don’t have.
Fine.
He’ll eliminate the security altogether by cutting the power and taking the stairs.
3. How to deal with the guards?
Nightwing usually carries a decent amount of gear in his suit, but he only has a dozen pellets of knockout gas on him now. And because these guys are probably Gotham natives, there’s a decent chance they carry gas masks on them; Nightwing certainly never leaves his rebreather at home.
He has a couple flashbangs and a dozen smoke bombs, but they’ll be useless against panicking goons spraying bullets at any shadow that moves.
Nothing he can do about that. He’ll have to make do.
Nightwing drops into the elevator shaft and rides down to the first floor, ears piqued for any signs of trouble. He creeps along the floor, sticking to the security cameras’ blind spots until he runs into the first guard. He takes a running leap, and strikes with the entire force of his momentum. The guard goes down, and Nightwing drags him out of the way and zip ties his wrists and ankles.
Quickly, before the next guard can come around the corner, he slips into the utility room and hooks up his wrist computer to the generator. He uploads a virus, silently sending Babs his dearest thanks.
The very air contracts with negative noise as the generator dies and takes all the imperceptible background noise with it. The lights flicker off, and Nightwing’s posture loses an iota of tension. So far, so good.
He taps the edge of his domino, and his world goes green. Squinting as his eyes adjust to the nightvision, he leaves the utility room.
Shouts echo down the hallways and blinding flashlight beams bounce against the walls.
Unfortunately, the power room is located at the exact opposite end of the floor from the labs, forcing Nightwing to backtrack to the elevators and then check the rest of the floor.
He races along the hallways, peering into every dark laboratory area for any sign of Batman and Robin. He only runs into a group of four henchmen near the stairwell, arguing about how to turn the power back on. All the running and crouching hasn’t helped his still-healing leg at all, so Nightwing uses two knockout pellets to get them out of the way.
With B1 clear, he races down the stairs to B2 and finds twice as many guards.
Evidently, B2 also has a backup generator, as emergency lights cast the floor in a hostile red glow. Tucked away in the stairwell, out of sight for now, Nightwing tries to calm his racing pulse and the adrenaline buzzing through his veins.
Keep it together. Only two floors left.
He positions the last of his knockout pellets between his gloved fingers and plucks out two flashbangs with his other hand.
One.
Two.
Three –
Nightwing squeezes his eyes shut and waits.
Predictably, the goons start firing every which way as they go off. Hood was right; these guys read as green as Robin’s old pixie boots.
As the frenzied shots peter off, Nightwing leaps into action. He throws the knockout pellets in the thickest grouping.
Half of them pull on gas masks. Nightwing goes after them first, flipping onto one goon’s shoulder and kicking him into the next nearest guy so they both go down in a tangle of limbs.
“It’s Nightwing!” one henchman shouts. “Call –”
Nightwing smashes him on the head with an escrima stick.
He looks up in time to see another goon take off down the opposite end of the hallway, a radio raised to his mouth.
Dammit .
Nightwing leaps after him, but by now the goons – the conscious ones – have had time to reload their guns.
Fantastic.
He jumps out of the way, twisting through the limited space in the hallway to dodge the bullets. He throws one goon into the wall, knocking him out, but he counts at least five more to go.
And he hasn’t even started searching for Batman and Robin yet.
Time to wrap this up.
Nightwing goes for more brutal shots, punches instead of jabs, fractures instead of bruises. He rips as many masks off as he can and sets off another couple pellets of knockout gas.
Finally, the last one falls.
Breathing heavily, Nightwing stands among the bodies of Black Mask’s men.
He whips around at the sound of hurried footsteps – at least ten men, cursing and egging each other on. They round the corner, and Nightwing edges down the hallway to give himself enough room for the next fight.
An almost imperceptible buzzing fills the hallway.
The lights flicker all the way on.
Heart hammering, Nightwing launches into a back handspring for distance, cover, anything. But there’s only so much a hallway can do for him. Desperately, he lets loose a handful of smoke bombs. But the space is so goddamn cramped.
Bullets slam into his lower abdomen, left thigh, bicep, and chest. He fucks up the landing, crashing onto all fours and rolling mostly out of the line of fire. Pain radiates everywhere. He clenches his jaw, determined not to make a sound, but it makes his head hurt.
Through the thick smoke, he can make out a few hazy figures, going body to body. By Nightwing’s estimates, he has less than 45 seconds before they get to him.
He rolls onto his stomach, stifling a whimper. As he pushes himself up to all fours, his vision nearly whites out. Blood is seeping out of his gut wound. His leg, already weak from the last bullet Hood gave him, barely holds any of his weight.
Still, he needs to stand to get out of here.
Breathing steadily through the pain, he rises up onto his knees –
A goon seizes him around the middle.
Nightwing clamps his jaw shut not to shout as the goon flips him into a fireman’s carry. Nightwing lashes out, aiming for the goon’s kidneys. But he’s covered in body armor. Good body armor too, since the goon barely flinches. Or maybe Nightwing’s too weak to make a dent.
If Black Mask gets him too, who the hell will save Batman and Robin?
He aims another kick with his good leg.
“Fuck, you’re slippery.”
Nightwing raises his head to scowl at his kidnapper. A young face weaves in and out of his vision, wearing a gas mask. Goggles cover everything else up to his forehead. Nightwing’s eyes narrow at the ugly streak of white hair. An identifying feature for later.
“Jesus Christ, Dickwing, calm the fuck down,” the goon mutters. “It’s just me.”
Dickwing?
Nightwing stops flailing. “Hood?”
“You know anyone else who would bust into Black Mask’s operation to save your sorry ass?” Hood snarks as he yanks the stairwell door open and takes the stairs two at a time.
Between jumps that rattle his bones and pound his muscles, Nightwing forces out, “I – didn’t think – you would.”
Hood rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t go rushing in like an idiot.”
“I,” Nightwing coughs, “had a plan.”
“Yeah, a stupid one.” Hood roots around Nightwing’s suit and pulls out the last smoke bomb. “Hold on,” he says as he lets go of Nightwing’s leg to draw his gun. “Yippee ki yay, motherfuckers!”
He throws the smoke bomb, starts shooting, and sprints for the front door.
How the hell is this any smarter than Nightwing’s plan?
Nightwing groans as Hood picks up speed. Hood must be made of pure muscle because it feels like his entire body is being smacked against a concrete wall in the shape of shoulders. His thigh, bicep, entire torso and abdomen all radiate agony.
“You good, Dick?” Hood pants once they’re on the street.
Nightwing can’t answer. He feels like one big, bleeding bruise.
“Dick?” Hood pokes him in the arm, and Nightwing lets out a gasp. “Shit, shit,” Hood says, sounding very far away although his face is right there. He yanks the goggles off. “Fuck.”
Nightwing’s vision swims.
“Dick, c’mon, don’t do this –” Hood says and Nightwing tries to focus on his weirdly intense green eyes, but they keep escaping him. “I got to you in time, no –”
* * *
Dick wakes up to pain. He’s lying on a couch, judging by the shape of the cushions beneath him and the elevation of his feet, most likely propped up on the arm rest. The place smells like microwave burritos, the kind that Bruce would buy when Alfred had the weekend off.
“Dick?”
He flinches.
“I know you’re awake,” the vocoder voice says, unamused.
Dick forces his eyes open. He’s in a surprisingly roomy studio apartment. Behind the couch looms a gigantic window showing downtown Gotham, and opposite him sits Hood in an office chair. In between them, the contents of a first aid kid are strewn all over a coffee table: bloody pieces of gauze, small pieces of medical tape, sterile dressings, a pair of surgical scissors, an unrolled ace bandage, a box of gloves.
Dick swallows, wincing at the dryness in his throat. “Where are we?” he rasps.
Hood gets to his feet. Over his shoulder, he calls, “My safehouse.”
When Hood comes back with a glass of water, Dick narrows his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you said you’d never let me see your safehouse ‘in this life’.”
“Yeah, well,” Hood jams the glass in Dick’s good hand, “You’re practically on death’s door, so I figured good enough.”
Dick sips at the water and swishes it around his mouth before swallowing. “What happened?”
Hood sits back down and leans in so his elbows rest on his knees. “You tried to rescue Batman and Robin in suicide mission and got pumped full of bullets.”
Dick chokes on his next sip.
Hood just watches, his posture radiating disapproval. He does not move to help.
“I know that,” Dick says, stung. He got shot; he didn’t get amnesia. “I mean how did I end up here? ”
Hood sighs. “Finish your water, Dickface.” As Dick mulishly does as he’s told, Hood leans back, clearly watching him like a hawk. “And for your information, I knew you’d try to pull off some ridiculous Hail Mary –”
“Because you refused to help me,” Dick retorts as he instinctively moves to confront Hood despite the way every nerve ignites in his body, “or else I would’ve had back up and a better plan.”
Hood doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I know,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re… sorry?” Dick’s anger leaves as quickly as it came. He had honestly never expected to hear those words out of Hood’s mouth.
Hood twitches.
Dick settles back on the couch. It’s surprisingly comfortable. “Alright then.”
Hood jerks forward and starts quickly packing up the first aid kit. “How’re you feeling? Pain level?”
“Not bad,” Dick says, and it’s mostly true. It hurts to move, which is to be expected, but the longer he lies here, everything feels muted, distant. He’s not full on floating inside his head, though, like he usually does on a full dose of opioids.
“Yeah, you were in and out of it for a bit.” Hood snaps the large case shut and piles the box of sterile gloves on top. “Gave you half a percocet to take the edge off.”
Dick hums. That explains it.
Hood gets up and comes back with a small trash can. As he shovels in soiled gauze, used gloves, and everything else, he says, “Since you have at minimum six bullet holes in you, I’ll drive you to the Manor tomorrow. You should be stable enough for transport by then.”
Panic flares. “But –”
“No,” Hood says, his voice deadly serious. “You can’t go back out there. He’ll kill you.”
“He’ll kill them!” Dick retorts, and, god, he’s really been reduced to begging Hood, of all people. Twice in one night, a record low. He braces himself. “Look, I know you’d rather shoot yourself in the foot than help – ”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Dick narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”
Hood chuckles darkly. “Everything just comes so easy to you, doesn’t it? I bet you never even questioned that a lady from the streets you met twice would hand you valuable intel for free.”
Dick stares as wracks his tired brain to figure out what the hell Hood is talking about. The “lady from the streets” is definitely Claire. And she had given him “valuable intel”... that had led to Robin.
Dick frowns. Because he hadn’t questioned the price of the information. He’d only had his doubts on its validity.
Hood continues, “Between the two grand for your number and the five hundred she charged me for passing on that name to you, you owe me big.”
“You told Claire about Avery,” Dick surmises dully.
“Penguin was convinced he had a mole. You wanna take a guess who that mole worked for?”
Dick doesn’t dignify the question with a response, and Hood gets up.
“Why?” Dick asks to his back.
“Why what?” Hood asks even though he must know what Dick is asking about. He doesn’t turn around, instead heading to a bureau along the far wall that sits under framed weapons.
“Why did you help Robin?”
Hood shrugs, his shoulders hunching in as he bends over to yank open the second drawer. “Despite what you might think, I’m not heartless,” he says quietly, fingers skimming over the boxes neatly stacked inside. He grabs three, straightens, and nudges the drawer shut with his knee, saying, “I thought you didn’t care about your Robins,” Dick almost interrupts, but he holds himself back until Hood adds, “once you let the second one die and forgot about him the minute –”
“We didn’t forget about Jason,” Dick says, his side throbbing as he tenses all over. He can’t do this, not with… Hood. But Dick can’t let him say those things. “Don’t you dare say that we didn’t mourn him.”
“Then why didn’t you go to his funeral?” Hood demands as he slams the boxes of ammo down on the coffee table. “Why did you stick him in an unmarked grave?”
He’s not Jason.
Dick’s not talking to Jason.
It’s just Hood.
“Because it had to be a place for us to mourn him – only us ,” Dick hisses at the helmet. “Do you know how many visitors Bruce’s parents get? Dozens a week. More during the tourist season. Bruce couldn’t take it, couldn’t let Jason become a spectacle for the masses. His parents were prominent philanthropists and wrote clear last directives, but Jason? Jason was a kid.”
“And the funeral?”
“It was too much for Bruce,” Dick says, his tone bitter. “He didn’t leave the Manor without the cowl for three months.”
“And you?” Hood asks as he methodically strips his gun, but Dick can read the tension in the way he doesn’t look up once.
“I was in space.”
“Still?”
“Space is very big,” Dick says, looking away. “By the time I got back, Bruce and Alfred had taken care of all of it.” Guilt gnaws at his stomach. “We weren’t that close anyway, so I get why they didn’t wait for me.”
Hood’s hands pause from cleaning. “You’re mad,” he says, the faintest note of surprise coming through the vocoder.
“I was fucking livid,” Dick says shortly.
“Even though you weren’t close?”
Dick starts to shrug before the pain kicks in. He sucks in a breath. “He was still family.”
“There you go,” Hood says, apropos of nothing as he quickly strips guns two and three. “That’s why I helped. I didn’t think you actually cared. But you did. So.”
Dick tries not to be too offended that Hood thought he didn’t give a single shit about his brother. He asks instead, “Why keep it a secret? Why not just tell me yourself?”
Hood lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Plausible deniability?”
Despite himself, Dick manages a single, painful laugh. “You’re such an asshole.”
Hood chuckles. “You wouldn’t be the first to say so.” He stands and shoves his reassembled, fully-loaded guns into their various holsters. “Alright, you sit tight. I’ll grab the bat and the bird.”
Not happening.
Not without Dick.
Dick pushes himself up from the couch, ignoring all the flayed nerve endings telling him not to do that . “I’m coming with you.”
Hood strides back over to him. “No fucking way.”
“I’m not going to let you bench me,” Dick snarls. “My family is on the line. I need to –”
“No,” Hood cuts him off, “I don’t care. Let me handle it for once. Jesus, you’re so determined to do everything yourself.”
Dick’s temper flares. “Not true. I went to you for help, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. Gold star for the Golden Boy,” Hood says drolly. “Unfortunately, that one smart decision doesn’t seem to be part of a pattern.”
“Hood –”
“You got shot four times today,” Hood interrupts coldly, “and you’re high off your ass on pain meds. You’re a liability. Stand down.”
Dick starts shaking his head before Hood finishes speaking. “You can’t keep me here, not when my family –”
Hood makes a sound of pure frustration in the back of his throat. “They’re my family too,” he yanks off the helmet, and an incensed, sweaty-faced Jason Todd finishes, “so stop fucking whining about how you’re the only one can save them.”
Dick just stares.
The hair and the eyes are new. The height too and the 100 lbs of muscle.
But the stubborn set to his jaw and crooked nose are achingly familiar.
Dick was… right? The pieces all fit, but even complete, the puzzle makes no sense. How did Jason come back from the dead? Was he even dead in the first place? What was the whole point of becoming Red Hood? Why the hell did he stay away from everyone except Dick?
“You… don’t seem very surprised,” Jason says, sounding almost put-out.
Dick holds back a guilty cringe. Sheepishly, he says, “You dropped a lot of hints.”
Jason runs a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to calm the helmet hair. He doesn’t meet Dick’s gaze.
Tentatively, Dick tries, “It’s still good to see your face, Jay.”
Jason hunches his shoulders. “Shut up.”
Dick tries to push himself up again, but Jason wheels his office chair closer and forces him down, deliberately pressing down on Dick’s bad shoulder.
It throbs, the pain ping ponging between the most recent hit to his bicep and the hole Hood put in his shoulder two weeks ago.
“You dick,” Dick pants as he glares up at Jason.
“You’re injured.” Jason shoots him an incredulous look. “Stay down.”
Dick resists headbutting him just to make a point. It would hurt like hell, but it’d be worth it for all the crap Jason’s put him through in the past few months. “You can’t make me.”
“Watch me.” Jason straightens up and spins back to his desk. “The windows are all reinforced glass. Bulletproof, of course,” he starts as he opens his laptop and begins to type. “The door tasers will go off if you touch any of the hinges, locks, or the knob. And the vents are too small for even you to wiggle through. Good luck gettin’ out of here, Circus Boy.”
Dick’s jaw falls open. “You rigged your safehouse to become a prison?”
Jason spins around and points at himself. “Trained by the world’s most paranoid detective.”
“He trained me too.” Dick’s eyebrows raise. “You’re just insane.”
“Says the guy with multiple GSWs who won’t stay down,” Jason says sardonically. “Think we have a pot kettle situation here, Dick.”
“Jay –”
“C’mon, it’s like you don’t trust me,” Jason says, spreading his hands wide in a ridiculous gesture of innocence Dick does not believe for an instant.
“You lied to my face for months.”
“Like you wouldn’t have done the same if I didn’t spill the identity beans first,” Jason accuses, unfairly accurately.
Dick scowls.
“Hey,” Jason says, his voice softening, “we got a lot to talk about, yeah?” He double checks his gear and guns before glancing back over at Dick. “When I’m back with Bruce and the kid, you can ask all the questions you want. But if you try to escape and you get tased or maimed, no answers for you, capisce?”
Dick flips him the bird.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jason says as he straightens and approaches the couch. He bends down, his face weirdly intense.
Holy hell, Is Jason going to punch his lights out to make him stay put? Jason definitely won’t avoid his face this time.
But instead, when Jason gets right up in Dick’s space, he just wrap his arms around him, bigger and stronger than Dick ever thought they’d get. They squeeze Dick gently, mindful of his many injuries. To Dick’s supreme embarrassment, he actually feels his eyes welling up.
Before Jason – before, they’d never been close enough for Jason to let Dick hug him.
But here it is, his very first Jason hug.
“Sit tight, big brother,” Jason murmurs in his ear. “I’ll bring ’em back safe.”
“I know you will, Little Wing,” Dick admits, his voice watery.
Quick as a viper, Jason yanks Dick’s good arm out and handcuffs him to the coffee table leg.
As Dick squawks in surprise and hurt, Jason smugly rocks back on his heels, his face looking more punchable by the second. “So, like I said,” he continues, like the hug – the betrayal – never happened, “rest up. Don’t aggravate your injuries, blah, blah, blah. You’ve heard Alfred’s lecture more than I have.”
Jason leaves, whistling the Battle Hymn of the Republic, of all things.
The door slams shut behind him.
In the ensuing silence, Dick slumps back on the couch, his head spinning. He can’t goddamn believe it.
Tim was right about the hugs.
* * *
It takes some very painful stretching, but Dick manages to trap the rim of the small trash can between his toes and lift it up to his free hand. Swearing under his breath, he roots around in the garbage until he finds a narrow shard of hard plastic packaging. He jimmies the cuffs open within seconds.
He double checks Jason’s work; his bandages are holding, and his stitches haven’t popped. So good so far.
He scans the apartment but catches no sight of his uniform.
Great.
This is what Jason has reduced him to, Macgyver escape attempts and petty thievery.
He finds a spare helmet, a kevlar vest, and a new set of knee and elbow pads under Jason’s bed. From his closet, Dick steals an identical leather jacket.
He rifles through the bureau drawers and pockets a box of rubber bullets, more smoke bombs and flash bombs. From the display above, he grabs two guns and a wicked-looking knife.
In the bathroom, he fishes the first aid kit back out and roots around until he finds the bottle of percocet. He swallows another half a pill dry.
He also stuffs as many medical supplies that’ll fit in his other pockets. Jason’s stitches and bandaging are holding up for now, but they won’t last forever, and who knows what state they’ll find Batman and Robin in.
Fully armed and outfitted, Dick heads for the computer.
It takes him the longest 17 minutes of his life to shut down Jason’s bonkers security system locking him inside. After that, it’s child’s play to hotwire a car and speed to the old Janus Cosmetics building
In total, Jason got about a thirty-five minute head start.
Dick leaves the stolen car down the block and approaches the building cautiously, slipping the helmet on his head. The front door has a fresh new roster of guards standing in front of the piles of broken glass Jason left in his wake. The roof is likely also out, since Nightwing’s last attempt probably set off a dozen alarms once they got the generator back up and running.
Dick scans the building again. If it’s a two-person rescue op, one obviously plays the decoy while the other plays the rescuer.
Jason thought it was a one-man op, so he’s the rescuer.
Leaving Dick as decoy. He can work with that. A belated distraction is still a distraction.
He heads next door to the nightclub, the party still going strong at four in the morning. He sneaks into the backroom – compared to Black Mask’s operation it’s laughably easy – and cuts off the power. As the disappointed cries of the patrons start up, Dick sends out a mass text to anyone within a hundred yards of the place: The party continues at 37 Bond St! Free 1st drink to anyone admitted to The Golden Griffin after 12am.
As hundreds of footsteps march across the street, Dick slips out the door. He waits until the shouting starts outside of Janus Cosmetics, located at 37 Bond Street, to climb up the building next door and swing the short distance to crash, feet first, through a third story window.
He glances around the dark cubicles. He’s alone.
No doubt, Jason is already drawing attention and making trouble in the basement.
Dick skips the elevators this time and instead heads directly to the stairwell. He leaps from banister to banister until he lands on B3.
He crouches behind the door, listening to a henchman bark orders directing most of the men to Lab 011.
Well, Dick can’t have that. He eases open the door and sends a handful of knockout pellets rolling in the direction of the assembled goons. He steps out into the open, gun raised.
As the smart ones pull on gas masks and the dumb ones stare, one shouts, “How’d he get back there? Didn’t you say Hood was –” he breaks off coughing.
Jason was right; Black Mask must really be desperate.
He picks off the ones still standing with rubber bullets and takes off in the direction of Lab 011.
* * *
Lab 008…
Lab 009…
Lab 010…
Dick spots the bodies first, sprawled on the floor in front of Lab 011. He checks for a pulse and breathes a sigh of relief as he finds signs of life.
Dick runs up to a pair of double doors. Through the viewing pane, he makes out Jason crouched in front of Robin and Batman, both tied to a chair and missing their capes, boots, and utility belts. Robin’s chin is scraped to hell and a nasty bruise is forming under the left eye of his domino. Judging by the angle of Batman’s head, he’s out cold. Probably concussed on top of that.
“Oh my god,” Dick lip-reads as Robin catches sight of him. “There’s two of them.”
Jason snaps his head around to stare as Dick pushes open the door. “You have got to be kidding me,” he says, his voice flat.
Dick waves.
Robin turns back to Jason. “So he’s not with you?”
Jason ignores Robin. “You dick,” he says as Dick picks his way closer around a table of dusty lab equipment. “You stole my helmet? And my jacket?”
“Hold on,” Robin’s gaze ping-pongs between the two scarlet helmets, “is that…?”
Jason just growls as he saws harder at Robin’s ropes. “Yes, he is.”
“I thought you got shot?” Robin says as he rubs at his wrists.
“I got better.” Dick flicks a knife out of his new jacket pocket.
“My knife too?” Jason moans quietly as he helps Robin to his feet. “Dick, you complete klepto.”
“No names in the field,” Batman says woozily. Yep, definitely a concussion.
“Figures you’d wake up just to scold us, old man,” Jason says derisively as he hands Robin a knife of his own. “You know how to use this?”
After a beat, Robin takes it. “Uh, yes?”
“Pointy end first,” Jason says as he checks his guns. “Don’t stab me, or I’ll kill you.”
Robin snorts. “Got it.”
“He’s had some knife training,” Dick adds as he helps Batman stand. “Lady Shiva made sure of that.”
“Shit, kid, you went to Shiva?” Jason asks, and if Dick didn’t know better, he sounds impressed. “Did she give you that whole ‘fight like a woman’ spiel?”
Robin jerks his head around. “Yes, she did?” As Jason says nothing, Robin asks tentatively, “Did she… give it to you too?” Dick can hear the hope clear as day in his voice.
“No,” Jason says smugly, “because I didn’t look like a preteen girl.”
“Not anymore,” Dick mutters under his breath, too low for the vocoder to pick up.
Robin makes a face at Jason. “I’ve put on a lot of muscle since that first year!”
“Yeah, I bet your period’s gonna come any day now, Timberly.”
Dick tunes out their squabbling and instead hefts Batman’s arm over his shoulder.
“What the fuck – no, let me take him.” Jason hurries forward and shoos Dick away. “You shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting for at least a week!”
Quick as the Flash, Robin ducks under Batman’s other arm and, together, he and Jason hustle Batman towards the door.
Gunfire erupts from their left.
Dick throws a handful of smoke pellets down the hall and pulls out Jason’s gun. Over the pellets’ comforting hiss of release, Dick fires three shots and gets two very satisfactory yelps in response.
“Yeah, leave Dick to cover us,” Jason huffs as they haul Batman down the hallway. “What’s one more bullet hole or seven to Nightwing?”
“Now, aren’t you glad I came along?” Dick calls as he pauses, debating taking out the rest of them so Jason, Batman, and Robin can make a clean getaway.
“Hurry up! And don’t think about engaging!” Jason yells. “I rigged this place to blow in T-minus fifteen, so you’d better have your fat ass out of here by then.”
Dick swears under his breath and quickens his pace. They left so many henchmen tied up or unconscious. None have any chance of getting out alive if Jason blows the building to kingdom come. As they round the next corner, Dick demands, “What the hell is it with you and blowing stuff up?”
“Well I got blown up, and I really can’t recommend the experience enough,” Jason says waspishly.
Dick’s heart clenches. “Jay…”
“You’re really messed up,” Robin says.
“No shit, 3.0,” Jason says curtly. “C’mon, emergency exit’s this way.”
* * *
Jason escorts them for five more blocks, glancing over his shoulder the entire time. “Alright,” he says as they stop in front of a derelict storefront under a ripped awning and broken street lamps. Piles of trash are scattered on the ground, left by some squatter who has since moved on.
Jason shoves Batman in the darkest shadow of the dusty doorway that smells like piss and turns to Dick. “Call the Batmobile. And if you lie to Alfred about how many times you’ve been shot, I will know, and I will hunt you for sport, got it?”
Dick snorts as Robin lets out a little gasp of horror. “I won’t lie to him. Don’t worry.”
Robin breathes, “You know Alfred?”
Jason goes eerily still.
“Might as well get it over with,” Dick says reasonably. “I’m not going to hide it from them.”
“Snitches get stitches.” He gives Dick a very obvious once over and amends, “Even more fucking stitches than you have now.”
“C’mon,” Dick says softly, “it’s not fair to them.”
“Why?” Jason crosses his arms over his chest. “I have nothing to do with the Bats.”
Dick laughs so hard his torso flares with pain. He forces out, “You’re not fooling anyone with that anymore, Jay. Stop lying to yourself.”
Jason’s helmet swivels to Robin, who freezes. “Give me my knife back.”
“Uh, so you can stab me with it?” Robin takes a deliberate step back. “No thanks.”
“He’s not going to stab you with it,” Dick tells Robin.
“I could so stab him with it,” Jason argues.
“Yeah, I’m going to say finders keepers with this one,” Robin says as he skitters backwards to join Batman in the doorway, half hiding behind Dick.
Dick sighs loudly. “Jason, knock it off.”
Robin does a full-body twitch. He peers around Dick’s arm to stare. “Your name is Jason?”
Jason reaches up and pulls off the helmet. “My name,” he announces with a very unnecessary amount of drama in Dick’s wholly unbiased opinion, “was Robin.”
Robin squeaks, takes a quick step back, and nearly trips over an empty soda can. “You’re Jason Todd!”
Jason jerks his thumb in Robin’s direction. To Dick, he says out of the side of this mouth, “The old man’s sidekicks just keep getting dumber and dumber.”
“Hey,” Robin says hotly.
“And I thought I was a step down from the original.”
Dick jerks to attention. “What?”
Jason goes as red as his helmet. “Never mind.”
“Hey,” Dick says, “no, that’s not true.”
Robin scoffs loudly in disagreement.
Dick ignores him. Instead, he reaches out to squeeze Jason’s shoulder. “You were a great Robin, Jay.”
Jason shrugs off his touch. “Anyway, I’ll add the kid’s new knife to your bill. And the helmet. And the jacket. We’ll chalk it up to twenty grand and call it even.” He takes off down the block.
“Wait – no, you can’t go –” Dick calls, the words stumbling over themselves in their haste to get out. What if Jason disappears around the next corner, never to be seen again? It would be all too easy, with no legal identity or residence or ties to Gotham. This could be the last time they see each other, and Dick can’t let Jason slip through his fingers again –
Jason stares as Dick staggers after him in the saddest chase scene of the night. “Were you born to prove Darwin right? You have, like, zero self preservation instincts.”
“Don’t – leave,” Dick pants as Robin pops up under his arm to keep him upright.
“Dick…” Jason drifts off, looking lost.
“Come back to the Manor with us. Let Alfie take a look at you too,” Dick pleads. “You’ve probably got a few bruises tonight, right?”
“Pretty sure a bruise is not nearly enough to get Alfred out of bed,” Jason says wryly.
“He would for you,” Robin says, to Dick’s surprise, and to Jason’s too, judging by the way his eyebrows rise. Robin glances up at Dick before turning back to Jason. “He misses you,” he says frankly. In a smaller voice, he adds, “I couldn’t ask Bruce or Dick, but Alfred would share stories about you.”
“Hn,” Jason grunts, and Dick has to smile at the familiar sound. Just like Bruce at his most emotionally constipated. After a beat, Jason asks, “Why couldn’t you ask Bruce or Dick?”
Dick turns to Robin with the same question.
Robin scuffs his socked foot against the sidewalk. “Talking about you made them sad,” he says in a small voice.
Jason, unexpectedly, snorts. “But you’re OK making Alfred sad? Stone cold, Richie Rich.”
Robin’s face twists. “Alfred is okay with being sad,” he says. “You know the five stages of grief? Bruce is kind of stuck in the anger and bargaining stages.” He swallows. “I asked about you once. It… didn’t go well.”
Dick’s heart twinges. He can only imagine.
“And Dick?” Jason prompts.
Robin doesn’t meet Dick’s eyes. “Stuck in the depression stage.”
“Mm,” Jason hums. “I actually put that one together myself.”
Dick turns to him. “You did?”
“’Course,” Jason says wryly. “I had to waste all the good fries to jolt you out of that funk.”
Dick closes his eyes as he burns with embarrassment. Right, that was Jason. Up in that tree. Listening as Dick babbled on and on about his dead little brother who he failed. God, he’s never going to live that down.
He pushes it out of his mind. “So you’ll come back with us?”
“No.”
Dick’s stomach sinks as his mouth goes dry and palms start to sweat under his gloves. “Jay, please –”
Jason shakes his head, his expression unreadable. “I’m not getting under the same roof as Bruce. Not again, not after he wouldn’t –” he breaks off, his green eyes flashing. “Not while the Joker’s still breathing.”
Into the charged silence, only Robin offers a quiet, “Oh.”
Jason runs a hand through his hair, his eyes half a world away. “I’m not leaving, okay? I got things to do, scores to settle.”
Dick doesn’t try to hide his enormous sigh of relief.
Jason gives Robin a hard look. “Watch your back, short stack.”
Robin makes a face. “Is that advice or a warning?”
Jason seesaws his hand back and forth. “Little of both.” He turns to Dick. “For the love of god, take it easy. Or this won’t be the last you see of me.”
Dick smiles. “Not exactly the most effective incentive, but I’ll take it.”
Jason pulls him into a hug. As Dick wraps his arms around his little brother, Jason mutters, too low for Robin to pick up, “This time, one week from now, at Batburger. You know the one. You’re buying.” He lightly shoves Dick off him and jams the helmet back on his head.
“Wait –” Robin calls before Jason can take more than a handful of steps away.
“What now?” Jason demands, his irritation clear even though the vocoder.
Dick smiles. They keep ruining his big exit.
“The building,” Robin says, casting a nervous glance over Jason’s shoulder, back the way they came, “wasn’t it supposed to blow up? If there’s a faulty switch or something, we should go back –”
“Oh, that?” Jason laughs. “There’s no C4. Dick just needed to pick up the pace. He was really slowing us down with that bum leg.” Cackling, he jogs down the street and disappears from view.
“What a piece of work,” Robin says, disapproval clearly written all over his face, despite the mask and the bruising. “I can’t believe he lied to you. You’re injured! Of course you won’t be making any Olympic records anytime soon.”
Dick chuckles. “He grows on you.”
“Like mold, maybe,” Robin grumbles.
“Hey, Timmy,” Dick asks as he steers them both back where they left Batman, “what do you think about giving Operation Friendship Helmet a new objective?”