Chapter Text
Pauli’s, for lack of better words, was Old Gotham.
Jason remembers sitting on the steps of the aging diner with Bruce, late in the night after a rough patrol, scarfing down a burger and fries. He was young, with curly black hair and dimples and a feverish vigor for excitement and action and the fact it was one in the morning and Bruce was letting him eat junk.
He was young.
Almost too young to remember the details of nights like those; the Lazarus Pit had fucked all those memories up, mutated them into nightmarish realites. But, Jason does remembers that old jukebox in the corner and how good those greasy-ass fries were and how Bruce had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on a good job that night.
Jason doesn’t really know why he’s here — but, he does. He tells himself it’s for information.
The 24 hour diner has seen it’s better days, just like Jason; though somehow, in the fading glory of it’s neon pink fluorescents, Pauli’s had managed to maintain a semblance of hospitality in the midst of the district. Old Gotham was shrinking, it seemed, with the Diamond District and Chinatown creeping in — which made Pauli’s a hub for activity.
And, whether or not Jason liked it, he could do enough recon for weeks just by sitting and listening to the chatter around him at the bar.
GCPD was absolute shit about keeping their mouths shut. And on top of that, Maroni and Falcone and Carmine had guys who swore by the chili, and every Rogue had a cluster of thugs that liked to split a bill over the nachos. The place was a crime hotspot, and still, it was a considered one of the safest places in Gotham. An idyllic oasis, culminating in the form of a diner. It was almost poetic. And if it wasn’t poetic, it was startling.
Rumor has it Pauli, the real Pauli — some Irish Italian mother of six with a lot of patience, a quick wit and ties to the real mobs in Italy — had gathered so much blackmail on the crime families in Gotham just from running the diner, no one could touch her. And, so not to catch any flak from GCPD or the Feds or the mobs, everyone opted to just... keep it together. Jason heard stories about the woman playing the mobs like she played chess; she handpicked who heard what from who in her diner. She ran a tight ship. No weapons, no bullshit, no violence.
That all changed when Scarecrow fucked that cop up on Halloween and gassed the whole place full of fear toxin. First incident in the diner since those city-wide riots in the 70s over broken window policing. That incident alone kick started a chain of bullshit, including the occupation of Gotham, which the city had only recently began to recover from.
Pauli’s still tried to maintain the same guise of an oasis, though nowadays it was more like a saloon if anything. Just last week, Maroni’s guys and Penguin’s had butted heads and full on brawl broke out across six booths. Rumor had it that is was started over a spilt milkshake.
It was, and Jason knows because he was there, and he was the one to break it up.
Pauli would have had Crane’s head. Her diner wasn’t the peaceful refuge it once was.
But, Pauli has been dead for years now, rotting six feet under somewhere in Gotham Cemetery alongside Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Bruce, though? He was retired. Officially. And in no state to return to action. The fear toxin had landed a hard punch on Bruce, one he couldn’t shake, so he had hung up the cape and cowl and trusted his fledglings to pick up the slack — and the manor was now quieter than ever, and Bruce spent most of his time brooding in his office.
Jason feels a pang of guilt whenever he thinks about it. So he doesn’t.
Alfred was quieter, too, and busy worrying over the oldest Wayne’s mental health and trying desperately to coordinate patrols with Oracle for Nightwing and Red Robin.
Alfred hadn’t even tried to contact Jason. He wondered what good it would do. He had mourned Jason, and the death of the young Robin had changed him. Alfred understood space, though, and in this tumultuous era knew the importance of time.
And so, Bruce had stepped up, taken over as CEO alongside Lucius after months of being in the wings, and Wayne Enterprises was flourishing in a post-Batman Gotham. The city was swimming with rumors; the Bat hadn’t been seen in months. Some wondered if Scarecrow had really done it, if he’d really killed the Bat.
Bruce’s retirement had left all of the remaining Wayne Clan clambering for any ground at all in this shitty, crime infested city. Jason really didn’t consider himself a part of it, but Barbara insisted he be kept in the loop of things. So, he avoided Dick and Tim like the plague — no amount of text messages or voicemails or emails or HUD notifications could change that. At least not soon. Maybe never. He didn’t know. He couldn’t think about them or any of it for more than five seconds without the painful itch of anxiety beginning to claw at his gut.
Barbara, though, he could stand. In concentrated doses. If she didn’t ask how he was.
He’s crossing the threshold of Pauli’s when his burner phone buzzes in his back pocket. Jason knows it’s the redhead in question, but he’s too busy being rocketed back to the age of fifteen thanks to that dumb Jukebox in the corner playing The Isley Brothers. This happens every time. His boots, steel-toed and heavy, squeak against the tiles of the diner as he pulls himself from the rain. Jason tries not to think too much about the potent feeling of nostalgia in the air — instead, his brain rattles around absorbed in a sudden sense of paranoia.
The crowd at the bar quiets a bit as the bell above Jason’s head tinkers, announcing his arrival. A few heads turn, but the group is quiet to hush their chattering and continue the conversation at hand. The girl on the end, in the hoodie and the ratty sneakers, raises her hands as if she’s waiting to speak. She’s got a pad of paper in her hands, messy notes scrawled across the yellowing paper.
Jason scoffs.
And you meet his gaze. It’s like the sea of the group has parted and you’re there, smiling as you refill a mug of coffee in an outstretched hand. You’re swathed in that ratty looking uniform that’s seen one too many late nights at the diner, and you’re pretty. But, you’re staring. You always stare.
“That’s impossible,” the girl asks, and your head snaps away from Jason and back to the crowd at the bar, “Like, Bigfoot or something.”
Pauli’s didn’t get much business past midnight now-a-days; no where did. Not since the Arkham Knight incident. Gotham was still under a strict 2am curfew by Mayor Gordon. Not many ventured out late unless they had to. The city was still rebuilding from the riots, from the heavy flood of organized crime. It was four months ago now, and Gotham was quiet. Like something was brewing.
Him. His fault. He fucked this city up, he fucked up the people he was supposed to care about.
No going back.
And yet, the group at the counter is rowdy for a Wednesday — and the demographics are all across the board. Two teenagers, an older man and his wife, a biker, and that girl with the sneakers. They’re loud, too, yelling over one another as you raise your hands in mock surrender.
They’re regulars, and you’ve been working at Pauli’s long enough to know that every Wednesday, you could expect the same group around 11pm; when the diner was quiet, they would start. In recent weeks, though, with no Batman sightings to mull over, the group had begun to fixate on recent sightings of another winged creature that was flying around Gotham. Today’s meeting had lasted hours, and most of the time was being spent questioning the validity of the impossible.
“Swear on my life,” you say, busying yourself with shining the silverware on the counter beside the coffee machine, “Two GCPD boys came in yesterday, all shaken up.”
The girl with the sneakers rolls her eyes at you.
(Jason had sneakers like that when he was younger. They were red, though, and Bruce had given them to him as a birthday gift. He loved those things.)
Jason hates that he’s staring from his spot in his booth, watching you move between person to person. He hates he’s eavesdropping on some late-night book club meeting that’s gone nuclear. He was part of a book club, once. Back at Gotham Academy. His literature professor gave them weekly reads and the week he went missing, he had binged all of Hamlet —
The scar on his cheek burns like a motherfucker at the memory, so he keeps his head down and digs his phone out to distract himself from the sweeping annoyance and bite of anger that worms its way into his bones. Fuck Bruce.
Shouldn’t curse a sick man. He does anyway.
His phone buzzes again in his hands.
It’s nearly 2am, why is Babs still texting him?
Any luck? Dick is out combing the city for sightings.
If Bruce is worried, we should be too.
The vigilante scoffs, lips curling into a cruel snarl before he deletes the texts and moves on.
Tetris is good. Tetris is a good distraction. Enough to take the edge off, at least until the Isley Brothers stop playing and Jason can get something warm in him. After two minutes and twenty six seconds of Tetris, your voice peels Jason back into the rainy, bleak reality around him.
“Sorry about the noise. They come around every week to do this.”
It’s so late it’s early and you’re too chipper for 1:36 in the morning. He doesn’t look up, not from his dimly lit flip phone, when he speaks. “Book clubs are fun.”
“It’s not a book club. More like... bird watching club, if you catch my drift. A little much for me, some nights. Especially this late. A girl can only deal with so much late-night Bat chit-chat. Anyways, the usual, Jason?”
The spark of light-humor causes him to drag his eyes from his phone — and you offer an exhausted smile that’s just charming enough to worm one out of Jason. He hates himself for it. You try not to stare at the angry scar that warps as his dimples dig in. Along his cheekbone the branded J glows pink.
You’d met Jason Todd five weeks ago when he’d slipped you a fifty dollar bill in exchange for information about a few of Falcone’s guys. And, well, you hated Falcone’s guys and you needed to make rent, so the situation pandered to your own needs and wants. On the flip side, Jason was handsome — ruggedly so — and you think you probably couldn’t have said no if you wanted to. That lopsided smirk he’d slipped you was short-lived but so worth the sudden indoctrination into the world of being an informant.
Within that same week, the men in question were bloodied and in Blackgate serving life sentences on sex trafficking charges.
You’re not sure how he did it, and you’re not even sure if you wanted to know.
If you’ve learned anything in the years you’ve lived in this city, it’s not to ask questions. You grin, you bear it, and you keep your head down. You stay out of it — and that’s how you survive. So, you tap your pen on the pad as the hulking man before you brews over the simple matter of a meal, thinking about how quick you’d fallen right into his gravity.
Jason leans back, chewing the inside of his lip as he fiddles with his phone. There’s something oddly wonderful about having his order be remembered. Maybe it feeds that part of him that feels worthless, keeps it back.
Finally, he speaks. It’s a hoarse rasp. “Yeah. The usual works.”
“Got it,” you nod, scribbling the order, “Combo Plate. With, uh, extra honey mustard, right?”
“Yeah, thank you.”
You hum, tiling your head. “Coffee? Chocolate milk? A martini? It’s on me.”
Jason watches you, for a beat of a second, and then speaks in an exhale. “Chocolate milk is good.”
“I think so too,” you smile, sweet and soft, “I’ll bring it all ‘round in a few.”
You’re smart — smarter than you seem. The first time Jason had stumbled in here, he’d watched you bound between booths and chatter along to Penguin’s boys, to Falcone’s, to the GCPD. You held your cards close, and orchestrated the seating in the room to limit confrontation and rope the most loose lipped conversation you could. You were quick, bussing tables alongside another girl.
He’d caught you when the diner had slowed to a near stand-still, and while you rang in a coffee for the far booth, he flagged you down.
“Coffee?” you asked, snatching the pot, “Free refills, if you want.”
“No, thanks,” Jason leaned against the counter, fingers pressed into the plastic, “Past my bedtime.”
It rose a laugh out of you and that’s when Jason knew that maybe this was going to be a problem. He ignored how the smile melted away when your eyes hit the garrish J brandishing his cheek. Jason tried to ignore the pang of embarrassment and self loathing that swelled like a tide at the look.
You caught yourself. “Me too, but don’t tell my boss.”
“My lips are sealed. But, I do have a question.”
“Oh?”
“What’s your play?”
You clamped your mouth shut and tore those big eyes into Jason like he’d just offended your family name.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Seen th’ way you strut around here, seen the way you carve information out of these guys... If someone’s already paying you to drop the ball, I can pay better.”
Jason’s voice had dropped to a low whisper at that last bit, and it’s enough to startle you backwards a bit. You’d put the coffee pot on the burner to fiddle with your collar, and in the time it takes for you to turn around he’s procured green like magic. In two digits, he motioned in a mock salut and you noticed the fifty dollar bill between his fingers wasn’t crisp, but you didn’t care. That was the gap you need to close for rent. He dropped it to the counter and pushed off his barstool with two hands.
“You interested?”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Jason said, shrugging, “But, you fuck up, I put a bullet between your eyes.”
You’d chased him out of the diner and caught him firing up his bike outside that night, and while the rain drenched you, you’d spilled that Falcone’s guys were talking about a bunch of young girls they’d just shipped out of Chinatown. Girls who’d gone missing these last few weeks in the Old Gotham area, most likely grabbed from the Mall.
“Thanks, sweets.”
And with that, he’d muscled that stupid red helmet on his head and tore away into the night.
He’d been back a few times since, and every time you’d caught a glimpse of what type of man he really was. He’d muscled a smile at a kid at the bar one night reciting his lines for the Wizard of Oz. He’d overheard you chatting with Sharon’s daughter, Jenny, about how rent was climbing thanks to this occupation shit and slipped you an extra fifty that night, even when you’d apologized for not having much worth pursuing.
“Sorry, Jason,” you said, fiddling with your fingers. You bounced from foot to foot and Jason was suddenly realizing maybe he had shaken you up a bit too much that first night, “I just... I haven’t really been tuned in. Trying to play catch up, y’know? We’re not making much with the curfews...”
He’d dug his wallet out of his back pocket anyways, and called it an IOU.
That had made you smile. And he’d fought the dimpled smile your reaction had wormed out of him.
You round the counter, tucking his order into the slot above the grill and flash Flippy, the quiet line-cook from the East Side, a thankful smile. He gives you a thumbs up and a toothless grin as the mute cook heads to work prepping the dish while the diner continues it’s off-pace chatter. Flippy likes Jason.
Jason, had, after all put the damper on that brawl last week that had sent the line-cook running to the back freezer in fear.
Jason has to ignore the itching temptation to chuck the burner phone across the room at that stupid Jukebox as his cell hums twice in his hands. This time, GRAYSON flashes across the screen. Jason immediately regrets ignoring Babs. Calloused hands tug through his hair, sweeping the snow white streak of hair back in a nervous type of tic.
He doesn’t know why Dick makes him nervous. Maybe it’s the crushing reality that he’ll never be as good as the original Robin. Maybe it’s because he’s too nice, maybe it’s because he’s always saying he’s there for Jason. Jason, at one point, loved Dick — he was young and wide-eyed and Dick was in his first year at the police academy and Jay suddenly had a big brother who he loved and who loved him. Things were good back then. Really good.
i can see u leaving me on read, u kno
don’t be an asshole
Jason groans a bit, and he’s close to shutting his phone off when the chatter at the bar distracts the biting annoyance in his brain.
“You think it’s the Batman?” it’s the older gentleman, and his accent begs to give away his life-long residence in Gotham, “It couldn’t be.”
You speak next, and your voice is warm with amusement. Your back is turned to the counter, and you’ve got the Bird Watching club hanging off your every word. “It’s something. I heard it comes out after curfew. Likes the dark.”
Jason’s eyes widen.
No shit.
“You talkin’ about the Bat thing?”
Jason’s voice is rough and it startles the entire bar into turning around to look at him in his booth. You glance backwards, too, a bit surprised at his sudden socialization — in the few weeks you’d known him, you’d never seen him talk to anyone. Just sit, listen, text.
Blue eyes hit you like a freight train. “You are talking about it, aren’t you?”
“You’ve heard about it, too?” the younger girl, Jenny is her name, you think, nearly yelps, “Oh god, what if the Batman is back? What if the fear toxin really got him?”
“GCPD found three bodies in the Botanical Gardens two nights ago,” you remind him, “They were talking about how they were dry. No blood, nothing. Skin like leather. I don’t think that’s a Batman combo-move.”
Jason rubs his face, carding a hand through his hair and huffing. “It’s not the fuckin’ Batman. Why... Why would you think it’s Batman?”
Under the gaze of both you and Jason, the girl cops a look. “Seriously? It’s Gotham.”
A pause.
“She has a point, Jason.”
“I know, yeah, she does.”
He stands then, and you forgot how tall he really was. He’s bulky — under his leather jacket, you can see the outline of muscles and the narrowing on a trim waist. Jason is commanding in his presence and if you weren’t strung along on his payroll, you’d be fearful of your life when he spoke next. It’s a bark. Not a request, but an order.
“Everybody out.”
“Jason —” you voice your opposition, but he cuts you off. Annoyance flares in your cheeks.
“It’s ten minutes to curfew. Trains stop in five.”
The group is hesitant to disobey, realizing that it was indeed that late, and Jason is quick to take a spot at the counter as the group begins to gather their things and filter out of the diner. You share an apologetic look with the girl, Jenny, and she cops a pout. Jason picks from a plate of cold fries, posture hunched as he watches you clean the counter.
“I sure hope that thing doesn’t eat me.”
“Don’t joke,” you chirp as she makes it out the door, “I’m sure it would love a late night snack.”
You say your goodbyes, collect their bills and shuffle to the register. When the last member of the Gotham Bird Watching Society has stepped out the door, you nail Jason with a look. He’s already watching you, though, and meets your gaze with an equally cold one. His chews thoughtfully on another cold frie, and you collect the plate in front of him before his Combo Plate slips in the window as Flippy rings the bell.
You drop the hot meal in front of him, crossing your arms. “You know, I make money off of serving people—”
“Tell me what you know,” Jason says, mouth full of chicken tender, “About the Bat. What have people been saying?”
You sigh, leaning on the counter and waving your hands. “What I said before. Two GCPD officers came in, talking about the bodies — and the next night, two different cops came in all shaken up, saying the thing dive bombed their cruiser by Robinson Park.”
Jason listens, and then flips his burner phone open and starts texting.
And you gawk.
“You’re not seriously interested in some cryptid B.S., are you?”
Silence.
“Jason...”
“Can you... just... quiet. Please. This thing is hard to text on.”
And so, you go quiet and throw your hands before gathering yourself a cup of coffee. Jason, though, is squinting at the phone in his hands and tapping along the number pad quickly.
God, he hates this fucking thing. But, when you’re not running on Daddy’s allowance like Dick is, you’ve gotta cut corners. And that means a fucking flip phone. Jason grumbles, shaking his head as he texts the rich boy in question.
Chatting with my informant. Says GCPD saw it last night around Robinson Prk.
“Sorry,” Jason rumbles out, finally, as you sip your coffee and lean against the back counter, “This thing is fuckin’ ridiculous. I hate texting.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What did you ask?”
You roll your eyes into the back of your skull and you swear you miss the fleet of a smirk on Jason’s face. His phone vibrates angrily against the counter, and Jay shovels a cluster of fries into his mouth before wiping the grease onto his jeans and holding up one finger. Wait.
thx 4 responding
thought u died
sounds like a good place 2 start
curfew soon
Jason speaks, then, slowly. “How are you getting home?”
“Oh my god —” you exhale loudly, “Can you just answer me? Why do you need to know about the bat thing? It’s not real, it’s some hoax people are —”
You can hear the clocktower ring, and then the thrum of GCPD city-wide sirens telling citizens about the mandatory curfew. Flippy makes a worried sound, eyes jumping between you and the door. And so you frown.
“Probably time to close up shop, huh, big guy?”
He nods, and you sigh. “Come on, why don’t you get a box for Jason and I’ll lock us up.”
Flippy is massive — it’s clear the line-cook has seen his fair share of violence, too. He’s covered in tattoos, some of which Jason recognizes as one’s owned Blackgate prisoners, but it’s mostly the missing teeth that get him. Jason wonders if that rumor about Flippy being a snitch was true. Teeth pulling was more of a Black Mask thing. And he was dead.
The line-cook shuffles from out back as you round the counter and Jason offers him an appreciative nod, before signing a quick thank you. He might not remember much ASL from the academy, but it’s enough to make Flippy laugh and pull a tight-lipped grin as he scoops up Jay’s plate and shovels it into a styrofoam box.
You lock the door, flip the sign, shut off the front lights.
Jason, from his spot on the counter, speaks. “What makes you think it’s a hoax?”
The stretch of Main where Pauli’s sits has gone dark — businesses have done the same as you, and in the glow of Gotham, the sky looks... wrong. Purplish and it’s pouring.
“Come on, Jason,” you laugh, turning from the door, “A giant bat?”
And then the impact of a body lands hard against the wet pavement outside the diner and you scream. She’s limp, head cracked open from the impact, but there’s no blood. In the glow of the back counter, you can see the single alive stare of a young girl’s eye. Her pose is mangled, limbs twitching, and your hands are smothering your screams as you rocket backwards away from the gruesome scene. You back straight into Jason’s arms, gripping his forearm as he raises as steady hand. The glock, the one from his waistband, glints as he aims it at the door.
You lurch, a desperate gag tearing through your throat.
“That’s a body, oh my god, it’s alive, it fell off the roof —”
And suddenly, something follows the body. It scampers to the ground, teeth clacking and breathing heavy, and it’s mouth is fast to secure around the carotid artery. The hunched back of the creature struggles to gain footing in the slick puddle beside the body, it’s wings scraping the door as it attempts to feed.
And you scream again.
Jason is quick to muffle it, wrapping his arm around your neck and slapping a hand over your mouth as the creature spins, wide eyes glowing yellow as it gives this painful wail of a scream — it’s body lurches, standing on its hind legs as it spreads its wings, only to rocket them back and shriek, ramming itself hard into the glass door of the diner. It’s jaws snap, once then twice, as it claws at the door violently trying to reach you and Jason.
It’s not the first time you've been thankful for bullet proof glass.
Jason is quick to pull you back, his breathing heavy in your ear as he watches that thing try and protect it’s dinner.
You cling to Jason, hands knotted in his shirt as you both watch the thing lose interest and turn back to it’s meal, returning to the twitching limbs of it’s victim. His grip doesn’t loosen, and you try not to vomit, but the creature’s figure alone, hunched and staggering in the rain as it tries to feed off the carcass, is enough to raise the harsh sting of bile in the back of your throat.
Suddenly, the swing of a GCPD helicopter searchlight lands on the creature and with a bellowing shriek that quakes the windows of the diner, it’s flies. Sweeping wings carry it to the sky where it disappears, leaving the mangled corpse of Jenny in its wake.
She’s missing a sneaker.
Jason’s trying to catch his breath when you vomit across the tile floor of Pauli’s to the tune of Sinatra. That fucking jukebox churns along, and the dark-haired vigilante digs his phone from his pocket.
For the first time in years, he calls Dick.
“Nightwing. I have a body.”