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The smell of manure drifting from the cattle yards outside of town reminds Jason exactly what purpose this town serves. The main street looks the same as countless towns Jason passed on his way here, which doesn’t have much to recommend it aside from the fact that it’s not there.
A Sonic drive-through sprawls across one corner of the main intersection, opposite a gas station and kitty corner from a Rite-Aid drug store. Jason makes a mental note of that last one, since he’ll need to stock up sooner or later. The final corner hosts a squat building, set back a little way as if ashamed of itself, with a faded green metal roof and flashing neon lights in the windows. Coors, Miller and a familiar “open” sign beckoned Jason closer. He knew if he kept walking down the street, he’d find a mom and pop diner if he was lucky, a “neighborhood grill” chain if he wasn’t. He needs dinner, not drinks. Yet against his will, he finds himself picking his way over the ancient asphalt of the parking lot, dandelions fighting their way through the cracks. He notes the mix of rusted-out beaters, motorcycles, pickup trucks, and well maintained but non-descript older model sedans filling most of the lot. Enough customers to make the bar seem like the onion rings weren’t going to give him food poisoning and that the beer was cold and cheap. Maybe even half decent burgers. All the cows around here had to end up somewhere - might as well be Jason’s belly.
He slouches as he enters, a habit to draw attention away from his build, ducking his head so the hood falls just a bit further down his forehead. A couple of people turn and gaze placidly at him, but no one looks for long. A bartender in a Denver Broncos jersey glances at Jason and then back to the pint she is pouring, and Jason feels as welcomed as he can be this far out of Gotham. He makes his way to the far end of the bar and grabs a laminated menu. The bar’s special is a burger with grilled onions, mushrooms, bacon, swiss cheese and a fried egg. It sounds like a heart attack and also as messy as hell. It sounds like heaven.
The bartender plops a napkin down in front of him. “What can I get for you, hon?”
Jason returns her professional customer service smile with a polite one of his own, because he knows he looks intimidating and he doesn’t want to stand out as the jerk who terrified the serving staff, but also because people busting their asses for tips all day don’t need people frowning at them for doing their jobs. “You don’t support the local team?” he asks, nodding at her shirt.
“I was born in Denver and the folks around here never let me forget it, so I might as well have fun with it.”
“Gotta have some hometown pride. I was born in Gotham. It might be a cesspool, but it’s my cesspool.”
She laughs and Jason finds himself relaxing just a bit. So Bruce banished him - he’ll be back. It’s still his hometown. He orders a Budweiser for no other reason than he likes how excited Dick gets at those damn horses in the commercials, and the signature burger.
The bartender brings him the beer quickly and he idly switches his attention between the four televisions he can see, while occasionally scanning the other patrons. Maybe the bar gets rowdier after the dinner rush finishes, but for now, there’s no sign of trouble or troublemakers. The games showing on the tvs don’t hold much interest for him - the Gotham Goliaths and the Bludhaven Bloodhounds didn’t make it to the World Series this year, and it’s too early in the football season for him to be too invested in random Monday Night Football when the Knights aren’t playing. He watches golf for all of two minutes - golf is definitely a sport he does not get the appeal of watching on tv, especially with no sound and no subtitles - so despite himself, he finds himself mainly paying attention to Fox News. Not really his news source of choice - “fair and balanced,” my ass - but he’s bored stiff - good one - otherwise. At least the scrolling news at the bottom gives him something to read. Jason doesn’t want to see the Bat, or be reminded of him in any way, or the smiling blue boy scout, but maybe there’d be a glimpse of Nightwing. Maybe there’d even be a rear view. The news stations know what gets ratings.
Of course, it’s not great that the entire world sexualizes Jason’s boyf-- the man Jason is kind of sort of dating, reducing him to a pretty piece of ass, a cheeky grin, and bad puns, but Dick says it doesn’t bother him and that people underestimating him works to his advantage. Jason thinks that it bothers Dick more than he’d ever admit, but he’s also seen Nightwing do an actual bend and snap in the field to distract the goons while he picks up a dropped escrima stick and uses it to nail a thug in the face, so who knows.
Jason is half way through his second beer and mostly done with his burger when “Breaking News” flashes over the bottom of the screen. Thinking it might be super-villain related, he focuses his attention fully on the crawl. “Vigilante 'Nightwing' condition unknown after shots fired in Gotham.”
Jason feels like he steps outside of himself - there’s a small, rational core that analyzes and explains and there’s the rest of him, sliding down an icy slope and plunging into freezing water. He’s sinking, bubbles rising to the surface as he looks up and up even as the light gets farther away.
The rational part ticks off reassurances like a secretary reading a to-do list back to his boss. Shots fired in Gotham - hardly an unusual event. Condition unknown - of course, he’s either on his way to Alfred or Leslie, and it’s not like Batman has a PR rep to issue a statement. The news blurb doesn’t even state for sure that Nightwing was definitely hit.
Jason downs the rest of his beer, tipping his head back to let the dregs and suds into his mouth, swallowing everything with a gulp. He wipes his mouth with the back of his arm and puts the glass down.
His hand does not shake, the secretary voice notes. Everything is okay.
Meanwhile, everything else sinks deeper and deeper into the Arctic, pulled down by the heavy thought that if the national Fox News cable channel is covering this, it’s got to be a big deal.
The bartender comes back to Jason, noticing his empty glass. “Doin’ alright, hon? Can I get you another?”
“Yeah.” It comes out in a croak. Jason clears his throat and tries again, managing to sound normal. “Yeah, could I have a whiskey, please? Tin Cup, if you have it.”
“Sure thing, hon.”
Jason pulls his phone out, disappointed but not surprised when he doesn’t see anything. He debates sending a quick text to Roy, but he doesn’t know if they’re even allowed phones or televisions in Sanctuary. If Roy hasn’t heard anything, Jason doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up, and if Roy does know something, he’ll contact Jason soon enough. Replacement is on a road trip. Demon Brat is with the Titans. Finally, out of desperation more than anything else, he sends “call me if you hear anything about Dick” to both Roy and Kory. By the time he slides his phone back into his pocket, the bartender is sliding a shot glass his way.
He knocks the drink back and goes back to reading the crawl bar. Something about Bialya, something about Star City, something about the stock market. Jason waits for the news to switch back to Nightwing, like watching the second hand of a clock tick its way round in a hospital waiting room.
When the text switches back to information about Nightwing, it’s just the same “Vigilante 'Nightwing' condition unknown after shots fired in Gotham,” repeated again, then the other blurbs, then the Nightwing info, over and over again. The bartender clears his plate and he asks for the bill. It’s all just so normal that the drowning part of Jason can’t believe that he’s functioning out in the real world like a normal person. When she returns, he hands her three twenties with barely a glance at the total, just enough to know that he’s given her almost a 100% tip.
“This is too much, sweetheart.”
“Keep it.”
She gives him a skeptical look. “You said you’re from Gotham. Can I turn the subtitles on for ya?”
Sinking Jason doesn’t want to know. Secretary Jason can’t tear his eyes away. “Um, yeah, that’d be great,” he answers after a moment of paralytic indecision.
Most of the coverage is pure conjecture. Someone was shot at the police station, on the roof according to some reports. Witnesses claim a bright orange flight-for-life helicopter landed on the roof of the GCPD. A little while later, an anonymous source says that there was a sniper on another building, that it was an assassination attempt. One shot, aimed at the head.
Jason went to the JFK museum when he was in Dallas once. He saw the grainy footage. The pictures.
Jason shoves away from the bar and pushes his way to the bathroom, splashes water in his face. It’s not true. It can’t be true. Dick can’t be.
Can’t.
He looks at himself in the spotty mirror, at his buzzed hair, shaved on a whim, the pale flesh showing beneath the black bristles.
He remembers running his fingers through Dick’s hair, tracing the lines of his skull like a phrenologist, the curve of Dick’s head underneath his hand.
Jason swallows the nausea down, washes his hands, and returns to the bar. He drinks his whiskey and asks for another one.
About twenty minutes later, a reporter interviews a hospital guest who saw the green glow from the roof of Gotham General. The news coverage doesn’t stay focused on the events of Gotham, circling back to the other major stories of the night, but returns every time some tiny nugget of news or gossip turns up. Jason can’t tell what’s true and what’s sensationalist speculation. So far, all anybody knows for sure is that someone was rushed to the hospital from the police station, and some cop told a reporter that Nightwing was shot by a sniper while he and Batman were talking to the commissioner.
Jason has almost convinced himself that it’s all just stupid rumors and that Dick is fine when the Breaking News alert flashes again. Gordon is going to make a statement in five minutes. He signals the bartender to ask for another whiskey. She brings it to him with a look of maybe sympathy on her face.
Gordon approaches the podiums as flashes from the cameras illuminate his face like a haunted house strobe light. His face professionally composed, serious but not alarmed, he clears his throat while waiting for the shouted questions to quiet down.
“Is it true he got shot in the head?”
“Have you made any arrests?”
“Do you have any leads?”
“What’s Nightwing’s current status?”
“Is Nightwing still alive?”
Jason caresses the glass of whiskey in his hands, so far undrunk. Dick rarely drank. Jason couldn’t help but feel that Dick wouldn’t be thrilled with Jason getting hammered in a bar, even over Dick.
Especially over Dick.
Gordon holds his hands up to ask for silence. “Nightwing is alive. He’s in critical condition in a Justice League facility.”
More shouted questions from the audience erupts at these words, but Jason can’t process beyond those two sentences. Dick is alive. Dick is in critical condition.
Screw Batman throwing Jason out of Gotham. Screw Jason’s current mission, as important as it is.
He pushes the still-full glass away from him and leaves another couple of twenties on the bar.
Jason can call Kory - borrow a plane and break into whatever facility Dick is in. Or see if the codes Dick gave him for an emergency actually work. Maybe even guilt trip Diana if he can get ahold of her. B is going to be tearing the city down looking for the shooter, but that’s not what Jason wants to do right now.
He has options.
Jason is going home, and no furry in a rodent costume is going to keep him away from Dick’s side right now.
Dick is home.