Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We got him.”

The comm coughs back a weak reply, but Jason has turned his entire attention to the body on the table. He slaps his brother’s cheek lightly, tilting his face towards him. His brow barely twitches, and Jason resists the urge to shake him.

“Now would be a really great time for you to wake up, dickhead.”

Dick, predictably, doesn’t respond.

Jason shucks one of his gloves and lifts one eyelid gently, peering at the pupil beneath.

“He awake?” Duke sidles up to him, shoulders set. His armor glows dully in the dim lab light, casting glinting reflections across the metal instruments, scattered from the fight. A lab-coated heap groans amid the mess.

“Not even a little.” Jason stuffs his glove back on and heaves Dick’s arms up, throwing him over his shoulder. “I got ‘wing. You tie up the guy. Once we get him out, gather the evidence you can. Bring it to one of my places. I’ll send you the info.”

Duke nods once, and starts to brush past him. Jason, on impulse, grabs his shoulder.

“Thanks for being here. I know you’re not exactly a night owl.”

Duke seems taken aback, but pats his shoulder in return. He doesn’t get it, Jason knows. Doesn’t get that Tim and Damian aren’t weak, or inept, but they’re still Dick’s little little brothers. Doesn’t get that it’s a million times easier running a rescue mission when you know your partner isn’t going to freeze up or be completely traumatized if they’d found him dead or broken.

And maybe, somewhere, that possibility is the same reason Jason hadn’t gone in alone.

“Of course. He’s important to me too.” Duke offers a tense grin. “Somebody’s gotta keep track of you people.”

“You say that as if you haven't been sucked into this family.” Tim’s voice comes through the comms, tinny from whatever interference has been messing with their radio. “But Signal, you’ll need to–“

“Enough talk,” Damian snaps with a burst of static. “You can all trade inane platitudes later, when Nightwing –“

“As I was saying, Signal,” Tim cuts in. “You’ll need to get that guy’s statement before we turn him in, and later we’re going to rendez-vous at the coordinates I just sent you. Batman and Robin are in pursuit of someone fleeing the scene-“

Jason tunes out the chatter, focusing on adjusting Dick’s arms around his shoulder as they kick through the double doors, slouch down the hall, up the stairs, and towards the emergency exit they’d broken into. The night air is grimy and warm, but still fresher than the building.

“...Jay?”

The voice catches him off guard, but he manages not to lose his grip, instead propping Dick against the batmobile. He’s shaking his head slowly, shoulders caving in as Jason carefully peels off his domino - still in place, he notes. Jason holds him up, trying to peer into his eyes.

“That’s me. We’re getting you out of here. I’m gonna buckle you in, so don’t freak, okay?”

He all but manhandles Dick into the passenger seat, trying to ignore the furious pounding in his chest. Blown out pupils, broken veins dotting his half-open gaze. There’s a purpling bruise on his chin, and a wide scrape just beneath his hairline.

It’s been two days since Nightwing had gone missing. Two hours since they’d figured out he was being held in this hellhole of an underground laboratory.

There’s no telling what had happened in between.

“Something’s wrong.” Dick’s voice is creaky and dry, and Jason can’t bring himself to look over. He throws the transmission into drive.

“We’re going home. If something's wrong, we’ll handle it there.” He almost believes it himself.

Dick inhales deeply, an ill and agonizing sound.

“Li’l wing. Something’s wrong,” he repeats in a wheeze. “Can’t feel. Can’t feel my body.”

Jason’s blood runs cold.

“Sit tight, Goldie.” He lowers his voice as he grinds his heel into the gas pedal. “Hood to Agent A. Prep medical, yesterday.”

Chapter Text

“Well, good morning sunshine.” Jason tries for levity, tossing a peanut at Dick, whose eyes are blinking open groggily. His tilts his head slowly, brow furrowed as he peers around into the dimness beyond the medbay.

“Is this...I’m in the cave?” It sounds like a guess. He sets the peanuts aside with a sigh, texting Alfred.

“That’s right.” Jason doesn’t think he comes off as bored as he’d hoped, but Dick seems to accept this. He presses his eyes closed again and rests a hand on his forehead, face scrunching in what could be pain. Jason clears his throat. Time to throw pretense out the window, as per fucking usual. “So, how’re you feeling? You can move everything?”

Dick shifts to stare at him, and Jason’s surprised at the guarded expression.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, before, you said you couldn’t, uh, feel anything.” Dick’s posture loosens as Jason speaks, and he waves a hand airily.

“It was probably the drugs they gave me. I feel fine now.”

“...right.”

“So where are the…others?” Dick is craning his head around. His gaze still seems slightly unfocused, but he’s still a far cry more lucid than six hours ago.

“Don’t worry, they’re around. We’re taking turns, and I guess I just drew the short straw on you waking up,” Jason says with a grin. He doesn’t mention that until a few hours ago, nearly everyone had been taking their “turn” simultaneously and without break, and been forcibly ordered to bed only with the combined forces of Alfred and Bruce. Jason had avoided the same fate by loudly and eloquently declaring his intention to stay until Dick woke up in order to rub in the fact that he’d rescued him.

“But yeah, just about everyone is upstairs, Alf’s orders. Duke left, he had to get ready for some outreach trip, Babs and Steph actually chased a lead on you to Bludhaven, but they said they’re spending a few nights there to patrol while you're gone. And Cass is still off the radar, but you knew that - she’s been on a mission since before you went missing, but she's supposed to be back soon. And of course Bruce is brooding somewhere.”

Dick nods slowly, having levered himself up to sit up. He presses a hand to his temple, forehead still pinched.

“And the bat himself?” he asks. Jason frowns, jumping forward as Dick sways.

“I just told you, he’s brooding. Probably running tox screens for you right now, actually. You sure you’re okay? You still look pretty bad, and full offense, you seem...pretty out of it.”

Dick smiles faintly, examining his hands.

“I’m just tired, y'know.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Right.”

There’s a pause, as Jason tries to battle against the urge to stay, his cause weakened by the bloody flecks still caught in Dick’s eyes, the memory of just how much weight had vanished from his chest the instant he’d found Dick’s pulse on that table. He clears his throat again, shifting on the hard medbay seat. After all these years, they should really get more comfortable ones. Though it could be a ploy by Alfred to prevent people staying up all night in them.

“So, you wanna go over what happened, or am I supposed to just read all about it in a debrief later?”

Dick stares at him for a long time, hands clenching and unclenching on the bed. An alarm goes off somewhere in Jason’s head as the silence lengthens, and Dick inhales sharply, falling forward slightly. Jason stands.

“Dick?”

“Yeah, sorry - I was - I can’t seem...to remember. All of it. Any of it.” Dick’s face bends into a blinding, pained grin. “Kind of freaky.”

Jason takes a deep breath and crosses his arms.

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

There’s a pause, and he swears Dick’s trying to burn a hole through the floor with the force of his glare alone.

“I really...the whole thing is kind of a blur,” he finally says, voice tight.

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time your memory gave you a run for your money. As long as you don’t go off developing a new personality, or whatever.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he immediately regrets them. The whole amnesia debacle, though barely a week long, had really done a number on the lot of them and it’s still not quite out of their rearview. Thank goodness for Martian Manhunter, a real alien ex machina if you ask Jason - though at this point, they should honestly have protocols for all soap opera tropes, since they seem to happen so fucking often.

Still, even Jason balks at the idea of another round of being told he’s a stranger to his face, at Dick looking him in the eye and telling him he doesn’t know him. Bringing it up was probably a mistake. But now, Dick just stares at him curiously, brow furrowed and now shining with sweat.

“Master Richard, it’s good to see you awake.” Jason nearly sighs aloud in relief as Alfred materializes in the med bay next to him in the fashion worthy of a bat. Dick starts, whipping his head around.

“Um, hi. Yes, it’s good to be awake,” Dick smiles, blinking hard. “Do you think I could get some water?”

It’s more than safe to leave him to Alfred’s ministrations, and Jason finds himself waving a hand as he beats a hasty retreat.

“Get some rest, Goldie.”

---

“How is he?” Bruce doesn’t even turn around. Jason can’t see over his shoulder, but there’s a tray of samples in front of him, and a machine is whirring quietly next to him. Of course he knows Dick’s awake already. Of course he won’t go over to talk to him himself.

“I’m fine too, thanks.”

“Jason.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He needs an icepack, a shower, a bed, and about seven hours. Not necessarily in that order. He doesn’t have time to play this game with Bruce, no matter how much it rankles him that Bruce insists on hiding away from everyone. Hiding away from Dick, when he probably needs him most.

“Honestly? Doesn’t seem great. ”

Bruce stills.

“In what sense?”

“Concussion, I’d guess. He doesn’t remember much. Maybe leftover drugs in his system, there are fresh tracks on his arm. He just seems...off. ”

Bruce nods, actually turning to face Jason. He hasn’t slept, he can tell.

“We ran basic tests, there were some sedatives in his blood. A full, comprehensive toxin screen will be ready in an hour. We’ll know more then. And an MRI is in order, to be safe. We still have no idea what they wanted with him, or what they could have done.” Bruce hesitates, and Jason rolls his eyes. “Did he say anything?”

“What, too much of a coward to go talk to him yourself? Don’t you have bugs down there as well as cameras?” he tosses back sarcastically. Bruce shakes his head, stirring the beaker in his hands.

“I…didn’t want to intrude on your privacy.”

“Are you joking? Is that a joke?” Jason barks out a laugh. “Because that’s actually funny. Good job.” He crosses his arms, chuckling to himself. “Batman, didn’t want to intrude. Batman, respecting another being’s boundaries. What a world, what a world. I appreciate the attempt at appearing like a normal human person, but cut the bullshit. What's the real reason?”

Bruce's frown deepens, and for a moment Jason wonders if he's actually caught him in a moment of actual human decency.

"The auditory system is down. I think there's a problem with the signal."

There it is. Fucking typical. He snorts, turning on his heel and heading for the door.

“Jason?”

“What.” He stops, but doesn’t turn around. Bruce’s voice is barely louder than the steady hum of the machine.

“Keep an eye on him.”

Because you obviously won’t, Jason barely manages to bite back. Instead, he yanks the door open, the cool air from the cave blasting past him.

“Sure.”

Chapter Text

Tim barely manages to flip the laptop shut and throw the covers over himself before the door creaks open. He closes his eyes, trying to even out his breathing as the light clicks on and footsteps cross the room.

“Yo, Timmy. I have a job for you.” Jason collapses on the bed, pulling out his phone and thumbing through it. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Alfred you weren’t actually asleep.”

Tim kicks him off the bed, rescuing his laptop from the teetering off the edge.

“I could have been,” he argues, already booting it back up. “Pass me my charger.”

“I will if you help me out with something.” Jason stands, rubbing his back where Tim’s foot had connected.

“I’m not going to take the fall for something you did,” Tim responds flatly, entering his password. The screen flickers back to the surveillance footage he’d been running through for the umpteenth time, because there had to be something. There was always something. He frowned at the screen as Nightwing-from-two-nights-ago swung past a streetlamp, flipping to land on a fire escape. He’s looking down…

There’s always something.

“So you’re not even interested?” Jason asks loudly, suddenly in his ear, and Tim jumps.

“What? Oh. You’re still here?” He pulls open a search engine, typing in the address. “Maybe later. Busy.”

Jason watches him type from over his shoulder for a minute.

“You have like, a million tabs open.”

“Uh-huh,” he responds absently. He clicks back to his notes.

“It’s a mess.”

“If you don’t like it, go away.”

“Why do you have so many? You can’t even tell what they are.” Jason reaches for the keypad, but Tim shoves him away with a glare.

“I need them.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Tim sighs, finally pushing his laptop away and turning to look at him fully.

“What do you want, Jason?”

Jason smiles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. He did do something bad, then, Tim confirms to himself.

“You’re better at chemistry than I am, and there was a lot of stuff in those boxes we cleared from that lab. Was hoping you would come over and help me id them.”

Tim rolls his eyes, grabbing his laptop back. Might as well multitask.

“Can’t you bring it here?” He opens a new tab, pulling up the lab’s front website that they’d dragged Dick out from under. Some neurology clinic. Not a great start.

“Can’t carry boxes on my bike.”

“Take a car,” he counters. He toggles over to the testimony from the lab tech they’d recorded - he hasn’t listened to it, but he taps a few keys, sending it to one of Bruce’s printers in the cave.

“B won’t let me.”

That’s a lie if he ever heard one. Bruce would rather the evidence be here by any means. He squints suspiciously at Jason.

“What did you do?”

Jason grins sheepishly.

“When Duke and I were moving the boxes with the vials, we maybe, possibly broke one? Or two. C’mon, just come over and take some samples so I can figure out if I need to get my carpets replaced. Or move.”

“Fine.” Tim scowls. “You owe me.”

“Knew I could count on you,” Jason grabs at the door handle on his way out. “Oh yeah, by the way. He’s up.” He tosses a glance over his shoulder, catching Tim’s eye, who hesitates. The door begins to close, but before the light of the hall vanishes completely, Tim finally relents.

“How is he?” he blurts, clutching his laptop. On the screen, a miniature Nightwing swings out of view. “I don’t want to…” He trails off. He doesn’t actually have a good reason not to go down immediately. Maybe it’s the fact that it had taken them too long to find him. To even notice he was well and truly missing. Maybe it’s about guilt, or fear of what Dick would think of them having left him in a basement for two days. Tim hasn’t given himself time to examine the thought. Two days. He’s supposed to be good at this. Especially when it’s Dick counting on him.

Jason pauses, hand on the doorframe. He shrugs.

“Still in the medbay.” He dawdles, a strange hesitancy crossing his face. “Before you stop by, you...just go see him.”

----

“Up and about?”

Dick looks around, his face silhouetted by the glow of the batcomputer. He stares at Tim for a beat, who offers a hesitant grin.

“Hey, you. Good as new.” He looks Tim over appraisingly. “It’s...good to see you’re in one piece, too.”

Tim hangs back, waiting for – well, waiting. He isn’t sure why Dick’s shift of attention back to the screen bothers him. He’s –he’s fine. He’d responded, looked alert enough. It’s hard to tell what his complexion looks like in the computer’s cast, and his eyes look a bit bloodshot, but he still seems stable.

He’d recognized Tim–something he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath for, after that one, horrible, endless week after Dick had woken up from the bullet to the head as someone almost unrecognizable. They still owed the Martians big time for that, considering they’d not only managed to retrieve his memories but actually recreate and restore the missing brain matter –injuries like that were career-ending, and side effects would have never really gone away. But J’onn and M'gann had both given him the all-clear, the damage to his mind entirely reversed, leaving only the blistered contusion on his scalp. They could heal minds, not scars.

It was nothing like the memory loss, Tim scolds himself. And he seems alert, healthy, scrolling through something Tim can’t quite see at his angle. But still, there’s something –there’s always something –prickling at the back of Tim’s mind. He looks fine. He’s acting fine. He’s fine. Is Tim missing something? Should Dick be doing– oh.

Tim clears his throat, determined to think nothing of it.

“Thanks. We -we were worried.” There’s a pause that Tim confidently characterizes as awkward, as Dick closes some file on the computer, pulling up the same footage Tim had been poring over just an hour or so before. “So, what even-”

“Where is he?” a voice demands, and Tim sighs. He’d been hoping for at least one whole conversation with Dick before Damian found out he was awake. Dick peers into the dark behind them, his reddened eyes widening a fraction as Damian appears at the top of the stairs.

“Right here,” Dick calls, but doesn’t rise from his seat, instead continuing to examine the frame-by-frame version of the footage.

Damian approaches warily.

“I am glad to see you are well enough to already be making your report,” he says stiffly. Tim is caught between exasperation and pity. The kid is clearly as thrown off as he is. Which he isn’t. Because it’s not a big deal–it’s not –he’s just overthinking.

“Yeah, uh, I just really want to get the details down before I forget them. I’ll tell you both everything later, it’s just...My memory of the last few days is really on the fritz.” Dick scratches his head, but smiles at them reassuringly. “Don’t worry, just of the last few days. I won’t be, uh, developing a new personality or anything.”

Damian visibly relaxes, and Tim would be lying if he didn’t internally heave a breath of relief himself. He steps forward, stopping short of resting a hand on Dick’s shoulder. Damian keeps his distance, looking between them.

“Well, let us know when you’re cleared. Alfred, he uh, has a feast all planned out for tomorrow. Cass is gonna be home, too.” Dick’s mouth twitches, but he nods enthusiastically. Tim tries again, uncertain why he feels like he’s grasping at air. “And maybe we can do movie night, tomorrow or the next night? You said Damian wanted to watch Jumanji.”

Damian scoffs.

“Grayson was the one who insisted I watch it. I merely agreed. He said there were elephants.”

“Whatever,” Tim says, trying to sound annoyed–it’s hard, because he can only really feel gratitude that at least Damian is trying to fill the silence, while Dick is still half-ignoring them both, studying the footage intently.

“We’re really glad you’re back,” Tim says, sincerely. “I’m - “ I’m sorry, he wants to say, because he’s really, really unsure of his footing right now. I’m sorry it took us so long. But Dick isn’t paying attention, which is sort of the issue. Whether he’s furious at them and hiding it incredibly well, or truly absorbed in his notes, Tim has no idea. He swallows his guilt as Dick barely acknowledges the break in Tim’s voice, offering a strained smile over his shoulder before turning back to the screen.

“Thanks, you two. Jumanji sounds great. Just gotta wait to talk to the boss.”

It’s a dismissal. Tim and Damian exchange a look.

Chapter Text

Bruce rubs his eyes, vision flashing red. Clean. Everything’s clean - no known toxins, drugs, or other foreign substances are in Dick’s blood, according to the admittedly extensive catalogue they have recorded in the cave computers. He’s fine. He's fine.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Jason’s words are still bouncing around his head as he finally peeks out of the room, peering into the larger cave tunnel. Dick is awake, he knows, awake and undoubtedly frustrated at being confined to the downstairs. A quick glance at the cameras confirms that he’s left the medbay, and is sitting at the computer.

Jason had left hours ago, and Tim had just left for an “errand,” as he’d called it with a tired shrug. Damian is skulking about the manor, avoiding everyone. No one, save Alfred, has gone down to the cave since Tim and Damian’s brief, soundless interaction in the early morning. Dick is alone down there. Dick is alone down there, with no way to even contact Babs or Steph while the comms are acting up, and he hasn’t complained a word about it, or snuck up the stairs of his own accord.

Something is wrong.

Bruce steels himself, before striding down the hall. There’s no practical reason to hesitate. He hasn’t seen his son, conscious, in two days. Jason’s right. He’s being a coward.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t hold his breath as he turns the corner.

Dick is dressed in sweats and a hoodie, leaning towards the screen. He doesn’t glance over. Hte doesn’t even seem to be aware of Bruce’s approach, which in itself is worrying. He knows Tim is digging into the clinic lab more, and there’s a plethora of information still to sort through, but it feels like he’s dealing with an unknown here. They had to have wanted him for something, but there’s no physiological changes to his system, no problems in his blood or timebombs in his platelets or alterations to the chemical makeup of his immune system. Alfred’s run basic physical and neuro tests - he doesn’t even have a concussion.

It doesn’t make sense. And he’s paused at the edge of the computer, mulling these thoughts, instead of approaching his son whom he hasn’t seen in days. Who he’d been looking for, terrified and tense, for the last 48 hours or so. Who’s here now, right in front of him and seemingly unharmed save for a few bangs and bruises visible in the computer’s glow.

Jason is right.

“I–oh, it’s you.”

Bruce steps forward as Dick smiles over at him with wide eyes, only now realizing he hasn’t changed from the suit from last night. Priorities, he argues with the Alfred tutting in his mind.
“It’s me,” he agrees. “Dick, I’m- “ he clears his throat. Dick watches him with interest, not rising from the chair. He supposes he deserves to be put on the spot, without Dick’s usual merciful intervention. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty alright, actually. I told Jason and, uh, Tim, and Damian the same thing. I was a little groggy when I woke up, but I feel fine now.” He smiles again, still sitting as Bruce approaches. Bruce zeroes in on Dick’s posture. There’s something a little too tight in his back, like how he’s seen people sit with a broken rib. Alfred, who had said there were no major injuries, would be insulted if he knew Bruce questioned his examination. But it never hurts to double check. Alfred needn’t know he asked.

“And you’re not hurt anywhere? No bruises, breaks?” he asks. “A temperature, anything?”

Dick shakes his head firmly.

“Alfred checked me out pretty well. Just a little banged up, and I don’t remember much of what happened.”

“You don’t?” Bruce asks, reaching out by sheer instinct. Dick jerks back slightly, and something in Bruce twinges. But then Dick seems to realize what Bruce is doing and allows him to brush back the hair on his forehead, peeking at the freshly treated scrapes. He lowers himself to eye level, looking between Dick’s pupils. They seem evenly sized, even if they’re alarmingly bloodshot. No concussion, just as Alfred said.

“What happened? What do you remember?”

Dick taps the bruise on his chin.

“I remember where I was before I stopped remembering things – that corner on Burdock Street, with the radio tower? Where Red –where Jason patrols, sometimes. I was climbing up the fire escape to the roof, and then boom –” Dick shrugs. “Nothing. I was in a laboratory, you guys were getting me out, and then I was in the medical bay.”

Bruce passes a hand over his face, sighing. He knows the corner. It’s where they’d last picked up visual on him. Beyond that, it’s nothing new. There isn’t going to be much exploring down this avenue, not when Dick’s memory has already undergone so much trauma –again, it’s not as if he doesn’t trust the work of Jonn’z and Morse. But it wouldn’t hurt to be safe. They can do the MRI, or a CAT scan, but aside from that that, it’ll be up to the rest of them to put the clues together.

“Bruce?”

“I’m sorry, Dick.” He looks down at Dick’s surprised face, his wide, bloody eyes.

“What? What about?”

“I’m sorry it took us so long to find you, and...and that I didn’t come see you earlier. I was just…”

“Busy?” Dick supplies, smirking.

“Terrified,” Bruce admits, earning him a startled gaze. “I didn’t know –we still don’t know what happened, or why they wanted you, or even who exactly they are. We have a few leads, but –
“What leads?” Dick asks, finally turning the whole chair to face him. “I mean, maybe it will jog my memory, if I hear something familiar.”

Bruce nods, stepping forward to the computer controls. He clicks around, pulling up the file with the lab tech’s testimony transcription, the footage, the laboratory’s layout, and their notes. It’s a miserably small file, for a case.

“Here’s everything we have.”

He watches Dick scan through it, trying to assess for himself if Jason’s opinion held. A little off might be the right description. There’s nothing obvious, nothing shouting for his attention. But there’s no way in hell Dick is patrolling alone for the next couple of weeks, at least not until they know why he was even stolen away in the first place. He'll have to see who wants to spend a few weeks in Bludhaven. He's already several rebuttals deep in the imagined, inevitable 'I-don't-need-a-babysitter argument' with Dick, when it hits him that that's a problem days away. Dick is here, in front of him.

Coward

“Dick.”

“Hm?”

Bruce takes a deep breath. The bruise on Dick’s chin stands out against his screen-lit skin, the scrape on his forehead washed in blue. For a split second, he thinks he sees Dick’s hands, hovering over the keyboard, tremble violently –when he looks back, they’re completely still, Dick’s attention focused impassively on the monitor. His chest twinges again.

“I’m glad you’re safe. I’m glad we got you back.”

Dick turns to give him a brilliant, almost laughing grin.

“I’m glad, too.”

Chapter Text

Jason bangs open the door after one knock, leaving it open for Tim to follow him inside. The place is surprisingly neat.

“Welcome to mi casa.” Jason tosses over his shoulder. “Keep your shoes on. No smoking.”

Tim frowns.

“You smoke.”

“Yeah,” Jason rolls his eyes. “Only in front of Bruce, and only to piss him off. Geez, kid, you think I’d smoke for real? When half of our job involves heavy cardio?” He grins sharply, ruffling Tim’s hair. “That stuff’ll kill you!”

Tim just grumbles, shoving past him.

“Where’s the mess?”

After a few minutes of shifting boxes of evidence out of the contaminated patch of shattered glass and Mystery Chemical #1, Jason breaks the silence.

“Did you talk to him?” he asks, almost casually.

“Did you?” Tim shoots back, cutting out a piece of soaked carpet and placing it in a vial.

“Yeah.”

There’s another pause as Tim adds the reactant. Jason is glaring at him.

“Do you want to say it or should I?"

“What do you mean?” Tim asks, feigning nonchalance. Jason huffs.

“Was he still acting weird when you saw him?”

“Like…” Tim gnaws on the inside of his cheek. He’s paranoid. Overthinking. It was nothing. But nothing’s nothing, he reminds himself. There’s always something. And Damian had looked just as put out as he’d felt. “I think maybe he’s mad. He was a little strange, but mostly sort of distracted. Or distant?”

“More like the kid at the party who doesn’t realize he’s eaten loaded brownies.” Jason says bluntly.

“He wasn’t…quite that way when I talked to him. More like, he didn’t…” Tim shifts on the carpet, tinkering with the chem kit.

“He didn’t what?”

Nothing is nothing.

“He didn’t, ah he didn’t hug me,” Tim says, cheeks warming. “Or Damian.”

Jason rolls his eyes, heaving an enormous sigh.

“Seriously? I thought this was gonna be hard evidence, homicidal urges or hysterical laughing or whatever. Something we could actually work with. That’s your baseline of acting strange, is not being excessively clingy?”

“You have to admit, it’s out of character,” Tim defends. “Especially after a mission like that. When has Dick ever not tackled us after some kind of separation, or kidnapping, for any of us?”
“Tim -”

“Tactile affection towards his family is a consistent part of his behavior, and he’s not being consistent, which means –“

“Tim-“

“It’s something,” Tim finishes with a fierce glare. “Which means we have to consider it.”

Jason purses his lips at the square of carpet Tim had cut up. Tim holds his breath. Saying it aloud almost made it more worrying, more real –but he doesn’t think he can do that thing again, where he’s the crazy one, and thinking the impossible, and believing in something that no one else –

But Jason is nodding, his expression sour.

“Well. Bruce texted, said he finished tox screens, and there isn’t anything currently in his system. But they had him for what, a day? And-”

“Two days,” Tim interjects, and Jason grimaces.

“Two days, and he’s been back for long enough that most stuff would have worn off.”

“Some drugs have residual effects, even after they aren’t present in the body. They can temporarily rewire things, or depress certain systems. Or, they can only be tested if you know exactly what you’re looking for.” Tim pauses. “Could be some sort of withdrawal, even.”

“Could be.”

The idea sits between them uncomfortably.

“I’ve read his report, he really doesn’t remember anything after getting caught over on Burdock. And...Well. You don’t think it’s a side effect of –” Jason squirms, and Tim squints at him sharply. Something he wants to say. Something he feels uncomfortable saying? Jason is uncomfortable about saying very few things –the topics of family, fear, and mistakes would be Tim’s top three guesses. He watches Jason’s hand stray to one of the loose pill bottles amidst the chem kit.

“Cardioplegia doesn’t have behavioural or neurological side effects,” Tim says without thinking, and Jason stares at him.

“It’s real creepy when you read minds like that, you know?”

Tim just shakes his head, already moving past the point.

“And even if they gave him something that would interact with it, it’s not a drug that leaves traces. It’s just one and –” Tim swallows, biting his lip and trying to steer his train of thought away from that video that they still haven’t told Dick they’ve seen. Why Bruce even keeps it on the computer is a mystery even to Tim, but Luthor still has something coming to him, even if he did save the world. “Just one and done. Plus, it was a - it wasn’t that recent.”

Jason seems to be struggling against the same distraction. He’s scowling at the floor. Tim coughs.

“So either it’s something lasting in one of these chemicals, like we guessed earlier, or…”

“Or something else,” Jason finishes, face tight. Tim just nods.

“Let’s get to work, then.”

Chapter Text

Damian is being lied to.

It is not just Grayson, who has insisted he is fine, when it is clear he is mad at them. It’s Todd, who had vanished hours ago, and had not even deigned to tell him Grayson had woken up. It’s Father, who is undoubtedly still holed up somewhere, trying to fix the communicators and telling Damian there’s nothing to worry about. It’s even Pennyworth, who has told him that Grayson is merely tired, to give him time. The only one who hasn’t yet lied to him is Drake – and that’s only because Damian’s barely seen him since they’d parted ways in the cave. Which led him to his current position: crouched behind Drake’s closet door, peeking through the wooden slats.

He has been observing Drake for the last hour or so, since he’d traipsed into the room, shedding his jacket to the floor and throwing himself onto on his bed, laptop open. It’s not because Drake is at all interesting –Damian does have better things to do, including continuing to monitor the two baby mice he’d discovered in Drake’s closet a week back, who were leagues more interesting than anything Drake ever did.

But Drake had…he had been there, in that small moment in the cave, that had left Damian feeling cold and irritated. Drake had noticed, too; Damian is sure he had felt it too. And if Damian knows one thing about Drake, it is that if he notices something…something off, he will not be kept from finding out more.

It is something Damian would, if pressed, begrudgingly admit he respects about him. Not to his face. But it could happen.

Drake, for the most part, has been typing. Damian can’t see the screen from his hiding spot.

“He’s okay, you know. I’m just being thorough.” Tim’s voice is low, but Damian starts all the same. He doesn’t move, trying to even his breathing. “C’mon brat.” Tim sighs, glancing over at the closet. “That can’t be comfortable.” Damian shrugs out, chin high.

“I, too, was being thorough. I thought it important to observe to see if you had any leads on – on the criminals who took Nightwing.”

“Instead of just asking me?” Drake doesn’t even look up.

“I wanted to sharpen my clandestine observational skills,” Damian sniffs. He wonders, nervously, if being spotted so easily means that Drake has also discovered the mice in his closet. They seem to like their little shoebox corner, and he’d hate to move them.

“Whatever.”

Damian draws closer, trying to peek over Drake’s shoulder.

“Well, what have you found?”

Drake taps a few more keys, before closing the laptop abruptly. He turns completely, staring hard at Damian in a way that is eerily similar to Father’s gaze.

“Have you spoken to Dick since this morning, when- when we talked to him?”

Damian frowns.

“I asked him whether or not he had rested well. He…” Damian hesitates, biting his lip. Surely, Drake needn’t know that Grayson was still mad at him, especially seeing as Damian hadn’t even figured out why.

“He what?” Drake prompts, voice surprisingly soft. Damian grits his teeth.

“He said he was fine.”

“And?”

Damian shakes his head.

“It is unimportant.”

“Damian.” Drake leans forward, expression fierce. “It’s Dick. Is he unimportant?”

“Of course he’s important,” Damian scowls. “Don’t misinterpret me, Drake. But I am deeming what he said as unimportant, now tell me what you’ve found.”

“What did he say, Damian? Or do?”

“He – it’s unimportant!” he repeats, voice climbing. “Leave it, Drake!”

“Damia – I can’t!” Drake is clearly struggling to control his tone, but Damian has no such reservations.

“Then tell me what you’ve found!” he yells, and even as the words reverberate in his ears, he doesn’t quite understand why he can’t tamp down on the fury struggling like a wild animal in his chest. Tim’s face is pinched, but his hands are raised as if to calm Damian down – as if Damian were the one withholding actual, physical evidence of why Grayson was acting strange, and not operating on stupid, irrational bad feelings.

“There’s nothing yet, it’s just–“

“It’s not nothing if you won’t tell me,” Damian snaps, and spins towards the door.

“Damian, there’s no reason to freak out, just –“

“I am not freaking out!” he shouts over his shoulder, and slams the door for good measure.

Damian is being lied to.

Which means he has to find the truth for himself.

Chapter Text

Later that night, Tim does a double take as he passes Dick in the cave, suited in black and blue. The scrape on his forehead is still brilliant, barely hidden by his hair, and there are still visible broken veins in his eyes, giving him a sickly, violent look. But he moves with confidence, pulling his gloves on with a smile.

“You’re going out?” Tim squawks, spinning immediately to follow him to the garage. “Should you be back in the field already? Did you get cleared? Have you even slept, or eaten?”

“Bruce said there was nothing in my system,” Dick says, shrugging and not slowing his stride. “He ran a gazillion blood tests, concussion tests, Alfred gave me a bunch of physical motion tests. I’m not hungry, I’m not tired– I feel fine. Why not?”

“Because you– “ Tim bites his tongue. “We still don’t know why they took you at all, or if they drugged you with some compound we don’t know about that could activate later, or–Did Bruce even get to run the MRI? Didn’t he go out already?”

Dick halts, putting a hand on his bike and turning to face Tim slowly. His expression is wary.

“An MRI?” he asks, voice perfectly even.

There’s always something,Tim thinks with a shiver as Dick’s blood-speckled eyes tighten almost imperceptibly. This is something.

“Dick, you -”

“Cool your jets, squirt.” Jason walks up, examining his helmet absently. “I’ll be with him. It’s not even a real patrol, we’re just checking out the lab, seeing if something rings a bell.”

Tim hesitates, feet headed in one direction, mind racing in the other. He makes eye contact with Jason.

“Wait ten minutes, I’ll come.”

Jason groans.

“Fine, but in exchange you have to look over the new code I made for this remote deactivator thing I just installed. Babs said she was too busy with something in Blud, and you’re like, second best.”

Tim makes a face, but Dick steps between them, face set in an uncomfortable smile.

“Actually, Tim, Bruce said he left you a report to finish.” He pats Tim’s shoulder as he grabs his helmet. “Sorry.”

Tim shrugs.

“Then I’ll meet you there when I’m done. Shouldn’t take long.”

“I think it’d be better if we just joined you wherever you went, later,” Dick says suddenly. They both stare at him, and he fidgets slightly, expression now frustratingly hidden behind the domino. “What, it’s not like we’re going to find any new leads at the lab. You said you scoured that place top to bottom.”

“There’s nothing wrong with all of us giving it a second look,” Jason offers casually, and Tim bites his tongue, because the only Dick Grayson that wants someone to avoid a crime scene is one that’s hiding something.

Dick’s smile seems frozen. He looks between Tim and Jason, and seems to realize he can’t argue this further.

“Alright. We’ll see you there, then.”

Tim and Jason exchange a look as Dick climbs on the bike.

The roar of the bikes cover the sound well enough as Jason deliberately turns his body so Dick can’t see, fiddling with his helmet. He mouths something at Tim, expression contorted with an alarming amount of worry. Jason doesn’t do worry lightly.

By the time the rev of motors has faded from the cave, three loose connections are sounding klaxons in Tim’s brain. He rattles them off to himself as he suits up, categorizing, minimizing.

One, Dick’s behavior. Just in general.
Two, his reluctance for Tim to join them at the lab.
Three, the two silent words Jason had left him with:

Follow us.

Chapter Text

The drive is entirely peaceful - they dart in and out of sparse, Sunday night traffic, the roads nearly empty as the night falls deeper over the city. Jason tries to engage Dick in a race, but his gaze is fixed on the road, hands braced stiffly as they coast onto Risadez Bridge, closed for construction.

They fall in line side by side, barely a half-meter between them as they coast along the narrow bridge. Jason glances over, preparing to crack a joke about shitty infrastructure, when he sees it. The brief flash of some violent emotion that lights up Dick’s face in the same single moment that his body seems to snap into place on his bike. It’s not even a full second later, that Jason is frozen, completely distracted from the road as Dick’s bike peels away, careening between one support and the next and flying into the dark.

NO.

Jason doesn’t even yell, just screeches to a stop and throws himself from the bike in one motion - it goes skidding away down the bridge, but he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t even glance at the water, launching himself from the edge and falling into the dark - he can just make out a glimmer of metal, a flash of electric blue far below.

“Hood to anyone, Risadez Bridge, now!” he shouts into his comm. There’s a burst of responding static, as if someone had been trying to reply, and he just has enough time to remember that they've been acting up before he hits the water. It takes only a second to find Dick, still caught in the braces of the bike, and not even sinking yet – for a moment, Jason freezes, because there’s blood coating half of Dick’s soaking face, the water spreading it further across his skin. But then Dick seems to jerk into reality, and he’s snapping his head back and forth, shoving Jason away desperately.

“Fuck, ju- Nightwing! It’s me! Stop – ow!”

There’s a blur of waves, struggling limbs, and a building sense of dread as Dick goes from fighting him, to drifting downwards, barely moving.

Jason loops an arm around his brother, and makes towards shore.

“What the fuck.” He can’t even muster the energy to yell, coughing out water. He drags Dick onto the sand, dropping him and walking past, trying to work off the adrenaline. “What the actual goddamn motherfucking fuck was that.”

Dick sits there in the sand, head in his hands. He might be shaking from cold, or the adrenaline, or something else. Jason is in no position to guess. There’s still blood dripping down the side of his face, pink where it’s mixing with the water and near-black along his hairline.

Jason stands, trying to not to panic, or worse, give in to the haze of green lurking at the edge of his vision. He wants to rip off his helmet and throw it, scream at Dick, huddled before him – but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because he needs to be calm, and understanding, and rational. He needs to not want to break things right now.

Dick drove off a bridge. Dick drove off a bridge right in fucking front of him. Okay. Okay.

Calm might not be an option, so he goes for understanding.

“Was that –” he shakes his head, trying to tamp down on his own roiling instincts. “Did you just –”

Dick doesn’t even look up. Jason hisses to himself, throwing his arms in the air.

“Nightwing, I swear to Wonder Woman, if you don’t tell me what the fresh fuck –“ he hears his own modulated voice reverberating in his ears, and winces, forcing it lower. “Did you get hit with something? Should I be lining up a defense? Can I blame Robin?”

Although if they’re under attack, whoever launched it doesn’t have great follow-through. And something horrible and heavy is sitting in Jason’s stomach, a certainty that said Dick hadn’t mistakenly driven so precisely between the bridge’s pillars. That the expression on his face –in the barest fraction of a second he’d seen it–had been authentic and full of intent.

“Nightwing, report.” He tries the official tactic. Dick doesn’t respond. Okay, less official tactic. “Say something right now or I’m dragging your ass back to the cave.”

Nothing.

“Dick.” Jason swallows, watching him only shake harder, hands clenched in his blood-matted hair. Jason reaches out, swallowing down a wobble in his voice. “Dick?”

“Don’t.” The word is quiet. Jason recoils a second too late.

In the blink of an eye, Jason is rolling to his feet, wrist smarting and heart pounding. Across from him, drenched and bedraggled, Dick is somehow standing firm. He’s cradling Jason’s gun.
Immediately, Jason’s hands fly up placatingly.

“Whoa. Easy.” Jason softens his voice even more, a fresh jolt of adrenaline shooting through him. “Whatcha doing there, ‘wing? If you needed a gun, you could have just asked.”

Dick’s face is contorted in something unidentifiable with the mask on. There’s a definite uncertainty to his motions, but slowly, slowly, Jason can only watch as Dick turns the gun’s mouth towards him. Jason swallows, smiling nervously – you’re wearing the helmet, idiot, he can’t see that – and switches off the voice modulator.

“Hey there, let’s just talk about this. It’s me, Red Hood? Robin number two?” He’s itching to take off the helmet, but if Dick is far gone enough–wherever he went–sudden motion feels like a bad idea. “It’s me, Dickiebird, Jason. Your brother? I don’t think you’re gonna shoot your brother. In fact, I’m pretty sure you have a policy against it. So how about you point that thing elsewhere, hmm?”

And as sure as Jason is of that fact—Dick would never, not in his right mind—he’d also been sure that Dick wasn’t the kind of person to drive off a bridge. So. In his right mind might be the problem here.

That’s the thing with their line of business that Jason sometimes thinks is funny, in his own sort of way. Anyone who’s worked with Batman either isn’t, hasn’t been, or isn’t going to be in their right mind—it’s like a rite of passage, at this point, one Jason doesn’t consider himself exempt from. But there’s a wide span of difference between being Pit-mad, and having, say, PTSD, and not dealing with it. Not even fucking talking about those little things. Little things like being killed, or killing, that end up mutating and multiplying into something that can eat a person whole.

Jason knows this, from more than just his time working with Bruce. But Bruce is the one who likes to pretend the past doesn’t affect him, when his whole fucking life is based on one night when he was eight. Bruce is the one who wants Jason to forgive and forget, pretend the Joker isn’t as alive as he was the day Jason suddenly wasn’t. Bruce wants to bury the past, blindly believe everyone can do the same, no consequences, no problem, until shit like this happens. You can’t bury everything and not expect some things to dig themselves back up. Jason’s living proof of that, pun wholly intended. And he’s so going to shoot Bruce if this has a thing to do with the fucking Murder Machine, or Spyral, or a million other secrets he hasn’t been told because they’re not important until they’re threatening someone’s life, right?

Jason blinks back green.

“Dick, listen. I don’t know where you think you are, but I promise you, you don’t need the gun. You hear me, Goldie? Put the gun down.”

Dick regards him for a moment long enough for Jason to exhale. Then, he flicks off the safety. Jason swears under his breath.

At that moment, there's a familiar whisper of metal wire uncoiling, and a shadow falls from the dark above them.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “B better be stuck in traffic.”

Tim doesn’t even respond, glancing between them. The kid, to his credit, doesn’t look scared—but that cowl hides a lot. He’s certainly tense, in the least, and Jason doesn’t fail to notice the tremor in his hands as he raises them to match Jason’s.

“Nightwing, it’s us.” Tim’s voice is soft, calming. Only a little shaky. Jason thanks his lucky stars that Damian isn’t here—this is exactly why he’d worked with Duke to drag Dick out of that lab in the first place. “Do you know who we are?”

Dick’s mouth is a flat line, lips tucked like he’s trying not to speak. He gives a single, jerky shake of his head.

“Think he’ll shoot me if I take my helmet off?” Jason whispers, glancing over as Tim slowly pulls down his cowl. The domino underneath stares blindly at Dick.

“Don’t,” Tim says, and well, he can’t argue with that tone, especially with a gun trained at his head.

Louder, he says “Dick, it’s us, Tim and Jason. Your family?” Tim starts edging around one direction, nodding at Jason to go the other way. Dick backs up with stuttering steps, as if unbalanced. A step to the right, and a light from the bridge above hits the gun in a way that sends a beam through Jason’s mind, a shock of untempered hope and relief. He squints at the gun as it tracks him, that faint glimmer surging in his chest.

“Activate remote protocol,” he whispers into his helmet. He takes one more step, the gun following him.

“Stop.” The word is snarled. The gun steadies, Dick’s face smooths out, and they both go stock still.

Chapter Text

“Tell us what you’re thinking, Goldie. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Jason calls, and Tim shoots him a warning glance. Dick’s face is utterly expressionless, and the gun has gone still. He’s bleeding – a head wound, from what Tim would guess at his angle – and they’re both dripping wet. He’d passed Jason’s bike on the bridge, and Dick’s is nowhere in sight.

The analytical part of Tim’s brain, the part that races ahead without his permission, has already arrived at two likely conclusions.

Dick had been hit in the head, and crashed off the bridge. Jason dove after him. Defensive behavior as a result of memory loss or confusion as a result of the blow to the head – judging by his handling of the gun, he could be thinking he’s working a police shift, or back at Spyral.

Not a great option. But the other is no better.

Dick had purposefully driven his bike off the bridge, as suggested by lack of tire tracks and position of Jason’s bike. Cause unable to be determined without more information, and the head wound came after. Behavior connected to the head wound, the cause itself or – undetermined.

The analysis, always, offers no comfort to the part of Tim that can’t seem to take in a full breath of air. The part that wants every logical deduction be completely wrong, for this to be a dream, or a wild misunderstanding, and his kind, laughing, untouchable older brother isn’t standing before them with blood in his hair and a gun in his hands.

“Stay away,” Dick spits after a long moment. Tim blinks back to the present, trying to slow his racing mind. Jason is looking at him pointedly.

“Alright, we can do that.” Jason nods slowly at Tim. “Can you tell us anything else?”

Dick’s expression distorts. Tim watches Jason tense.

“I can’t -” the gun wavers, and Jason strikes. He chops down on Dick’s hand, but he yanks the gun away at the last minute. Tim doesn’t have time to wince as Jason takes an elbow to the face, and rolls away. Instead, he tackles Dick from the other side, and they fall together, Tim rolling over him so he’s they’re face to face—Tim struggles, trying to pin his arms, but the gun is already in his line of vision -

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Dick hisses, and the gun is at a crooked angle, but it’s still going to blow a hole in his shoulder and he can’t get away. Tim flinches, trying to wrestle out of Dick’s grip around his arm, and where the hell is Jason, the gun is pointed at his head now -

Below him, Dick freezes, masked lenses going wide. Tim can’t move, just watch as the hand holding the gun twists, the gun’s mouth vanishes because now it’s pressed against Dick’s own temple.

“It won’t stop,” he whispers harshly, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. Tim blinks once, twice, brain screeched to a halt. He reaches for another possibility, a way out, for something—there’s always something, right? Something that isn’t obvious, something that tells a different story than what Tim is seeing. Always something, there has to be—but Dick’s mouth moves, and the words are barely audible over the distant ringing in Tim’s ears.

“‘M sorry. Love you.”

“What,“ Tim pants, uncomprehending. “Wait –“

Then there are arms around him, dragging him off as he makes a wild grab for Dick’s wrist, shouting as the world around him speeds up again.

“Wait! No!”

He struggles out of the grasp around him. Reaches. Too late. Dick’s hand twitches as he pulls the trigger.

Tim closes his eyes to deafening silence.

Then opens them. Because gunshots don’t sound like silence. His arms are still being held back, Dick is still laying on the ground, and someone’s voice is panting in his ear.

“It’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay.”

“He’s-,” he coughs out, but Jason’s unmasked face is suddenly blocking his vision of the prone body. His eyes are wide and darting, but he grabs Tim’s shoulders steadily enough that he can at least take a breath.

“Unconscious. Just knocked out, Timmy, it’s alright, he’s okay.”

“How.” His voice sounds hollow, even to himself.

Jason is still panting just as much as Tim, but he seems satisfied that Tim isn’t about to completely freak out. He heads towards the body. Dick. Because Dick isn’t just a corpse, he’s alive.

“I added a remote deactivator. I, uh, got tired of people getting ahold of my guns and pointing them at me. Code deactivates the gun and knocks out whoever pulls the trigger with a bioelectric pulse.”

Jason leans over Dick’s body, pressing bare fingers against his throat with an inscrutable expression. Tim trails behind him, still trying not to think. If he thinks, he’ll think too fast, he’ll come up with reasons and motives and he’ll have to take into account everything, everything -

“ ‘M sorry. Love you.”

“That’s....really smart,” Tim says hoarsely.

“Thanks.” There’s no witty rejoinder or snappy comeback. Jason’s voice sounds tight, airless. His hand has trailed from Dick’s neck to grasp his shoulder, and Tim can’t quite make out what he mutters into the cool night air. He swallows, forcing himself to draw closer. Dick’s face is unreadable in unconsciousness, spattered with blood and still slick with riverwater. Before Tim can open his mouth, Jason swings around, eyes wide and looking absolutely exhausted. He says what Tim’s thinking.

“What the hell was that?”

Chapter Text

“Hood to anyone, Risadez Bridge now!” the call comes through, choked with static.

Bruce doesn’t even hesitate – the car is turning before he processes the fact that he’s yanked the wheel hard enough that Damian, next to him, slides over in his seat.

“Robin, check all points. See who’s nearby.”

Damian is surprisingly silent as he scans the handheld, and Bruce is grateful, because the road before him is materializing faster and faster as he presses down as far on the gas as he can get away with, and he can only focus on so much at a time. Right now, it’s the road, and the torn sound of Jason’s call for help.

If he cared to think about it – which he doesn’t – the latter takes up a great deal more focus than driving.

“Nightwing and Red Hood are together…it looks as though they are in the river, but it could be a signal precision error. It is possible they’re still on the bridge.”

Bruce grunts. Possibilities are not facts.

“Red Robin is converging, he – he is very close to them. Five minutes out, perhaps less.” Damian’s voice is hesitant, and something in Bruce twinges. “If I were to make conjecture, Hood calling for help, with Nightwing nearby would indicate–“

“We don’t operate off of conjecture, Robin.” It’s the best he can do, right now, to allay Damian’s fears. It’s a flimsy defense. But Bruce’s mind had gone in precisely the same direction.

Why had Dick even gone out? Moreover, how had he not known?

“Of course. I apologize.”

They drive in silence.

It seems like a half an hour has passed – it’s been perhaps, ten minutes – by the time they screech to a stop on the bridge, right next to Jason’s overturned bike. He can feel Damian’s face turned towards him, a silent question. Bruce breathes, bracing himself for what comes next.

“Robin, take Red Hood’s bike back to the cave. We’ll meet you there.”

“But – “

“Robin.”

“If Nightwing is hurt, or if the situation is–“

“Take the bike back to the cave, Robin. That is a direct order.” Bruce hits a button, and Damian’s door opens. “Go. Now.”

Damian flashes him an absolutely ferocious look, and Bruce knows he’ll pay for this later. But they’ve heard nothing over the comms since that desperate shout, and Bruce needs to focus more than he has been. He checks the locator.

He drives. It feels a bit too much like another night, another drive he would rather forget. Jason had been on the other end of that road, too. But pulling up on the sandy bank beneath the bridge, there’s no flash of fire, no stab of unadulterated horror-sorrow-fury-guilt. There’s just heavy, prickling dread, as two silhouettes appear in the headlights, a third body strung between them.
Bruce is out of the car before he’s even aware of taking his hands off the wheel.

“What happened.” He can’t manage any other words. He can barely manage those. Dick is slumped like a loose marionette, half of his face stained with blood and soaking wet besides. Jason and Tim, though standing, don’t look much better. Tim’s face is ashen. Jason’s missing his helmet, and he looks as soaked through as Dick. “What happened,” Bruce snaps again, and he doesn’t miss how they both straighten slightly, nor how they seem to huddle Dick closer between them. That twinge, again.

Surprisingly, Tim is the one to speak – Jason’s always been the bold one, the one to speak first. But Jason is swallowing hard, as if there’s something stuck in his throat, and Tim steps forward slightly, adjusting his grip on Dick.

“Something’s really wrong.”

Chapter Text

Cassandra is always happy to be home. She is happy to have a home to be at. Be in. The grammar is not important. Grammar is often not important. Or at least, it’s often annoying.
She arrives at night, which is slightly disappointing – everyone will be on patrol, most likely. She could join them, she knows. But.

“Miss Cassandra,” Alfred stands from the computer to greet her warmly as she slips into the cave, and she can’t help but beam at the openness in his posture, the way his shoulders loosen, his arms extend slightly and his face crinkles up in a smile (love trust affection relief). She could join patrol, for the last few hours of dark. But she could also rest, after three weeks of systematically deconstructing a trafficking ring, and enjoy the company of someone who didn’t want to kill her, and who spoke so kindly in his movements.

She is halfway through her signed retelling of her mission, to which Alfred is fluently nodding along, when a half-choked shout comes through the computer, garbled but intelligible.

“Hood to anyone, Risadez Bridge, now!”

Alfred’s posture tightens immediately, his hands flying to the keyboard (fear worry determination). He activates the map, which shows Tim’s signal flickering towards Jason’s – which is nearly covering Dick’s. Batman and Robin are already heading in their direction, but Cass guesses it will take them nearly three times as long to reach them before Tim does.

“Agent A to Red Hood, Red Robin is nearly there.” Alfred’s voice is crisp and unhurried. The hunch of his shoulders tells a different story. He looks to Cass, who is already on her feet, shaking off the exhaustion she’d just been allowing herself to feel finally sink into her bones.

“I should go.”

Alfred’s eyes are pained, and old, and there is too much sorrow in the way he shakes his head.

“Something tells me you will be needed here.”

They wait. It’s quiet. Until it’s loud.

A bike roars into the cave, and tears a circle before vanishing into the garage.

Alfred and Cass share a look.

“Pennyworth!” Damian’s voice cuts through the cave. “I want you to take away Father’s hot chocolate privileges until further – Cain?” Damian, legs tense, hands wringing together (fear anger frustration) bounds up to the computer.

“Little brother,” she smiles, drawing him into a hug. He leans into her (relief affection…sorrow?) and she pats his head. “Not enough hugs?” Damian tenses, rubbing his neck, and turning to Alfred (sorrow, embarrassment).

“I don’t require...hugs, Cain.” (lie) “Pennyworth. Father’s punishment.”

“Am I to be told what he’s being punished for?” Alfred trades another look with Cassandra, who hides a smile. Damian scowls, and the way he crosses his arms (worry, fear) makes Cassandra’s face fall.

“Red Hood and…potentially Nightwing are both in danger. Father sent me to retrieve a bike, instead of helping, while Drake was present to assist.”

“I am sure that Master Bruce had his reasons,” Alfred says magnanimously. “Why don’t you change?”

Damian stalks away, dejection and fear written into every step. Cassandra and Alfred watch the screen, as the batmobile signal hits the highway out of the city. Damian returns in minutes.

“Now, since you’re here, Master Damian, perhaps you could make yourself useful, and prepare basic medical for whatever might be coming to us. The comms have been slightly unreliable, as of late,” Alfred says, and Cassandra nods along, heading purposefully for the medical bay.

“I will help. Come.”

Damian hesitates for barely a heartbeat.

“Have we heard anything else?” he asks quietly, as Cassandra begins opening drawers, pulling out gauze and stitching thread. She makes sure to keep her hands steady. For Damian’s sake, as well as her own.

“No.” She frowns, tilting her head. “Yes. Listen.”

The dull scream of engines slowly fills the cave, until the echo is deafening.

They don’t have to wait long. Tim screeches in first; the batmobile is less than a second behind. It doesn’t even reach the garage, just pulls to a stop, the doors flying open.

Cass draws in a sharp breath, because there’s a furious barrage of emotion billowing from Jason, the set of his shoulders, the jerk in his movements (fear anger fear anger) and Bruce’s posture, usually restrained, is screaming with anxiety and guilt.

Tim nearly runs into her as she hurries over, his jaw clenched and eyes darting (fear relief worry fear).

She grabs his shoulders, searching his face.

“He’s alive?”

She would know. They would look worse—much worse —if he were not. But the flurry of panic is overwhelming, and she wants to hear one of them say it. Tim just nods, and she draws him into an embrace.

“He’s alive,” Tim breathes shakily into her shoulder. “But -”

“Cass, thrilled to see you, but we can do reunions later,” Jason snaps from the batmobile. He’s got one arm around Dick, the other bracing the roof of the car as Bruce grabs his other side. He’s still telegraphing a frenetic mix of fear anger fear fear, but there’s the barest hint of relief in his stance as she approaches. Bruce nods at her, short and loud (relief affection guilt).

“Cassandra.”

She nods back, hands out.

“Let me.”

Bruce leaves Jason and Cass to it, racing away towards where Damian and Tim’s voices are slowly becoming more audible in the medbay, climbing in pitch.

“Attacked?” she asks, studying Dick as they lug him away from the car. He’s banged up, soaking wet, and missing his domino. Her heart skips a beat as his head lolls, and she catches a glimpse of blood coating the other side of his chin, reaching down to his neck. Jason shakes his head, grip tightening (fear fear love anger worry).

“It’s complicated.”

Cass rolls her eyes—something that these days is becoming a more and more natural response. Around her family, most often.

“Make it simple.”

Jason snorts.

“You sound like Bruce,” he spits the name.

Before Cassandra can come up with a proper response to that - she’d immediately thought so do you, but Jason does not want to hear that. Especially not with the anger simmering beneath his movements, the panic resting in the dip of his spine as they take their final, halting steps into the medbay. She’s rescued from saying anything by the sight that greets them.

“He is deliberately withholding information!” Damian is lunging against Bruce’s unyielding arm, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Grayson is injured because of your negligence, and -”

“You don’t even know what’s going on!” Tim yells back, the tremor in his voice from earlier replaced with an unfaltering fury. The fear is still there—Cassandra can see it—but it’s no match for the unbound frustration and anger screaming from Tim’s posture. “He’s my brother too, you can’t just pretend you’re the only one who—”

Damian’s sudden quick step around Bruce, the shift-twitch (fear rage DANGER DANGER) sends a pair of medical scissors flying across the room—straight at Tim.
Cassandra is moving before they leave his hand.

The whole room is frozen (horror fear relief anger) staring at Cassandra’s fist, inches from Tim’s face, where she’d grabbed the scissors midair. Tim is panting (anger fear anger fear) eyes wide and very shiny. Cassandra lets the scissors drop, watching them hit the floor with a clatter.

The noise triggers a cascade.

“Damian!” Bruce shouts (fear anger worry), the noise loud enough to send a few bats twittering about the ceiling in a flurry. But Damian’s already gone—Cassandra had caught a single glimpse of hunched shoulders, wide eyes, tensed legs (regret shame horror fear fear fear sorrow) before he’d vanished into the dark of the cave. At the same time Jason grunts from where Cass had shoved the rest of Dick’s weight at him. Cass hurries over a second too late, as Jason maneuvers Dick onto the cot.

“Master Damian,” Alfred’s voice recedes as Tim’s clears his throat.

“Bruce, I didn’t -”

“I know, Tim,” Bruce murmurs behind them—for a moment Cass is caught between Bruce’s bleeding worry and the conflicted resentment pouring off Jason—but Alfred reappears, back perfectly straight, face perfectly set (exhaustion love sorrow determination).

“Master Bruce, I believe you are needed elsewhere.”

“Alfred, I can’t-”

“From what I understand from Master Tim, Master Richard is merely unconscious from a harmless shock, and will wake beneath the care of myself and your highly capable children. We won’t know more about the incident that led to this, nor can we help him, until he does. You are needed elsewhere.”

Bruce hesitates, shrinking underneath Alfred’s glare.

(fear love indecision guilt fear)

“You’ll notify me the second something changes?”

Alfred’s eyes twitch, as if he were restraining himself from rolling them.

“The very instant. Go.”

Bruce vanishes into the dark. Cass isn’t convinced he’s going after Damian, but she says nothing.

Alfred turns to face them all, somehow towering over even Jason.

“I expect all of you to get at least five hours of sleep tonight, and eat something. If you must stay up to watch over your brother, you will take turns awake. Am I clear?”

None of them speak for a moment, until Jason clears his throat.

“Crystal, Alf.”

There’s something sharp and sad in Alfred’s nod. (love sorrow exhaustion love)

“Now go change. Miss Cassandra and I will stay with him.”

Tim and Jason exchange a look.

(reluctance fear worry)

“Do you think—” Tim begins quietly, but Alfred cuts him off.

“He has weathered much before. I am certain he will be alright, Master Tim.”

(lie)

Another look.

(sorrow)

Chapter Text

When they’re alone, Cassandra moves around Alfred’s shoulder as he draws a stool up to Dick’s cot. She takes the gloves from him as Alfred pulls them off one by one, baring the mottled bruises up his wrist. Cass takes a deep breath, smothering her anger. Alfred needs her. His shoulders are hunched, tight - he isn’t doing well. She'll help him, and they'll fix her brother, and her family will be fine. Just fine.

And if she takes out her anger on whoever is responsible later, she can feel better knowing she still helped Alfred when he needed it.

There are scrapes along Dick’s cheek and forehead, and a fading bruise on his chin that’s paralleled by another, fresh one on the other side. There’s blood in his hair, mixing with water that’s quickly darkening the thin white fabric of the cot. Cass reaches out a hand, tracing the trajectory of blood around his cheek. She freezes, staring. The path is leaking from his ear.

“Not good,” she says, swallowing hard. She presses her hand to Dick’s cheek, smearing away some of the blood with beads of water sitting on his skin.

“An understatement, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred says in a strange tone (fear fear fear), and he rises. “I’ll need to contact Doctor Thompkins, and fetch cots for you all, as well as a change of clothes for Master Richard. Informing Master Bruce is in order, of course.”

“You can’t do this alone,” Cass says, tone sharper than she intended. She draws her eyebrows together in apology, holding out her hand. “Tell me.”

Alfred just shakes his head slowly (sorrow determination love fear sorrow) and Cass hasn't a clue why people always says he’s less emotive than even Bruce.

“Stay here and wait for the others. They’ll be along shortly.” He smiles thinly, and Cassandra wants to embrace him. “We are glad you’re back, Miss Cassandra. The circumstances, as always, are most unfortunate. I do hope to have you home at some point when there isn’t a crisis.” He turns to walk away, but Cassandra reaches out to grab his arm.

“Always happy to be home, grandfather,” she says solemnly. The smile he offers her in return glows warmly, and remains with her after he disappears into the gloom.

She is alone. She watches her brother breathe in silence. Sleeping bodies don’t speak.

Neither do dead ones.

She shakes loose the thought, and concentrates on the toneless rise and fall of his chest.

Tim appears first. He’s pale, dressed in sweats and an oversized red and blue hoodie Cassandra is certain does not belong to him.

“How is he?” he asks breathlessly. He’s calmed down some, Cass can tell. There’s still a slightly frantic twitch to his hands, but he isn’t as frozen and tense as before.

“He is alive,” she replies, measuring her tone. “What happened?”

“He -” Tim’s voice is thick, and she can see his throat bob as he swallows. “We’re not sure, he- he had some sort of….episode, we think. Something. He hasn’t been acting right, but I didn’t...I didn’t think.” He swallows again, eyes still focused on Dick’s still form. She can’t help but follow his gaze, understanding settling in, heavy and cold across her skin. “He was caught, so we think they must have done something. But if it’s not that…” He shrugs miserably. “I don’t know.”

They sit together, watching Dick not speak, not move. Cass breaks the silence - it’s not her habit to do so, but just for this one moment, this one place and time, she thinks that maybe staying quiet is going to hurt more than saying something. Anything.

“Alfred is getting supplies. And Bruce. They’ll help.”

“Oh, so he is going to decide to care about the golden child at some point today.” Jason sidles up, tugging a jacket over his shirt. “Here I thought he’d picked a new favorite.”

“Now isn’t the time,” scowls Tim, drawing up a stool. “Lay off.”

“Always with the defending him!” Jason is smiling sharply (anger worry resentment). “Timmy, he just ditched his dying son to go patch up the knee of his perfectly healthy, if slightly unhinged son who just tried to kill you. Again. That doesn’t just burn you up a little?” Jason lurks around the edge of the medbay, grin sour.

There’s a pause, and Cass considers whacking Jason upside the head. Not hard. Just to make a point.

“He’s not dying, asshole,” Tim says finally, without venom. He’s hunched up on the stool (fear worry exhaustion guilt) chin on his knees as he stares at Dick forlornly. “He’s just…” Jason’s grin flags slightly (realization, regret) as Tim trails off , but he sets his shoulders again. Cassandra rolls her eyes without even thinking about it.

“I’m just saying. Bruce fucking off to who-knows-where, when things are looking rough for his kids? Not a new thing.” (disappointment, sorrow)

“Alfred told him to,” Tim grumbles into his knees, but Jason isn’t listening. Cass watches him pace at the edge of the light. It would be predatory, if Cass couldn’t see how much fear was tied up in every jerky step.

“Bailing, cuz he’s too much of a coward to be down here in the shit with the rest of us, worried we’re gonna kill ourselves on his watch when he’s the one who dragged us down here in the first—”

“Jason.” Cass says flatly, holding up a hand. “If you want a fight, I will spar with you. Stop this.”

Jason looks caught, crossing and uncrossing his arms.

“I…”

She watches a rainbow of emotions ripple across him, from his wrists, up his arms, shifting his shoulders and positioning his legs—fear resentment exhaustion worry fear love anger sorrow regret guilt fear—and lets him trail off, holding out her hand instead. He dallies for a moment, but she glares—he crosses to her in three strides and hugs her tightly.

“Save the anger for people who deserve it,” she advises into his shoulder. He hugs her tighter.

“I said I’d keep an eye on him,” Jason whispers, voice rough.

“Not your fault,” Cass whispers back. “He’s here now.”

They stand like that for a while, half-supporting each other, while Cass remembers just how exhausted she is. They break apart, Jason swiping a hand over his face.

“If the idiot is dying, I’ll kill him.”

“That would be counterintuitive,” Tim says, voice muffled. But some of the tension has leaked out of his shoulders. The fear is still there—in Jason too, who is staring into his hands—but the anger in the room has all but vanished.

In the silence that follows, Dick’s murmur seems to echo.

“...out?”

“Dick?” Three voices say at once, in three different tones (relief hope uncertainty). Cass leans closer, watching his pupils flicker behind his eyelids and his shoulders tense (confusion, relief). She places a hand on his wrist.

“Wake up,” she orders.

“Cassie?”

Dick squints, pupils constricting beneath the fluorescent lights.

“Of course he listens to you,” Jason scoffs, but he’s holding back a smile. “C’mon Goldie, up and at ‘em.”

Dick looks between them, eyes glassy and darting (confusion worry relief fear fear FEAR). Cassandra grabs his wrist again, alarmed at the sudden cresting wave of terror falling from Dick’s body, as if he were waking from a night terror. He shakes off Cassandra’s grip, struggling up on his elbows and looking all around.

“Tim, he-” Jason helps Dick sit up, gripping his bicep as he nearly pitches forward. He presses a hand to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose (pain fear pain concentration) “Tim,” he pants. “And Jason. It was - it’s gone. How’d you do it? Where’d he go?” He looks up into Cassandra’s eyes, clearly missing the hand on his arm entirely. “Where -”

“We’re here, Dick,” Tim offers with a weak grin.

Dick squints at Tim for a long moment, face torn, still breathing hard.

“Safe,” Cass says, drawing his chin away so he’s looking into her eyes again. It’s only partly for his sake. There’s...something. She needs to see.

“Jason? He almost - I almost -”

“Right here, Dickhead.” Jason shakes him slightly, expression darkening (worry anger worry) and Dick’s attention drifts sideways. “So, mind telling us what the hell you’re on? Or anything about what the hell just happened that made you go literal batshit?”

Dick is staring across the room, eyes wide - Cass doesn’t have to look to know there’s nothing there. He’s...not looking. He’s looking inward. Inside. (fear...anger?)

Something cold steals through her chest.

“Dick!” Jason snaps his fingers in front of Dick’s face, anger building in his posture barely undercut with worry. “Answers, or we’re gonna think you meant to shoot Timmy.” Dick gapes.

“I -I shot Tim?”

“Jason,” Tim says sharply, putting a hand on Dick’s shoulder as he looks between them wildly. “No, no, you didn’t, I’m right here.” He lowers his voice, glaring at Jason fiercely. The effect is slightly undercut by how tightly he’s grasping onto the fabric of Dick’s shoulder, as if he’ll vanish when he lets go. “Jason, c’mon. Does he look like he’s up for a debrief right now? We need to wait -”

“Wait? For who? For Bruce? You think he’s coming back before this wraps up?”

“For Alfred,” Tim grounds out, and Cass is proud that he isn’t taking the bait. “Until then, we can run basic concussion and blood tests, like we’ve been trained to.”

Jason inhales deeply.

(worry resentment worry)

“Bruce?” Dick asks, and all of their eyes jump to him. He’s still half leaning into Jason and Tim’s grasps, staring between them in frustrated confusion.

“He will be here soon,” Cass says softly, watching her brother’s eyes. “So will Damian. ”

“He - fuck.” Dick takes a deep breath, looking over at Jason. “How’d you do it?” he asks, voice torn.

“Do what?” Jason shoots back, face tight. “Dickiebird, you’re the one who’s been doing-”

“Oh fuck,” Dick wheezes suddenly, clutching his head, pain spiking across his shoulders (realization horror fear). “Fuck, you need—Tim, there’s—” he cuts off, hand flying to his mouth. Cass stares, utterly baffled at the motion. She hadn’t seen it coming. It doesn’t fit with what the rest of his body is saying.

Something isn’t right. Something is very, very wrong.

“What? What is it?” Tim crowds him, (worry confusion curiosity) crouching and trying to tilt his face up to look him in the eye.

“You didn’t — it’s not —” Dick’s hand drops and he shakes his head, lips pursed. (fear anger pain) Cass watches him closely, panic stirring in her stomach.

“Not what?” Tim asks, expression laser focused.

“I can’t - “ Dick seems to choke on his words. All three of them tense. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands - his back heaves like he hasn’t breathed in years, and Cass jumps up, because all she can see is pain pain anger pain pain PAIN.

“Pain. Hurt,” she spits at them, before running to the cabinet.

“Alfred?!” Jason shouts, bracing a hand against Dick’s back. Tim copies him, while Cass tries to ignore the wave of fresh panic rolling off both of them, and rifles through a drawer for a syringe, painkiller - she glances back and the pain is still there, and growing.

“Shit,” Jason says, behind her. “He’s bleeding again. Alfred!”

Cass takes a deep breath as she uncaps the needle.

“Is that coming from his ear?” Tim asks quietly.

“Yeah, it was doing that earlier, in the car,” Jason replies in a tight voice. “Go get Al, I can hold him. Jeez Tim, I got him, go!”

Tim scurries away at the same moment Cass aligns the needle with the bottletop, finally drawing out a measure of the painkiller. She spins, already reaching out, but freezes in horror.

“Dick? Goldie? You in there?”

He’s stopped panting so heavily - his shoulders are evening out, his arms coming forward as he leans his chest up slightly. He stares at his hands for a moment.

(anger annoyance relief)

“Jason,” Cass says quietly, struggling to master her own fear. She takes a step backwards, placing the syringe on an empty tray.

“C’mon Dick, can you hear me?”

Dick turns his hands over, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“I’m…” his voice is low and hoarse. “I’m okay.”

(lie)

“Okay? You -pfft. You’re an asshole, is what you are.” Jason heaves an emphatic sigh. “That was...that was something else, Dickiebird. I think you might wanna take it easy.” His hands are twitching over Dick’s shoulders nervously.

“No, I...sorry,” Dick says, looking up at Jason. “I don’t know what just happened, I just…”(lie lie lie) he trails off with a shrug, and Cass’ stomach flips.

“Jason, come here.” She lets a sharp note punctuate her words.

Jason finally glances over at her, posture like a poorly blended watercolor (fear relief worry panic irritation affection).

“What?”

She takes a hesitant step forward, grabbing his wrist and smoothly drawing him away from the cot. Dick barely seems to notice. He is pressing a hand to his bleeding ear.

(curiosity relief ???)

Cass grits her teeth, looking closer—the set of his back, the looseness in his arms. His hand comes away smeared with blood, and he doesn’t wipe it away, just distractedly rubs it between his fingers until it fades against his skin. She places the word.

(malice)

“What is it?”

Cass turns around so her back is to the cot, to the man sitting on it. She leans to speak quietly into Jason’s ear.

Jason is scared. Jason is scared, and frustrated, and so, so oblivious.

“That is not Dick Grayson.”

Chapter Text

It’s like a lucid dream. Dick had heard somewhere, that true lucid dreams you can control—you realize you’re awake, then you can change the dream around you. Jason had explained it, in unabashedly enthusiastic detail, when he was still Robin and still explained things with unabashed enthusiastic detail.

It’s like a lucid dream, but with the lack of control he’s come to associate with nightmares. There’s a haze over his vision, as if he’s constantly about to blink out the blur of sleep. Every once in a while, he feels himself fade into the background of his own mind, as that noise —a cross between static and deafening, garbled human speech—overwhelms his senses.

He struggles—he can’t not struggle, it’s like the same mad instinct of a drowning man. But he’s going to go insane soon, he knows. No one is built for this. No one is made to survive being shouted down as a passenger in their own body, crushed in pressure and noise.

And honestly, it pisses him off.

At first, it was just the smell of antiseptic, the faint impression of someone in a labcoat leaning over him. In his line of work, that’s pretty categorically in the Not Good camp, but he was out before he could really get a grasp on the situation. Now?

There had been a few times he’d managed to break through, enough to hope—the first time he’d thrown his mind against the noise, it had barely given way, but he’s fairly certain whatever was occupying the metaphorical front of his brain had been caught off guard. His surroundings had all fallen into place for a split-second, enough to realize he was in the medbay, enough to get a clear glimpse of Jason’s face, Jason’s voice saying his name.

“Dick?”

“Yeah, sorry - I was - I can’t seem...to remember. All of it. Any of it.” He’d heard his own voice reverberate in his ears, as if from a distance, as his mouth spread into an involuntary smile. “Kind of freaky.”

The noise had gotten louder. He’d lost himself, for a while, as the voice—he’s certain that behind all that white noise, there’s a voice—had shouted something unintelligible.

The next time he’d come to steady awareness, he’d done nothing. He’d ignored the noise as best he could, watching avidly through unfocused eyes and listening to the strange tone of his own voice speak to his brothers, his family. He seethes, watching Tim’s blurry face fall, watching Damian’s shoulders slump as this thing dared to use him like this.

It was distracted for much of the day, interacting with Alfred less and less as it perused through the batcomputer freely. It circumvented the passwords it ran into easily—something that logically, Dick knew only very few people could do. And he knew most of them by name, and none of them would pull something like this.

They were dealing with an unknown. An unknown that now had unrestricted access to the files of the Batman. Bad, bad, bad. Then, mid-file, it had stopped. Or rather, his own body had stopped, gone stock still.

“Hello?” he’d heard his own voice whisper. He’d peered as best he could through his own eyes, into the surrounding dark. He watched his hands hit a few buttons, a pattern he just recognized to stop all recordings in the cave. “My god. Are you awake?”

He can’t respond. But the noise lessens around him, the static receding slightly until only the muttered voices are left.

“That’s amazing!” The voice—his voice, is hushed in awe. “I never thought -that, that’s just - incredible. Wow. I thought it was just a side effect, but you -” A laugh shakes through his body, and inside his mind, he wants to cringe away in loathing. “Incredible. You really shouldn’t even be conscious. Wow, I’m sure that’s very...uncomfortable for you. It certainly is for me, if you’re going to be a nuisance.”

He hears himself hum.

“That was you, then, earlier. Impressive, really. Strong mind, I guess. Good for you!” His body laughs again, the noise receding further. “But really, really bad for me.” His hands fly across the keyboard again, and a fuzzy image of various vigilante profiles appears on the screen. “I don’t suppose you could tell me, which one of these people are going to be easier to deal with than you? Maybe low IQ…” his hand scrolls down the page, the mouse pausing on each face. “Severe trauma...mental instability - stop me when I get warm?”

Eventually, he feels his body slump back, his hands rub over his face. The sensation is unnerving, like rubber passing over his skin.

“Not exactly talkative, are you? No, no, even if you were, I doubt I would be able to tell. Man, I really thought I’d struck the jackpot with you, Nightwing. Or should I say, Richard Grayson. You’ve got a lot of clearances,” his voice gripes, punctuated by the click of the mouse. “Couldn’t you be just a touch more mentally exploitable?”

He can’t respond—another maddening part of this whole horrid mess, he hadn’t realized how much he relies on talking to distract the bad guys —but the noise swells around him, and he feels his awareness waver slightly.

Not before he hears his voice hum out the last words that send shocks through the corner he’s carved out for himself in his own mind.

“Lazarus pit, eh?”

For an instant, he rages; then the noise drowns him into oblivion.

-

The next time he reaches solid consciousness, there’s wind all around him. Half-blind, he sees a red-headed figure on a bike ahead of him - they’re on bikes, cutting through city streets. He can’t tell, through his stolen vision, precisely where they are, but ahead of them there’s a break in the skyline.

They’re headed for the river.

Good. He can use this.

They hit the waterfront, and in one heaving motion, he shoves against the noise, like a physical weight - it beats him back, becoming louder as he internally screams at it in response. Jason is riding next to him now, completely oblivious to the struggle, oblivious to the fact that this thing wants him, too. Jason pulls closer as the bridge narrows, and for one crystal clear second, he understands that if he can’t do this, Jason will be the one drowning in sound. Jason will be the one slowly losing his mind and his self beneath a barrage of hateful, untraceable voices.

Not going to fucking happen, he screams at the noise.

And, miraculously, he wins.

The bridge comes into focus. The bike’s handles are in his grasp - he veers, and he falls.

The water greets him.
-

It comes in flashes of distance and the physical sensation of fighting, because something is grabbing him, pulling him down and he remembers drowning in something else.

“Fuck, ju- Nightwing! It’s me! Stop – ow!”

He does stop, because there’s a wave of noise building in the back of his head.

He’s vaguely aware of his limbs moving—at this point, he doesn’t know if it’s him or the thing in his head doing it—and then arms around him. There’s a brace across his chest, swearing in his ear. The next thing he knows, there’s sand beneath him, and someone speaking. The words are garbled, and he mentally flinches away out of instinct, but no, the voice it’s clear now -

“-ay something or I’m dragging your ass back to the cave.”

He can feel his hands - he can feel his arms, even if the sensation is flickering rapidly, like his limbs have fallen asleep.

“Dick.”

It’s Jason’s voice.

“Dick?”

A shadow approaches him, and he puts everything he has into moving his mouth, warning his brother.

“Don’t.” It’s all he can manage, as the noise in his head screams in rage. If he had more control, he would have smiled, but the thing is already clawing at the fragile fortress he’s built, it’s -
He loses vision for a moment, drowning in the furious shriek, but clings to awareness. He can’t feel his body, but he somehow senses movement, and he pounds against the wall of noise until he makes out his surroundings - he’s standing now, and there’s -

There’s a gun in his hands. That’s bad, he recognizes. That’s very not good.

He can’t be sure what else is happening—he’s fairly certain there’s someone else in front of him, and that that someone is Jason. All he can do is funnel every ounce of fury he has into immobilizing his hands, and making sure he doesn’t pull that trigger. There’s a voice—Jason’s, it must be—and something gives. He can see again, eyes suddenly clear.

Tim?

“...you know who we are?” Tim’s voice drifts in like a bad radio reception, and the thing in his head is strangling him down as he tries to respond. He feels his head shake slightly.
There are more murmerings, mostly lost in the renewed wave of noise - but he can’t stop. He can’t let himself drift while there is a gun in his hands, and his brothers on the other end. He beats and rages against the noise, searching for weak spots in any point of it’s control, until he feels his mouth open of its own accord and snarl in a way that he knows is directed at him.

“Stop.”

He stops. Just for a moment. The thing can’t see his thoughts; it’s not in his head, not really. It doesn’t know he can still think, and plan, and decide- perhaps it just thinks he’s acting out wildly, unaware of any outer world. It doesn’t know. And that’s his advantage. He waits. He watches. His brothers speak.

“Tell us what you’re thinking, Goldie. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

First - listen to Jason. He needs to warn them. He steels himself.

“Stay away.” He forces his lips to move, even as the noise crescendo with a physical pressure that feels as though it’s squeezing the very life from him. But step one, close enough.
“Alright, we can do that. Can you tell us anything else?” They’re planning something - Jason had muttered something unintelligible, and Tim is tense. With luck, they’ll be able to disarm him, subdue him. If he can only drop the gun -

“I can’t—” he manages, before the noise overwhelms him like white fire all around him, burning through his mind. He screams again, more in pain than anger, scrabbling at awareness as his body moves. He’s falling, his mouth is moving, he’s still holding the gun. When he can see again, he’s face to face with Tim, sand beneath his back. Tim looks pale and scared, sporting only his domino.

And Dick’s hand is holding a gun to his face.

The fire dies down around him as he cuts through the noise in a single motion. It’s there, rattling behind his eyes, and in an instant he knows that it’s not going to just go away. He can’t beat it for long enough to let them tie him up, and it’s not going to let him drop the gun. But he can move his arm, which means he can still do something. He jerks his hand away, twisting his wrist and blinking up at Tim’s frozen expression.

“It won’t stop,” he whispers, half to himself.

Because it won’t. Even if he gets the upper hand for just a moment, he’s going to lose this fight - and that means maybe losing Tim or Jason. Which means making off with the knowledg of who they are, of who everyone is. None of that can happen. It’s not- it can’t. He knows what’s next.

“‘M sorry,” he gasps, because he doesn’t have the time or strength to tell Tim to close his eyes, or why. God, Tim, he’s so fucking sorry. “Love you.”

Tim vanishes. Someone is yelling, and Dick can only thank his lucky stars for Jason, who he hopes is dragging Tim away from something no one should have to see. The gun is still in his hands, the noise a low buzz in the back of his skull. The muzzle is cool against his temple, and his last thought is that at least he can feel his own body again.

Not noise, but silence takes him.

-

When he wakes, it’s not to silence. But it’s not the noise. It’s to voices.

“-just saying. Bruce fucking off to who-knows-where, when things are looking rough for his kids? Not a new thing.”

He can’t seem to follow the words - there’s a pain in his head, a soreness in his entire body, and the speaking is too loud and too fast. But more than that, he’s faintly aware that there’s something else that’s supposed to be there. Thinking anything beyond that is like dragging himself from the bottom of a pool of sticky, clinging mud. He must have lost a few minutes.

“-when he’s the one who dragged us down here in the firs-”

“Jason.”

That something scratches at the back of his mind, something he’s forgetting - there are others. He wades through his exhaustion, the sharpening ache in his head. Other voices, he should be hearing. And something else- why can’t he remember?

“If the idiot is dying -”

He can’t hold his attention to whatever the voice says, because he finally, finally remembers. The pieces are there. His family is here. The noise is gone.

“That would be counterintuitive.” Another voice. Quiet.

He tries to cough, but the feeling is stuck in his throat.

“How did you get the noise out?” he tries to ask, but something must be wrong. Someone says his name, but he can’t respond, too busy focusing on opening his eyes. The noise is gone, it’s gone, he should be able to-

There’s a light touch on his wrist.

“Wake up,” someone says, and he wants to laugh in relief, because -

“Cassie?” he asks hopefully. He finally manages to lift his eyelids and is immediately blinded. There are a few silhouettes looking down over him, and a low voice says something he can’t catch. He peers between them, trying to orient himself. It’s the medbay, it must be. Cassandra smile is quiet and the others -

Cassandra grabs his wrist, just as he tries to bolt upright, heart beginning to pound.

“Tim, he-” he struggles against the grip on his arm, even as it helps him sit upright. His headache sharpens, as he rubs his forehead, willing himself to think (“assess the situation,” a low voice growls from his memory.“Find answers.”) The situation, the situation-

“Tim and Jason,” he says, panting. “It was - it’s gone. How’d you do it? Where’d he go?” He looks up at Cassandra, heart in his mouth. The noise was gone—they must have fixed him, somehow—but there was more, wasn’t there? Why does he feel so panicked?

Someone else speaks softly, and he stares in the direction of the voice, feeling as though he was grasping at smoke. Something’s wrong, he’s certain, but he can’t—there’s a soft touch on his chin, and he finds himself looking into Cass’s searching eyes.

“Safe,” she says, slow and loud. He almost believes her, but there’s something gnawing away at the back of his quickly-growing migraine. Safe?

“Jason,” he gasps. He had been holding a gun. He’d been holding a gun, and Jason was standing in front of him, hands up. There’s a mutter, somewhere in the back of his mind. “He almost- I almost.”

“Right here, Dickhead.” Jason’s voice is right next to him, and he looks down to see his hand on his arm.

One burning shred of worry fades, just as another ignites because he could have sworn he just heard...something. Jason is still talking, and he should be paying attention to his little brother, but if he can just focus, he can be sure it’s gone-

“Dick!” Fingers snap in front of Dick’s eyes, Jason’s voice cutting through his focus. “Answers, or we’re gonna think you meant to shoot Timmy.”

No. Oh, no no no.

“I-I shot Tim?” he wheezes.

He’d - Tim? Ice fills his veins, and a distant ringing that has nothing to do with the noise sounds through his head. He’d lost. All that fighting against the noise, he thought he’d beaten it, he thought—

“Jason,” another voice —oh thank goodness—says, and Tim’s steadying hand falls on his shoulder, gripping him tightly. “No, no, you didn’t, I’m right here.” He’s glaring at Jason. “Jason, c’mon,” he says, quieter, but loud enough for Dick to hear. “Does he look like he’s up for a debrief right now? We need to wait—”

“Wait? For who? For Bruce? You think he’s coming back before this wraps up?”

Dick closes his eyes as the conversation continues around him, breathing slowly. Tim, safe, Jason, safe. Cass, home. Whatever was in his brain, controlling his body, gone. Just the lasting pain, like an echo, bouncing around his skull.

“—basic concussion and blood tests, like we’ve been trained to,” Tim is saying, hand still grasping Dick’s shoulder. He’s not sure if he’d still be upright if he and Jason weren’t holding him up.

“Bruce?” Dick asks, because they’d mentioned him, hadn’t they? If he’d been hurt, they would have said - and if he’s not hurt, then why isn’t he here? They all look at him simultaneously.

“He will be here soon,” Cass says. “So will Damian. ”

“He —fuck.” Dick doesn’t want to think about Bruce’s face when he tells him about all the files the thing in his head had already seen, all of the confidential information it had taken wherever it had gone. Which, speaking of — he takes a deep breath, looking over at Jason. “How’d you do it?” he asks hoarsely.

“Do what?” Jason asks with a glower. “Dickiebird, you’re the one who’s been doing—”

Something roars to life in his skull, like a bomb going off between his ears. It presses down on him, gouging at his brain with what feels like a dull knife, crushing the sensation in his limbs in slow, agonizing degrees.

“Oh fuck,” he manages to gasp, clutching his head as the pain crescendoes. (“prioritize”, someone says) He can’t focus on the pain, he needs to tell them, need to tell them now now now- “Fuck, you need - Tim, there’s -” his hand moves of its own accord, smothering his mouth in a way that makes him choke back a sudden nausea.

“What? What is it?” Tim is directly in front of him. Hands press lightly at his chin, and he looks up into his baby brother’s wide, worried eyes. He doesn’t know, Dick realizes. They hadn’t fixed him. It was never gone.

It had just been dormant.

“You didn’t - it’s not -” Dick rips his hand from his mouth, but now his head is shaking and his lips won’t open. He has to tell them, or else -

“Not what?”

“I can’t - “ Dick can’t speak. He can’t breathe. All he can do is fall forward, covering his face as the noise drills through his brain, deafening, ripping, somehow numbing and burning at the same time. He’s distantly aware of shouting, motion, but amidst the there are only two thoughts he can focus on:

The detached, likely shock-induced-this is what a lobotomy must feel like.

And the mocking, maddening-you weren’t strong enough to fight this.

As the pain recedes, and the dreamy numbness sets in, he doesn’t lose awareness. It might have been better if he had.

“Dick? Goldie? You in there?” Jason sounds scared. If he could feel his own stomach, he's pretty sure he'd be sick. “C’mon Dick, can you hear me?”

He watches his own hands rise, turn over. The form fists, then relax. His own voice speaks, as if from a distance.

“I’m…I’m okay.”

Jason, please, please fucking don’t buy this. He has no idea what the family thinks of everything that’s happened, if they hadn’t figured it out before. He’d been about to shoot Tim, then he’d been - here. If they hadn’t figured it out, they’d done something to keep it at bay. If he can somehow, somehow tell them to do it again...

“Okay? You -pfft. You’re an asshole is what you are.” Jason sighs, and Dick watches his brother raise a hand to his shoulder. “That was...that was something else, Dickiebird. I think you might wanna take it easy.”

“No, I...sorry,” the thing says, with Dick’s voice. “I don’t know what just happened, I just…”

“Jason, come here.” Cass's voice is sharp - Dick had forgotten she was there, had thought she had vanished to wherever Tim had gone.

Jason gives him a final, reassuring glance, before drawing away, led by Cass.

“What?”

Dick can see them speaking quietly, shooting glances over at him, but the noise either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He feels his hand raise to his ear, and come away sticky. It hovers before his face, and Dick would shiver - there’s blood painted across his fingers.

Cass and Jason keep edging farther away, Jason’s indistinct whispers becoming harsher and faster as they echo through the cave.

“You know I can hurt you.” His own voice catches him off guard, as low as it is. As he speaks, the noise around Dick’s consciousness presses in closer, suffocating. “I can hurt them, too. So stay. Down.”

There’s a screaming, scalding crescendo of static. Dick feels himself drown.

Chapter Text

“That is not Dick Grayson.”

She says it again, several minutes later, with so much hollow certainty, that Jason looks over, half expecting some other person to be occupying the space Dick had just been sitting in. But it’s still him, hunched over on the fresh medical bed, still mostly geared up save his weapons, gloves, and mask, and looking for all the world like a half-drowned cat.

“What do you mean?” Jason hisses. They’d told Alfred, arriving with cots and - what a shocker - no Bruce. Alfred had moved Dick as inconspicuously as possible into one of the sealable holding cells, announcing some lie after Cass had pulled him aside with an urgent gesture. Jason could barely keep up with what she’d signed to Alfred, but after several minutes he’d helped Dick hobble over to the far side of the cave.

“It’s merely a precaution, Master Richard,” Alfred had said firmly, as Dick had whipped around at the sound of the door closing. “Surely, you know this is protocol, after such an incident?”

It isn’t. But he hadn’t known that.

“Oh, of course, Alfred.” His smile was a little more than slightly strained. “I understand.”

“I’ll fetch you a change of clothes, then. I’m afraid I was a bit sidetracked, earlier.”

Alfred has vanished once again, no doubt still looking for Mister Absentee and his spawn, and now the three of them are huddled just in sight of the glass walls, shooting glances at Dick - who looks to be trying very hard not to notice.

“That is the body of Dick Grayson,” Cass says, hands worrying out the word body absently. “But not…” She stares at…not-Dick for a moment, and they all follow suit. They watch him draw his hands down his face tiredly, watch him examine his knuckles.

Cass snaps her fingers.

“Like that. He moves wrong.”

“Like mannerisms?” Tim asks. The kid’s eating the information up, genuine interest shining through the mask of worry he’d been sporting since - well, since Dick had gone missing, really. Cass frowns.

“Like…” She grumbles, forehead creased. “Call him over.”

Jason looks between the two - Tim’s washed-out face, Cass’s furrowed brow - then strides over to the glass.

“Yo, Dickiebird.”

Dick stands hesitantly, approaching the glass. Jason glares at him, switching off the cell’s outer microphone surreptitiously so the imposter can’t hear them.

“Guys, I know it’s protocol, but this is ridiculous. I feel like you-” he starts, but without warning, Cass smashes at the glass with her fist, and Dick startles, stumbling back. She smiles at them all victoriously, as if it were plain as day. Which to her, Jason supposes, it is.

“Like that. Moves wrong.”

“So his whole…way of movement is different,” Tim nods, and Jason can tell he’s already laying out the possibilities in his mind. “Which means he’s being controlled, remotely, or magically, or…literally any other kind of mind control we’ve ever encountered. Plus any newly developed ones.”

“That really narrows it down,” Jason says darkly. Not-Dick is back on the cot, watching them all with an expression Jason normally wouldn’t even be able to interpret on Dick’s face. Now, knowing somebody else is the one pulling the strings, it’s obvious - thinly disguised malevolence. “Now which one of us is gonna go find the father of the year and congratulate him on not realizing one of his kids isn’t himself?”

There’s a short, unhappy silence between them, before Cass nods. Her eyes have not left Dick. Not Dick. Whatever.

“Watch him.” She says gravely. “He lies.”

With that, she’s gone. Jason wipes a hand over his face, sighing. He ambles over to the far side of the wall, sliding down just in view of the cell. Dick is still on the cot, watching him back.
Tim trails behind him. He’s gotten his second wind, it seems, and is putting it to use.

“It’s not like we knew either, Jay.”

“You defending him again, Replacement?”

“I’m just saying, you can’t blame him for not realizing the problem when we didn’t either.” Tim’s got that look on his face, the I-will-die-on-this-hill look. “Cass is the one who actually figured it out, without even knowing he was acting strange before. We’re just as much to blame.”

“But that’s the point—you did figure it out!” Jason almost laughs, wanting to shake the kid. He’s got such a hero worship complex with Bruce, getting him to admit being better than him at detective work is nigh impossible. “I was ready to brush it off, honestly. It's not like Bruce was paying any attention. But you didn’t stop thinking about it. We said we’d watch him, remember? And if we hadn’t, you wouldn’t have followed me, and Dick—or whoever is in his head—probably would have shot me on the riverbank. You showing up, he got freaked out.”

He can tell Tim doesn't believe him, but it's almost scary how sincerely grateful Jason is for Tim's observant, emotional obsessiveness with details no one would think to capitalize on. Not giving out enough hugs, jeez.

Jason would have written it off, let Dick go on his merry way and probably gotten shot for his trouble. Damian would have probably just lurked and sulked, since for all his swagger he's still just a kid, no matter what horrors he's seen. And Bruce wouldn't have noticed in the first place, and Cass? Who even knows the next time she would have seen Dick, if things had gone a little bit more sideways at the river?

Jason swallows. There are a lot of close misses in there work, that's granted. But some of them are a little too close.

“That’s not—” Tim crosses his arms, looking away. “I wasn’t thinking mind control,” he says, very pointedly keeping his head turned to stare at the wall above Dick’s cell.

“So? Knowing something was up was all you had to do to put on the red alert. And honestly—” Jason clears his throat, studying the floor. “I wouldn’t have thought of mind control either. I thought—well. He drove off a bridge. I thought a lot of things.”

Things he didn’t necessarily need to pile into the arms of a kid with his own fair share of heavy things to carry. Things he doubts Tim blames Bruce for as much as he does, and he’s tired of arguing about Bruce. So he lets silence creep in between them, a tacit invitation to change the subject. But Tim looks directly at him.

“He—or she, or it, or whatever is in his head—said I wasn’t supposed to be there. But you were. That could mean it was after you, Jason.”

“As long as you’re sure it wasn’t Dick talking,” Jason mutters, rubbing his bruised cheek. “I think they were fighting it out in his brain out at one point. I’m not sure who decided to elbow me in the face.”

“You’re right!” Jason looks up as Tim begins pacing. “Imagine you’re Dick—”

“No thanks.”

“—and you’re being mind controlled, or whatever it is. Whose idea was it to check out the lab?”

Jason purses his lips.

“His.”

“And did he ask you to go with him? You alone?”

“Shit,” Jason groans. “Yes.”

Tim is nodding, eyes bright.

“Bruce never left me a report to finish, when he was telling me not to come. He didn’t want to avoid the lab—he wanted me to avoid the lab. Or specifically, avoid me being with the two of you, in the lab. So he was supposed to take you there, alone. Maybe kidnap you, maybe kill you. Maybe hit you with whatever mindbug he has.”

Jason’s skin crawls beneath his sleeves.

“Hard pass, thanks.”

He isn’t sure what exactly kind of mind control they’re dealing with, but the thought of someone else in his brain? He still has enough trouble with the remnants of the Pit, the moments his thoughts get caught in a furious loop that burns ugly, green-tinged circles in his head. Something or someone actually intentionally controlling him sounds even, well, less fun.

Tim ignores him, back to pacing.

“But if you’re Dick Grayson, and you’re about to be forced to hurt or kill your brother—”

“You decide to drive off a fucking bridge instead,” Jason finishes, sighing.

A part of him—a part held very carefully, at a very distant arms’ length—wants to bury his face in his hands and cry for days, just for the sake of fucking Dick Grayson and his awful, compulsive desire to protect at all costs. Careening off a bridge, the struggle in the river, everything makes a lot more sense now. He’d wanted to protect Jason. That was it. Never mind that Jason could have probably protected himself. Never mind the warmth in his chest that the thought elicits, tempered by something deep and cold that could only be called stark terror. The kind of terror he associates with what-ifs and too-lates and now, the sight of a figure on a bike, sinking into dark water. Jason clears his throat.

“Instead of anything logical, you take a nosedive into the river.”

“And try to shoot yourself in the head,” Tim adds, utterly toneless, and christ, they should all really get some therapy. Jason sees the back of his own skull, his eyes roll so far back. He really doesn’t want to think about how close he came to giving up on the coding for that remote deactivator. What would have happened if he’d never thought of it at all. Doesn’t want to think it, but he does.

Dick dead in Tim’s arms. Another goddamned funeral. Another glass case in the cave, another good soldier lost in one man's endless, inescapable, unwinnable fight.
God, he wants to punch Bruce. And Dick too, but slightly less, and not until he’s better. This whole mess is made up of close calls.

“Of course, can’t forget that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. Tim’s face is still unnervingly blank, and he’s sure the poor kid’s imagining some of the same things he’s been thinking. “But yeah, bridge, gun, that tracks as Dick. It’s a pretty unmistakable brand of stupid.”

“And it means the mind control can be broken,” Tim says fiercely. “So all we have to do is figure out how it works, who it is, and how to break it from our side.”

“Easy peasy.” Jason climbs to his feet, shivering again.“Where the hell is everyone? It’s been ages.”

“But what I don’t understand is, we have surveillance at the lab now. Even if it tried to get Nightwing to subdue you and take you somewhere else, we would have seen it. And what good is a sleeper agent if it alienates the side it’s supposed to be on?”

“Maybe he was gonna do it on the way there?”

Tim shoots him a withering look.

“There are cameras everywhere, Jason. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single city block in Gotham that Barbara couldn’t have eyes on if she set her mind to it.”

“Terrifying, but okay.” Jason shrugs. “There are plenty of empty buildings he could have suggested we stop at, ones where Big Brother can’t see shit. Big Sister, my bad.”

“True, but…” Tim blinks, furrowing his brow. “We need to go back, think about everything it’s done while it’s here. Acting weird with Damian and I was just probably it not knowing how to behave as Dick. And thinking back, the way he spoke, he never said our names until after he heard them. I’m guessing whoever it is didn’t even know our identities, which means- “

“Which means now he does. And he could have told anyone else at any point. Fan-fucking-tastic.” He heaves another sigh. They can’t get simple problems anymore, can they? They always gotta be compounded and convoluted, high stakes ad infinitum. Jason quietly hopes that whatever is messing with Dick’s brain will leave the memory stick alone—another episode like that and it would feel like some ridiculous, overplayed trope.

Just saying.

“Here’s hoping this particular whacko likes the long game, and was sticking around to collect info. At least he doesn’t know that we know. Yet. Though he might have a clue, at this point.” He makes an effort not to glance over at the cell. The less suspicious they seem, the better.

“Did he say anything when you drove him back? Duke said he was out cold when you got him,” Tim says.

“Yeah, he - well shit.” Jason wants to smack himself. “He said he couldn’t feel his body. I’m positive that was Dick talking, he used a nickname. But when he woke up, I asked him about it, and he got all weird and cagey. Bastard probably thought I’d caught him then and there.”

“And those chemicals I tested? They’re mostly sedative and system depressant solutions.”

“So they wanted him knocked out or doped up.” Jason grits his teeth. Visions of scattered medical tools are flashing behind his eyes, the slumped figure in a labcoat. “Do you think…” He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but they can’t not consider it. He steels himself. “Think they cut into his brain?”

Tim visibly swallows, but he shakes his head quickly.

“Alfred would have noticed surgical trauma, even if it was beneath his hair.”

“What about his ear? Keeps bleeding? That’s more than a clue, that’s something. Doesn't exactly seem magical.”

“I…” Tim looks at the floor, deflating. “I don’t know. We need more to go on. An MRI, or a CT, just...More information.”

“Well, Timmy, you’re in luck,” Jason swallows past the vague sense of nausea, ruffling Tim’s hair and striding past him. Time to do something. Finally. He loves theorizing and deducing as much as the next bat, but as the certified Rebellious One he can only take so much. “We got a fountain of information sitting in a cell right - oh fuck.”

“What? What? Oh - oh fuck,” Tim echoes.

They both stand, frozen, staring at the far cell.

Inside, Damian is sitting on the cot next to Dick.

Chapter Text

Bruce knows—the same way he knows Damian is raising mice in Tim’s closet at Dick and Jason’s tacit encouragement—that Damian isn’t in the manor anymore. His guess is that he’s retreated back down into the cave to watch over Dick, or otherwise fled into the grounds, probably fearing a specific punishment that will never come.

He’s made that mistake before. And Robin isn’t his to take, anymore. Really, it never had been. But like he said, it had been a mistake.

Bruce doesn’t bother searching; as much as he fears Alfred’s reprimand, he more fears wasting time Dick doesn’t have. He heads straight to a room at the very top of the cave, and sets to work.
Jason undoubtedly will be seething over his running away, and he’ll be right—he’s running away, because he can’t stand not to do anything. If Dick’s in danger, there’s a reason. And because he’s the goddamned Batman, he’ll find that reason, and ideally be able to punch it in the face for even thinking it could touch his son and get away with it.

He takes a deep breath, stalling his fury.

Gotta do the legwork first, B, Dick would be saying. Or actually, he might be prodding him to go talk to Jason, make sure things are mended for Cass’s welcome home dinner. Or he wouldn’t even be talking to Bruce, too busy looking for Damian or making sure Tim was alright. The point being, Dick is saying and doing none of those things because Bruce—once again—had let one of his children get hurt.

(Holy melodramatic coping mechanisms, Batman, Dick says, rolling his eyes.)

Bruce grits his teeth.

His plan is to keep two feeds running: the spliced recordings of all of the data from the lab, the bloodwork, everything relevant, and the live one in the medbay, where Alfred is currently facing Cass, mouth moving. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Alfred to keep him informed. He’s just double checking.

Shedding the cowl, he pulls up the recording from the batmobile, that blurred, whirlwind drive back. He clicks play, letting it run while he pulls up the evidence folder. Jason had been sitting in the back with Dick—his voice is slightly more muffled than his own.

“I left my bike on the bridge, I should-”
“Robin got it.”

Bruce blinks at the computer as the recording plays in the background. Then closes the file, reopening it. Same result.

The file is completely empty.

This room’s computer is connected to the same mainframe as the batcomputer, and even if it’s generally used for more niche research projects and programs. It should have all the same accesses, all the same files. He leans forward, clicking open recently deleted. The tape plays on.

“Report.”

“You could just ask if he’s okay, like a normal fucking—you know what, nevermind, it doesn’t even matter, does it? You can just get Lex to pop him a pill and hope we won’t notice, right? He’ll be right as rain, no complications later.”

“Red Hood—”

“Thought we wouldn’t find out? Is it convenient for you, pitting us against each other? Were you gonna let us blame him forever? Or wait until he figured out you can’t keep that kind of shit inside of you or else—”

“Red Hood, I need to know what happened, this could be—”

“He drove off the fucking bridge!”

Bruce winces at the feedback, twitching the volume down as he crosses the room. Whoever had deleted the files had been thorough. Even the backups were corrupted, unopenable without some serious work that would take time he doesn’t have. With a few taps, he sends the file to Barbara, marked urgent.

Tim, because his prescience is nearly uncanny if you ask Bruce, had mentioned sending the transcription of the labtech down to the printer—so they have nothing else, at least still have that. If they can’t recover the rest of the file—which includes blood samples, footage, and background on the neurology clinic—it will be all they have to start the case from the ground up.

“He drove— explain.”

“No, you explain why you let us believe that Dick didn’t actually—ah shit.”

“What?”

“He’s bleeding again.”

There's only one printed page of background for the lab tech they’d found, the one who’d miraculously escaped from the precinct jail before they’d even booked him. Typical. They’d at least gotten some information from him. He runs a finger down the transcription Tim printed, half an ear on the recording.

Giving it his full attention is not an option. If he did that, he might as well retire for the night, with how much use he’ll be after having his mistakes thrown in his face yet again. It hurts more when it’s not from himself.

“Head trauma?”

“I’m not—shit. Bruce, fuck, it’s—” There’s a cough. He’ll need to check Jason’s lungs later. That river is a cesspool. “It’s from his fucking ear.”

“Hrn.”

There’s the faint sound of revving, and Bruce remembers himself wondering if he should add a higher maximum speed to the batmobile. He turns a page on the transcription.

Wait. He squints at the page.

“Red - Jason. Please. Tell me what happened.”

“He—fuck, B, he drove straight off the Risadez. I went after him, he—I thought maybe he was having some kind of episode, with his memory, or something. Tim thought the same, maybe Spyral, or—who knows. I got him to the beach.”

“Was he conscious?”

“Conscious enough to grab my gun and aim.”

“Did— are you hurt?”

“How kind of you to ask.”

“Jason, please.”

“I’m fine. I—for a second, I wasn’t— I swear he was going to. I don’t know who he thought I was, or where he thought he was. Tim showed up, I think that threw him off.”

Bruce stares at the line on the paper, the statement. How could he have missed this? How could any of them have missed this?

“Is Tim hurt?”

“You really choose the darndest times to give a shit.”

“Jason.”

“Tim’s fine. Dick freaked, we fought, he tried to blow his own head off.

“He what.”

Bruce, now, clenches his teeth. He focuses on the words on the page, the words that he’d so stupidly misunderstood before that now seem so, so obvious. He reaches for the recording’s control, zipping through a minute and wincing again as the audio starts up mid-yell. He can take an echoed round of Jason’s fury, if it means finding what he’s looking for, what he’d been too distracted and distressed to pay attention to before. And it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.

“—expect anyone go through that and keep quiet about it, without fucking losing it! You set him up for this, with your secret keeping, and your gag orders, and your fucking—you knew he wouldn’t be able to tell us the truth! So guess what, Bruce? If he fucking dies because he's fucking self-destructing on your watch, you’re the one I’m blaming. Not Lex Luthor, not the Crime Syndicate, not fucking Spyral—you. If I hadn’t had that fucking bioelectric code—”

“Bioelectrics,” Bruce says aloud, trying to ignore the tremor in his hands.

“Jason, I -”

Bruce’s finger hovers over the pause button, ungloved.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

He swallows.

“I’m sorry.”

In the audio, he can hear the scream of the highway slowing beneath the wheels. They must be approaching the exit. There’s a choked laugh.

“Save it for someone who still believes it.”

“I do believe that’s quite enough, Master Bruce.”

He spins to see Alfred standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the cave’s faint light. There’s a flash, and Bruce squints through the sudden brightness. “Sitting in the dark feeling sorry for yourself, though an effective way to make yourself miserable, is hardly helping anyone else.”

He takes one deep breath, letting Alfred’s sympathetic gaze wash over him. He holds out the paper transcript of the lab tech’s confession.

“I found something. A location.”

“Well, it’s about time,”Alfred sniffs. “I gather you haven’t spoken to your youngest, but I’m afraid I’ll have to overlook it. It seems that Master Richard is...compromised.”

He stills, looking to the cave-feed monitor and swallowing hard. Dick is in the cell, a small black-and-blue figure behind glass. Jason and Tim are clustered in the far corner.

“I gathered, from Jason’s...report,” he grounds out, unable to tear his eyes from the forlorn figure hunched on the cot.

“Indeed,” Alfred says with a sigh. “But the situation is apparently somewhat more...dire, than we believed.”

“More dire than one of my children driving into the river?“ he bites out, and Alfred just looks at him, eyes heavy. His chest twinges, and he sighs, passing a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, Alfred. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.” Alfred nods.

“Miss Cassandra has identified some...inconsistencies in his body language. She believes he’s...being controlled, somehow. We deemed it safe to move him to a cell.”

Bruce blinks. He takes an entire ten seconds to breathe, closing his eyes to process. Alright. Alright then.

One problem potentially no longer a problem. Another one, potentially presents itself. The missing file, it makes sense now, and opens up a whole host of other problems, security problems he doesn't want to have to think about before he fixes his son. He really wouldn’t mind just talking to Dick right now, his own cowardice with facing his kids be damned. But apparently, if Cassandra is to be believed - and his daughter hasn’t steered him wrong yet, not in this arena - then that’s not really an option. So deal with the situation, he tells himself. Accept it, and adapt. He can deal with the uncomfortable feeling in his chest later, the one that is whispering to him that his son is not his son and he didn’t notice.

Not now, he says to himself sharply.

“What did you tell him?” he asks, rising. He heads for the back tunnel from the room, a passage towards the garage.

Alfred shrugs, and not for the first time, Bruce notices just how sorrowful that motion is on him.

“We said it was protocol for any incident, and his agreement seems to cement the theory well enough. The real Master Grayson would know it isn’t. And he’d undoubtedly be asking why we haven’t asked him for a proper explanation for the what happened on the bridge.”

“He’s been unbalanced, then,” Bruce nods, tapping his comm. The sooner he can leave, the better, but Jason and Tim won’t look kindly on being kept out of the loop. It hisses back at him, and he taps it again, frowning. More static. He’s been working on this all day, and the signal on the batcomputer is one of the strongest in the world, this shouldn’t be—he freezes.

That’s it. It has to be. The pieces fit, the timeline works.

He whirls around to face Alfred, who regards him with a raised eyebrow. He speaks slowly, as if that will spare him the choice.

“I know where I need to be. And now I think I know what this is. But I can’t leave him—” he closes his eyes. “I can’t leave them alone. I can’t leave you alone, while this is happening, but I need to leave to stop it happening at all.” He opens his eyes again, studying Alfred’s face in a way he hopes conveys just how torn he feels. “What do I do?”

Alfred’s eyebrows climb even higher.

“Should I be asking Miss Cassandra to make sure you, too, aren’t under someone else’s influence? Is this Batman, asking for advice?”

“This is Bruce,” he says, holding out his hands. “Asking you, Alfred, if you think they’ll forgive me for leaving them in order to fix this.”

Alfred, to his credit, barely pauses.

“My dear boy,” he says, turning the cowl over in his hands. “I believe the question you are asking yourself is rather...does it matter to you if they don’t, if it means they are safe?” He holds out the cowl.

Bruce takes it, nodding at Alfred and swallowing the twinge in his chest that has worked its way up his throat.

“Thanks, Alfred.”

“Don’t thank me until it’s done. Now I believe Miss Cassandra is rearing to take action, and is condoning your decision at the same time. Am I correct?”

“You are.”

Bruce isn’t embarrassed to say he starts, because if anyone could surprise him, he’s thrilled that it would be Cass. Her smile is sharp and grim.

“After we get Dick back, and throw not-Dick in jail,” she says, looking him squarely in the eye. “I want a family movie night.”

Bruce doesn’t even hesitate.

“Deal. Here’s the plan.”

Chapter Text

Damian had made a mistake.

He’d made them before, he isn’t afraid to admit at this point—Grayson had explained to him why admitting mistakes was so invaluable, that a learning curve is steepest when it’s dotted with failure, and then exponential growth. He’d been skeptical at first, but from time to time Grayson did offer intelligible advice. So yes, Damian tells himself that he is mature enough to admit it: he had made a mistake in attacking Drake so violently, so rashly.

Not to say he’d been completely in the wrong. Drake was definitely hiding something, and that something had to do with Richard’s...whatever had happened tonight. Whatever had been happening since he returned from that lab, that no one has seemed to care enough to talk to him about, Grayson least of all. Confronting Drake hadn’t been the mistake, no. The...nature in which he had done so…

Father had sounded so angry.

He’d let himself be chased by the echo of Father’s—of the Batman’s—shout up and out of the cave, hiding in the crevice of the library he’d carved out for himself years ago. There’s a pile of sketchbooks stacked neatly against one wall, and a row of calligraphy pens laid out on a tray. It would have been comforting. If he hadn’t lost his temper and tried—he doesn’t know what he’d been trying to do. But Drake wasn’t saying anything, and Richard had been sagging between Cain and Todd’s arms, looking like a body they’d dragged from the river. And if Todd was to be believed, he had been.

He’d lost it. He’d lost his temper, and now he would lose Robin. He can imagine his father’s voice—“We don’t attack our family, or our team. You acted rashly in a time of crisis. You didn’t act like one of us. You aren’t—”

Damian wrap his arms around himself to calm his body’s irritating shaking, and contemplates his options. He starts with allies.

Father is furious. Richard is undoubtedly still unconscious. Todd, Cain, and Pennyworth are likely devoting any remaining attention they have to him. Drake hates him - for a legitimate reason, for surely he can withstand only so much violence from a legal family member. He somehow doubts Gordon, Brown, or Thomas would be taking his side in any dispute with Father. The Titans had left for a mission just as Richard had gone missing, and he’d chosen to stay, so they’re far out of contact. Jon is grounded, and just as distant. His mother is...She’s not an option.

He is alone. It's strange. Even if it didn't used to be.

He sits there for a long time, pretending that any moment, someone kind will come, someone forgiving will appear and tell him it’s alright. He’s gotten too used to that happening, with Richard staying here for the past two weeks.

He sits and wishes and tries not to think that for the first time he understands why Richard sometimes looks at him, shaking his head and laughing, says “You’re just a kid. It’s okay to be one.” The last time he felt this young, Richard was dead.

(“dead” Todd had once gesture-quoted mockingly, back before they’d known the ugly, uncomfortable truth of that despicable Luthor and his awful little pill that Damian still has nightmares about. But even before that, it still hadn’t mattered to Damian. Because dead meant gone, and back was back.)

That thought stops him cold. Because Richard isn’t dead, not now. He’s downstairs, and unconscious, and in need of help. And Robin—maybe not Robin for long—helps those in need. Robin doesn’t sit and cry about stupid mistakes, no matter how much the personal cost. Robin takes action.

Damian takes one, last, shaking breath—the next is steady.

He’ll be there for Grayson. And if Father decides him too violent to be a hero, he will prove him wrong, again, and again, and however many more times it takes for him to redeem himself. And maybe he’ll even apologize to Drake.

They don’t even hear him re-enter the cave.

It’s surprisingly empty. He scans from above, taking in Todd and Drake standing in tense conversation along the wall, just across from - Damian blinks. They’ve moved Grayson to one of the clear holding cells, usually reserved for detox or containment. Moreover, he’s awake. He’s sitting on the cot, playing loosely with the sleeve of his Nightwing suit—it seems Pennyworth hasn’t yet brought him a change of clothes.

That can be Damian’s first task.

Stealing through a storage closet in the manor, he notices Pennyworth leaning against one of the many shelves, one hand on his face. Damian watches him for a moment, unexpectedly torn. The man looks exhausted, and sad.

Exhausted, Damian can help with, by doing whatever needs to be done.

Sad...sad, Damian doesn’t want to think about it. Grayson is awake, and in the cave downstairs. He’s fine, despite the earlier panic, and whatever reason he’s detoxing. He’s fine, awake. Unless—
Damian snatches the clothes, sneaking back out and scampering down into the cave, around the giant penny—Drake and Todd are still huddled against the wall, their voices muffled by the loud whisper of air over stone. He watches them carefully, creeping as best he can until he stands at the cell door.

Richard is looking right at him.

He tries to read the expression, typing the code to the cell and warily opening the plexiglass door. It occurs to him, far too late, that they might have moved him here for a reason. He could be fear gassed, or shot through with joker toxin. He could be about to attack Damian.

“Damian,” Grayson sighs, smiling. “Kid, it’s good to see you.”

Damian keeps his distance, still tense.

“You...remember me?”

Grayson’s face twists in confusion.

“Of course?”

“Well,” Damian sniffs, striding forward and trying not to notice just how closed off Grayson seems. Whatever he’d been mad about before, whatever has made him decide to be less free with his displays of affection—it’s just another thing Damian will have to figure out, and fix for himself, since everyone seems intent on keeping him in the dark. “You do have a bad track record.”

Grayson chuckles lightly, patting his head. Damian hops onto the cot next to him, presenting him with the clothes.

“Since Pennyworth is slacking on—I mean, since Pennyworth is occupied elsewhere, I brought you a change of clothes. You are welcome.”

Grayson takes the bundle, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Thanks, kid.”

Damian sniffs, as Grayson starts to set it aside.

“I suggest you at least put on the hoodie, if you don’t want to freeze.” When Grayson doesn’t move, he adds, “Not all of us are careless with our health.”

Grayson glances at him again as he puts on the hoodie over the Nightwing top, a strange look that makes Damian’s chest feel like it’s shrinking. Whatever he’s done to make Richard upset, it doesn’t seem to be going away. And he doesn't think he's even heard about the incident in the medbay yet.

Damian let’s the silence rest for a moment, waiting for more and hesitant to break the silence first. Even when everyone else insists on telling him things last, Grayson isn’t like that. But Grayson has gone back to watching Drake and Todd, who are still arguing in whispers by the looks of it, across the cave.

“I find it tedious to read reports when I can just ask you about the details,” Damian comments, trying to engage Grayson’s attention. “Although if you require food, or something else, I am happy to help. Pennyworth is...very busy. As is Father. And everyone else.” Apparently. He has no idea where Father or Cain went, in all honesty. But he isn’t about to allow Grayson to think him irresponsible for not knowing the rest of the family’s status.

For not knowing anything, apparently.

“Actually—” Grayson looks down at him, eyes bright. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his temple, and Damian wonders if he has a fever. That will need treatment. Pennyworth indisposed, Father and Cain frankly missing, and Todd and Drake arguing like children. He can do this. He’s the heir to the mantle to the Bat, even if Father is currently against him.

“Actually, I think I need some fresh air. I get that it’s against protocol, but I think—I don’t know, I feel like I’m suffocating down here.” Grayson smiles imploringly, but Damian tenses. So he had been drugged, somehow, if he’s following their toxin protocol. Behaviour-altering toxins are the only protocols warranting use of the holding cells, really.

“Protocol? Have they given you the antidote already?”

Grayson barely hesitates, then nods emphatically.

“Yeah, totally, and it’s already kicked in. I feel fine, I just—” he heaves a clearly exaggerated breath, and Damian rolls his eyes. “Really need some air. C’mon, kid. Five minutes.”

“I’ll have to verify with either Pennyworth or Father, considering you were unconscious less than two hours ago. Unless you decide to tell me what happened, as Todd and Drake are clearly occupied.”

“Damian, please.” Grayson's tone wavers—he really does look sick. His eyes are still bright and darting, his forehead veritably trickling with sweat now.

“I…” Damian hesitates as Grayson turns his head slightly. He gasps. “Richard, your ear—”

“Damian!” A rough voice shouts, and he looks to see Todd standing at the glass, Drake jogging up behind him.

Chapter Text

Tim could punch Jason as he taps the speaker in the cell. He knows Jason about to scream at Damian to get out get away from him —and in the meantime, give away their advantage, the advantage Jason himself had recognized.

Whatever is controlling Dick doesn’t know that it’s been found out. Hopefully.

“Damian, get -”

“Bruce wants you upstairs, Damian,” Tim interrupts loudly, glaring at the kid. He hadn’t exactly forgotten the medical scissors aimed at his head, but truthfully their fight isn’t at the forefront of his mind anymore. Right now, they just need him to be out of the same room with the dangerous, unknown stranger controlling their brother.

Damian shrinks back slightly on the cot. Dick, next to him, looks between them silently. He looks wound up - kind of sickly, too, if Tim is being honest. Whether physical ailment a side effect of the mind control, or Dick really is in there, fighting, it isn’t reflecting well on Dick’s drawn and sweating face.

“C’mon, Demon Spawn, he was looking for you.” Jason is thankfully a quick study. He raps on the glass, beckoning. “Dickhead will be here when you get back.”

“I can’t, I need—I can help Grayson. He’s hurt, look, and I. I don’t have anything else to do.” It’s odd to hear Damian stutter over his words, but Tim doesn’t have time to worry about that. Dick—not-Dick—is looking twitchier by the second, and Tim can’t even imagine what he could be planning.

His target had been the Red Hood. Jason is aware of it, otherwise Tim guesses he would be physically dragging Damian out of the cell. If not-Dick decided now was time to finish the job, Jason running in there would put them both in danger.

“Alfred can take care of him, he’s on his way,” Tim says, “But Bruce was really insistent, and -”

“I can’t!” Damian bursts out, leaping to his feet. Behind him, Dick is staring between the three of them, temple shining, and Tim has a pit in his stomach because has no idea what’s about to happen. They’re working with a veritable unknown. The imposter could snap at any second, could even hurt Damian, as unguarded and unaware as he is. As Tim’s brain searches out any scrap of lost information, any kind of clue he can use, Damian rambles on. “I can’t talk to him, he’s going to- I’m sorry Drake, I shouldn’t have - I didn’t mean to - I, -”

Tim watches in sheer horror as Damian - Damian - dissolves into tears, tiny shoulders quaking as he buries his face in his hands. Jason looks equally shocked, his expression tempered with fear.

The irony, which Tim recognizes but does not appreciate, is that if they hadn’t realized something was so very deeply wrong before, they would have now. In no world would a right-minded Dick Grayson let one of his siblings cry in front of him and do nothing except look on with a pitying expression.

“Get him out of there,” Jason says flatly. Tim doesn’t need prompting. He’s already rounding the corner to the cell door. He types in the passcode—wrong the first time around, of course—then the door swings open. Tim freezes.

“Richard?”

Dick isn’t just sitting there, watching Damian cry anymore. He’s hunched over on the cot, shaking like a leaf, a clear line of blood dripping from his earlobe, half-smeared along his jaw. Damian is crouched, still sniffing, before him.

“Damian, get away from him.” Tim hears Jason’s harsh order, half-dulled by the glass. But Damian grabs Dick’s hand, peering up into his face. Tim takes a slow step into the cell, unwilling to upset whatever the hell is happening to keep things from falling into chaos. Dick must be awake, must be grappling with the thing in his brain, to stop whatever it wants to do.

Which probably means the thing in his brain wants to hurt one of them. And Damian is closest.

“Damian…” Tim says softly, urgently. He doesn’t dare take a step closer. “Leave him be. Come with me, I’ll tell you everything.”

“What’s wrong with him?” His voice is small, and not for the first time Tim is forcibly reminded that holy crap this is a kid. Damian is a kid, and his brother is shaking apart in front of him.

“I’ll tell you, just -“

“For chrissake.” Jason appears and shoves Tim to the side, ignoring his protest. “Fainting robins, the lot of you,” Tim barely catches the muttered words, and he can only watch as Jason enters the narrow cell and steps towards the pair. Dick stills. Alarms blare through Tim's head.

“Jason, wait—”

Chapter Text

He moves too fast to track—a single elbow jab to Damian’s head, and the kid drops like a sack of potatoes. Jason jumps forward to grab at Dick, but his eyes are still on Damian, and he doesn’t see the left hook until he’s stumbling back, spitting blood.

“Gotta say, I’m disappointed.”

Jason wipes his lip, regaining his footing. Dick smiles, lips pulled back in a wicked curve that in Jason’s maybe-biased opinion of what's menacing, he can only describe as clownlike. It isn’t right.

But the voice is worse.

“Not in you, don’t worry.” It’s Dick’s voice, to be sure - same pitch, same cadence. But now, the rhythm is all off, a stranger’s pattern of speech suddenly crammed into in his brother’s tone. “In myself.” Dick rolls his eyes, still smiling playfully. Jason ignores the vague sense of nausea climbing up his throat. “For all my research, I sure didn’t make you all out for the packrat type. What the hell happened to the I-work-alone schtick?”

“Who are you?” Jason growls, trying hard not to glance at Damian’s unconscious form. The kid’s breathing, and it’s obvious the blow had only been meant to put him out.

“Jason, Jason,” Dick’s voice tuts, then falls flat. His mouth falls too, every pretense of mirth vanished. It’s just Dick, staring at him with dark, serious eyes.

“It’s me, Jason. Your brother.”

Jason narrows his eyes, uncertain.

"You-"

Then the veneer falls again, and Dick laughs and steps forward. Jason curses himself as he instinctively takes a step back. There’s a hand on his shoulder, a warning.

“We can lock him in,” Tim whispers. “If we just-”

“Not with the brat,” he hisses back, not taking his eyes from Dick. He can see this going a lot of ways - none of them end well. This already, hasn’t ended well. “We gotta -”

“Lure me out, knock me out?” Dick suggests, voice mocking as he takes another step forward. “Look. Guys. I know, that you know, that I know, that I can’t fight my way past both the Red Hood and Red Robin.”

“Then you know there’s no point in trying,” Tim says from behind him, and Jason’ll be damned if he doesn’t almost startle at the ferocity in his little brother’s voice. “So tell us who you are, and what you want.”

Dick tips his head to the side, lips pursed.

Jason really wants to punch him, but he has a feeling Dick won’t be happy to have a broken nose when they get him back. Which they will. If Dick could fight back long enough to save both him and Tim, it’s like Tim said - it’s possible to break the control. Now that they know, they can help. Dick’s voice is still talking, pausing at all the wrong beats.

“I want, to know where I went wrong, really. I know I’m not an amazing actor, and there was only so much source material, but I really did study the parts! Do you know how much footage of you guys I had to watch? Do you know how boring you are, half the time?” He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Sheesh. Anyway. What made you figure out, huh? Got any notes, for next time?” Dick smiles, rubbing his hands together.

“There won’t be a next time, asshat,” Jason says roughly. “Not for you, anyway. Now politely leave my brother’s brain alone, and fuck off to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

“Ouch!” Dick winces. “I was that bad?” Okay, maybe Dick will forgive him the broken nose, if he’s in there listening to how insufferable this piece of shit is. “Here I thought I did okay, see, ‘cause I had you fooled for a good bit there.” He grins, eyes shiny and still bloodshot.

“Yeah, yeah, give us the whole villainous spiel,” Jason says, waving an airy hand and struggling to even his tone. “Can we skip ahead to the part where your latent narcissism makes you tell us exactly how you’re gonna get away with this? I like the heads up.”

“I mean,” not-Dick isn’t listening, instead prodding at Damian’s shoulder with his foot absently. The kid doesn’t even stir. “ “Your own brother. How’s it feel?” His grin widens, somehow. “Real bad, I bet.”

Maybe it’s the smile. Maybe it’s the tone. Something flicks off in Jason’s brain.

“Jason -”

“You have three seconds to get out of his head,” Jason says, voice suddenly sounding very distant to his own ears. The hand on his shoulder tugs at him, but the only physical sensation he can focus on is the blood pounding through his chest that's sending dizzy green sparks through his eyelids every time he closes them. “One.”

Dick just smiles at him, crossing his arms.

“Or what?”

“Two.”

“Jason.” There’s an almighty tug at his arm, and the cell around him settles back into focus as Tim drags him backwards, until they’re standing in the doorway. He shakes himself, looking over at Tim, who is glaring at not-Dick. “He’s baiting you. Calm down.”

“Yeah Jason, calm down,” Dick’s voice crows, and Jason is grateful for Tim’s arm still on his shoulder, or he might have lunged at the person who isn’t his brother. He takes a steadying breath, glancing at Damian. The kid is lying behind Dick now, still unconscious. It’d been a hard hit - Dick’s not going to be happy with himself.

“Tell us what you want,” Tim repeats, moving to face Dick in the narrow cell. “Or we’ll just stand here until Batman comes down.”

Jason exhales sharply, running a hand over his face and smothering the insane desire to laugh. Bruce has to know what’s going on down here, has to have noticed something on the cave cameras. He knows, and he’s not coming. One day, Jason won’t still be disappointed.

“Oh, that’s right—Bruce fucking Wayne, the Batman,” not-Dick says, laughing jerkily. “That one, I didn’t see coming. Can’t wait to see Vickie Vale’s face when it hits cable. Anyway, he left. Snuck out, like a...I don’t know, do bats sneak?”

“He what,” Jason snarls, but Tim shoves him back again. How the hell had they not noticed?

“So that’s your deal? Reveal our identities?” Tim asks. “If that was your only goal, you’d have done it by now. You want more.”

“Hell yeah, I want more,” Dick says cheerily, and that’s when Jason notices a fresh drip of blood fall from his ear lobe. He tenses, glancing at Tim to see if he’s noticed. “I want—I-” he trails off, brow furrowing. He blinks hard, swaying.

“Dick?” Tim asks, hand out and voice suddenly soft—it’s as if his earlier, vicious tone had never been there at all. “Dick, can you hear us?”

“I want for this to have gone better than it did,” Dick says through gritted teeth, seeming to regather himself. “But since it didn’t...I want clemency. Let me go peacefully, we’ll pretend this never happened, bada bing bada boom, I’m out of your hair.“ He smiles at them, face tight, and Jason and Tim exchange wary looks.

“I don’t know if you’re stupid, or if you’re just not paying attention. But you’re talking to the Red Hood,” Jason starts. “Who isn’t really known for clemency. I’m gonna go with stupid, because you seem to think there’s a single reason we would let you walk out of here. That’s our brother you’re hijacking, dumbass.”

“Oh, not anymore,” says not-Dick, voice airy. He raps a knuckle against his forehead. “He’s dead, in here.”

“Liar.” Tim says immediately, as something in Jason’s chest jolts. Not-Dick ignores him, continuing to speak.

“Super dead, now. He was never supposed to survive in the first place, since in the test trials people in general….didn’t. It was kind of a surprise, when I realized he was up rattling around there. But,” he knocks at his head again, shrugging. “It’s still a fairly new procedure. Minor mistakes are allowed.”

“You call him blowing your whole plan to shit a minor mistake?” Jason sneers, swallowing back an ugly feeling. “Good try. You’re not leaving. We caught you, game over, thanks for playing.”

Dick’s smile just widens. A batarang materializes in his hand. Jason freezes, and beside him, Tim goes still as well as Dick presses the sharp edge against his own jugular, metal glinting against his tanned skin.

“It’s a good thing I’m adaptable, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

People can survive cuts to the jugular. Tim knows this—he’s assisted in applying pressure to neck wounds, in making sure civilians haven’t bled out in time for ambulances to arrive. It’s entirely possible, especially if the cut is shallow, or in the wrong place, and misses the carotid arteries just next to it. He watches Dick’s knuckles go white around the batarang, shake for just an instant, before steadying. A drop of blood leaks down his wrist.

Next to him, Jason has gone quiet.

This isn’t like the riverbank. Then, they’d had no idea what they were dealing with—the mindcontrol’s anonymity would have made it less wary, less desperate. It had pulled a gun on them, sure, but it had been confused and warring for control with Dick. And it’s a stupid, childish belief, but somewhere in his heart, Tim truly believes that Dick would never have let it actually hurt them. Irrational, because there are things stronger than Dick Grayson out there—but if Tim had to make a bet, he would be stupid and childish and irrational every time.

This—this is different. This is much, much worse.

“Yes?" not-Dick asks smugly. "Does that work? We get what's happening. Wonderful. Now move, you’re staying in the cell.” His brother’s free hand waves them on, the other pressing hard against his own throat. A beaded red line appears.

“We don’t-”

“NOW!” Dick shouts, veins standing from his neck, and Tim barely stops himself from startling. Dick’s face shouldn’t contort like that - he’s seen him angry, seen him furious and screaming and pale with rage. He’s never seen him that hateful.

“Fine,” Jason says, and Tim shoots him a look. They can’t let him walk out, that’s undeniable. The thing isn’t scared of hurting Dick, which means it doesn’t rely on his body being alive, so it’s not an entity living in his head, relying on his heart beating—not magic, Tim decides, with no small degree of relief. Not an entity, means there’s a remote controller—and therefore, a remote control location. If he needs to physically take Dick to that location, that leaves two possibilities that aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.

One, he has some kind of information physically on him— a flashdrive, a disk — that he needs to transport.

Two, there’s an operation to remove the control.

Tim shakes himself as Jason beckons him, and they both back into the cell, passing Dick cautiously. He watches them with the batarang still flush against his throat, navigating until he's on the exit side of the cell.

People can survive jugular wounds, Tim reminds himself, as blood smears against his brother’s hand and trickles lazily down his neck. He’ll probably be okay, even if things go bad. He’ll be—

“Jason, we can’t let him go,” Tim says quietly, unable to tear his eyes away as Dick steps free from the cell. “We - we -”

“Cool it, baby bird.” Jason is crouched over Damian, who has begun to stir. Jason’s eyes barely flick to the ceiling, and Tim nearly collapses in relief as he spots the shadow swing from one of the obstacle ropes.

Cass.

“She can’t beat him to cutting his throat,” he says, heart in his mouth as Dick shuts the cell door with one hand. It locks with a metallic ping. Far above him, Cass is suspended, watching.
“You’re not wrong. But all she needs is a few seconds of distraction. He drops that hand, she drops him.”

“Ideas?”

“You’re the one with ideas.”

“New rule, both of you shut the fuck up until I’m gone,” Dick’s voice echoes across the cave, his familiar blue eyes angled at them coldly.

He’s reached the computer. One hand flies across the keys, and Tim can’t see at this angle what he’s doing, but the lights shift—lockout, not lockdown. If not-Dick had lied, and Bruce is in the Manor, he won’t be able to get down, while the exits are still open for him to escape. Cass is their only shot. “I don’t like plotters. Sit across the cell from each other or else I put a hole in his hand.”

Tim automatically begins to move, but pauses to glance at Jason. They’re probably both thinking the same thing—a hole in his hand is better than one in his neck, and that might be enough time for Cass to make her move. But Jason shakes his head minutely, not even looking at Tim. He follows his gaze, back to Dick who—who’s clutching his head in one hand, even as the one against his throat remains steady. He sounds like he’s muttering, but the words blend with the ambient echoes of the cave. Tim's breath catches.

"Is he—"

“We need to do something, now,” Jason hisses across the cell. “If Dickiebird’s got a handle on this, he's not gonna let himself walk out of here.”

“But that’s good, if he can stop- oh,” Tim turns to stare at Jason, going cold. “He wouldn’t. He can just hold it off long enough for Cass to get to him.”

Jason grimaces.

“I don’t know. He doesn't know she's there. Risk all the information on that computer? Our identities? League contingencies?”

“Dick knows Bruce would catch him before -”

“Bruce isn’t coming, Tim!” Jason says, hitting a fist against the glass. “Don’t you get it? He sent Cass, while he left us to go do who the hell knows w-”

“What did I fucking say?” not-Dick yells suddenly, voice shrill. He’s facing them from next to the computer- Tim doesn’t breathe, watching the hand holding the batarang tremble, scraping more against his throat. Amongst the shadows of the cave ceiling, Cass’ figure leaps to another rope to hang directly above him, poised to spring.

Chapter Text

Timing is everything. This is true for most things— fighting, dancing, swinging from rooftops and falling in between. Timing is everything, but Cass has never counted seconds in her life. It comes naturally, the places where movement should happen, and when.

She doesn’t count, as she watches the hand grasping the batarang, barely visible from her angle, tense. Not as the shoulder shifts, extends, rolls slightly to indicate he’s about to move it outwards (intent, rage). Not as he shouts across the room to Tim and Jason. Not as he places his free hand next to the keyboard, fingers splayed. She waits. Watches. Does not count.

Then she falls.

The batarang is buried in the back of Dick’s hand in the same moment Cass slams into him from above, angling her knee so he’ll be pinned without shattering his ribs. He recovers almost immediately (fury surprise -no pain?), to her own surprise, ripping the batarang from his hand and almost managing to drive it up, across his neck.

Almost. Cass isn’t going to let one of her brothers die right in front of her. They’ve died a bit too much already, in her opinion.

She grabs his wrist, twisting and letting the batarang fly— after that, it’s a dance, watching his curious lack of pain as she darts in, punching and twisting and dodging with ease. This person, whoever it is, is not anywhere near as skillful fighter as Nightwing.

She’s supposed to stall, wear him out. But. He isn’t wearing. He’s panting, for sure, and there’s sweat mixing with some of the blood dripping down his temple from a reopened scrape, but he’s not reading exhaustion. He’s not reading pain, not even when she experimentally aims a hard jab at the freely bleeding wound on the back of his hand. He doesn’t even wince.

“Ba—,” a voice crackles in her ear, entirely choked in static, and impossible to understand. Cass spins out of Dick’s range, hands out. He watches her warily, still in a fighting position. “Loc—.”

“Dick,” Cass says, looking him in the eye fists still raised. “Almost over.”

“Cass, look for a flashdrive!” Tim yells from across the room, and she spots it immediately, a plastic rectangle swinging on a lanyard around his neck. He knows she saw it. He dances away, fists held in such a not-Nightwing movement that she backs off for a moment, adjusting. If she can just—

In that moment, there’s a scream of feedback in her ear that nearly sends her to her knees. She rips the comm out, hurling it to the floor and stumbling back as her left ear aches with white-hot noise. She resists the urge to stomp on the thing. She expects a fist to come out of nowhere, a sneak attack from behind after the precious seconds she lost. She whirls around, clutching her head and choking back a growl of frustration. She turns.

Then turns again, heart beginning to pound harder as the ringing fades to a dull echo.

Dick is gone.

Chapter Text

Someone is shaking Damian’s shoulder, and he grumbles.

“Get off, you-” He gasps mid-sentence, sitting bolt upright. “Grayson!”

“Take it easy, twerp.” Todd’s face is hovering over him, pinched and distracted. There's a smear of blood leaking from his lip. “You’ve probably got a concussion.”

“I’m fine,” he says as steadily as possibly, restraining himself from clutching his pounding head. “Where - what’s happening?”

Past Todd, Cain is standing outside the cell door, typing into the pad. As he watches, she yanks the door open, and Drake springs out, signing urgently. They both take off across the cave, pausing at a utility bench and snatching up equipment before vanishing beneath the shadow of the penny.

"Yo, earth to Damian." Todd is snapping his fingers in front of his face, and Damian smacks them away, glaring.

“Todd,” Damian grits out, as he shakily climbs to his feet. “You will tell me why—tell me who is impersonating Grayson, and where exactly I can find them, as I would like to demonstrate to them the extent of my training.”

Todd sighs, raking a hand across his face.

“Kid, it’s not that simple.”

“It’s never that simple,” Damian snaps, shoving past him, and out of the cell. “That’s just an excuse for cowards not to talk about something.” He strides a little unsteadily across to one of the benches and grabs a utility belt, stringing it across his shoulder and securing it.

“You can either tell me what’s going on so we can help Grayson, or keep me in the dark, where I’ll inevitably put us all in more danger.” He purses his lips, turning to stare Todd square in the eye. “As...as I already did.”

Todd grimaces.

“Yeah, okay, you’ve got a point.” He lets out a long breath, grabbing a belt of his own and hooking it across himself.

“Long story short, Dick’s brain’s been hijacked, he stole a bunch of data, and now he’s somewhere in the cave. Cass and Tim are probably gonna catch up to him, the guy can't have gotten that far, but...” Todd shoots a glance over his shoulder, to where Drake and Cain had vanished into one of the tunnels branching deeper beneath the manor. He looks back at Damian, face still pinched.

“Alright, look. You took a pretty hard hit, and I want to tell you to stay put while we go look for him, but I think you and I both know that’s not gonna happen. So, I’m letting you tag along, but you are by no means allowed to engage. Got it?”

Damian lifts his chin.

“I don’t see why-”

Todd grabs him by the shoulders, squatting to face him at eye level.

“Nuh-uh, none of that pompousness crap. I’m taking lead on this, period. If we find him, you stay back.”

“Todd, if Grayson-”

“Say it back to me, or I tell Bruce about Lulu and Zebidiah living in Tim’s closet.” The half-threatening banter is strained—Damian can hear it. And the way Todd keeps glancing over his shoulder is making Damian’s stomach sink lower and lower.

“Very well,” he says, biting his lip. “I stay back. But I suggest you stop wasting time, then if -”

“Okay, you’re fine.” Todd rolls his eyes as he rises, beckoning.

They start at a jog, towards where Cain and Drake had vanished. “Cave’s locked from the inside, and whatever he did to the computer won’t let me lock it down completely, or activate the other security measures. Hopefully Cass and Tim won’t need any backup, but if he pulls another stunt like-” Todd glances down at him as they reach the mouth of one of the darker passages. “Comms are fried, so you and I are going to make sure not-Dick doesn’t double back and get past to the cave exits. We go steady, we go careful. If Cass and Tim catch him, great. But he isn’t getting by us, got it?”

“Understood.” Damian isn’t stupid. There’s something Todd isn’t telling something that happened, something he thinks will scare him. But as they duck into the unlit tunnel, the dark surrounding them from one moment to the next he thinks that maybe, it won’t hurt not to know.

There’s a sharp crack, and a hazy green glow emanates from Todd’s outstretched hand.

“Of fucking course,” Todd mutters, almost too quiet for Damian to catch beneath the sound of their own footsteps. He seems to glare at the glowstick as it begins to cast odd shadows across the rocks before them, but offers an uncracked one to Damian without breaking stride.

“Here, I grabbed you one. Ah, shit.” Todd ducks beneath a stalactite, grimacing as the tunnel narrows. “Jeez, doesn’t Bruce ever go back here? Why aren’t there any lights?”

“Father uses the deeper tunnels for storage, or as an escape contingency if the Batcave is ever compromised.” Damian cracks his own glowstick, which lights up an electric blue. He frowns over at Todd, blinking hard.

“Hm.” Todd slows slightly as they reach a blind corner, peering around it and holding his own glowstick aloft.

The satisfaction of knowing something Todd clearly doesn’t is not as enjoyable when he looks so serious. Not enjoyable at all, considering the situation, and how Damian can’t barely stop himself from literally jumping at shadows as he jogs after Todd in silence, skin prickling as the air cools.

They stop for a full ten seconds at another corner, Todd’s head tilting. Damian listens carefully as well, but it’s as if Cain and Drake have been completely swallowed by the dark—there isn’t even the echo of footsteps beyond their own.

“Wait,” Todd whispers, turning green-lit eyes on him. “If it’s an escape contingency, does that mean there’s an exit back here, somewhere?”

“The dried well has an exit,” Damian says, switching his glowstick from hand to hand. “But the likelihood of the impersonator knowing exactly which way to go is very low.”

“Yeah, not a big fan of likelihoods right now, ” Todd says. He squeezes his eyes shut for an instant, brow furrowed. “Another exit. Great. Fuck. Let’s go.” They jog a little faster, Damian focusing on the pounding of his feet, rather than his head.

The rock emerges from the dark so suddenly that Damian nearly runs into it. Todd grabs his shoulder, pulling him to a stop. Two empty mouths open before them, the tunnel diverging into halves.

Todd lets out a low whistle.

“Yellow wood, am I right?

“What are you talking about?” Damian snaps. “It’s limestone, idiot.” He waves the glowstick down one tunnel, then the other, only managing to illuminate a few steps ahead. No footprints show up on the uneven grey rock.

“Seriously?” Jason’s skeptical glance is just visible in the low light. “Nevermind. Point is, we gotta pick one. We’re not splitting up.”

“We should just wait here, if we are to prevent him from doubling back.”

“Yeah, that was the strategy before I knew there are more exits back here.” Todd blows out a sigh, looking between passages in the low green light. “Fuck. We really could have thought this through better. If we knew which way they went...” Todd growls, gripping the glowstick tightly. “Fuck. Fuck!”

Damian crosses his arms, wishing away the ache in his head so he could just think clearly.

“It’s possible they split up, if we do the same—”

“No!” Todd shouts suddenly, the sound echoing around them. Damian shoots him a startled glances as he squeezes his eyes shut, visibly taking a breath. “No. You said I’d take point, brat. I expect you to stick to your word.”

“But we can’t let him escape, if Cain and Drake chose the wrong direction, or if he—”

“Let me put it in simple terms.” Todd says, poking him in the shoulder. There’s something hard and cold about the expression on his face, made angular by the strange green light. “I’m not letting some concussed toddler wander around in the dark alone, looking for his currently maybe-homicidal brother. I’m not Batman.”

“And I’m not a toddler," Damian bites back. "You—" Todd holds up a hand, expression still set in stone.

“Whatever you’re about to say, assume I don’t care. We’re going together, end of fucking story. Since I’m generous, I’m going to allow you to pick our direction. We don’t have time to try to deduce who went where, unless you happen to know where each of these go. But if you try to sneak off, I will carry you the rest of the way.”

Damian scowls. If his head wasn’t still pounding, if there wasn’t a strange pressure inside his chest that he can’t quite place, he would take issue with Todd’s threats. As it is, he wordlessly snatches Todd’s green glowstick from his hand, replacing it with his own incandescent blue one. He can feel Todd’s stare, but he ignores it, stepping forward and squaring his shoulders.

Damian points down one of the passages.

“Left.”

Todd nods absently, eyes on blue glowstick as he waves it forward.

“Left it is.”

Chapter Text

It’s strange, to be on what feels like a mission - one of their more high stakes missions at that - and wearing nothing but a hoodie and sweatpants. At least he’s wearing shoes, since they’re mandatory in the cave. Too many sharp rocks. Tim had managed to snag a half-prepped utility belt from one of the work benches, along with the glowsticks he’s currently trying to activate while trying not to trip over stalagmites at the same time. He tosses one to Cass as they enter the mouth of the cave Dick had vanished into.

They run, and Tim tries to ignore the pit in his stomach. There are a million other ways they could be approaching this, a million ways to fix this that Tim is slowly lining up in his mind and knocking down, one by one.

Call Bruce. Comms down, Bruce’s location unknown. Tim faintly wonders if he’s feeling some of the frustration Jason must get.

Call Dick. Impossible, for obvious reasons. It only goes to show how scattered he feels that he considered it, even for a fraction of a second.

Go back and get Jason and Damian. Sweeping the tunnels would be a million times easier with the four of them, but Damian had looked too dazed for them to wait for, and they couldn’t have just left him, no matter how big of a brat he is. But there wasn’t time to lose.

Tim grits his teeth as the passage begins to slope downward.

The split in the tunnels comes suddenly, and he barely manages to barrel to a halt as Cass slows to a careful stop beside him. They exchange a look, both panting.

“I don’t hear anything,” Tim says, peering down each path.

“Where do they go?” she asks, gesturing with her glowstick. It’s only half-cracked, glowing a dim red, but they’re used to working in low light.

“Left…” Tim squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember the schematics. It’s been so long since he’d drilled them, with who-knows how many other blueprints memorized in between. He wishes Babs were here—eidetic memory would definitely be coming in handy about now. Not to mention she probably would have a better plan than just chasing him blindly, how did they let this happen? but Tim shakes loose the should-haves, struggling to focus. “Storage. I think. But right leads deeper, to more tunnels, more potential splits. Smaller chance we’ll make the right call.”

“Exits?”

Tim nods, holding his light higher towards the right. The tunnel is absolutely silent. He can’t even hear Jason from the main cave, who’s probably dealing with a tantrum from Damian over staying put.

“Left, he’s pinned, we get him,” Cass says. “But right, he escapes.”

“We really should have waited for Jason,” Tim groans. “I thought if we could just catch up—or we can go back, and see if we can lock down all the exits from the computer—”

“No time,” Cass snaps, grabbing his sleeve. “We have to choose, or split. He’s getting farther. He doesn’t tire.”

“I just—wait!” He crouches, holding his glowstick so it casts a wider pool of light over the ground to the left. The rocks are dark, but clearly dry, the yellow light gliding over the bare stone. Tim bites his lip, angling himself to the right.

There. A glimmer. Something dark and shiny and out of place.

“Right.”

Cass nods, and they take off to the right.

Tim isn’t sure. He’s so uncomfortably far from sure, that half of him wants to go back, make certain that glimmer is blood, make certain they’re definitely on the right trail. But they have nothing else to go on, and Dick is only getting farther. It will have to be good enough.

Chapter Text

Cass almost mistakes the wall that emerges from the dark for a dead end, and her stomach drops. Her and Tim slow simultaneously, and she’s about to curse aloud before she sees they’re just coming to a T-intersection.

Two passages stretch out in perpendicular, equally silent and cold.

“See anything? Blood? Footprints?” Tim pants, glowstick twitching in his hand (exhaustion adrenaline fear) as he lifts it high enough to cast light to the right direction. She mirrors him, bathing the passage to the left in hazy red light as she scans the ground. “Hear anything?”

“Nothing.” Cass glances over at Tim, whose shoulders are tightening the longer they stand still. (fear indecision frustration) She can feel her own exhaustion pulling on her like a physical chain, a sensation she’s been unlearning to ignore. “Tim.”

He over at her, eyes wide, but brow set. (fear determination) He nods, gesturing at her, glowstick flashing.

“Your pick.”

“Wait.” Cass hadn't meant to say that aloud, but she'd had a horrible vision, of Tim vanishing into the dark, of hearing his or Dick’s shouts, of sprinting through the dark, past more tunnel mouths with little hope of finding either of them ever again. It’s...not entirely irrational. She has no idea how deep these passages go, how many more misdirections or crossroads there are. Getting lost, in the dark and the cold, her family calling for her, unable to find them.

Cass shivers. It sounds like a nightmare she’s had before.

“Here.” She takes out a batarang, cutting a deep gouge into one end of her glowstick. A drop of red falls to the ground, luminous against the dark stone. She looks up at Tim, pointing the batarang at him threateningly. “Don’t get lost.”

He nods, expression softening for a moment (fear love affection fear) as he copies her, spattering gold droplets onto the passage floor.

She turns, and sprints away into the dark. The sound of Tim’s footsteps vanishes almost immediately, and soon it’s just the sound of her own panting and the light scuffs of her shoes on the stone.

The passage veers to the left, plunging downwards for a brief moment, before evening out. Cass occasionally slows to make sure the trail behind her is intact enough to follow, as she takes a quick right turn and ends up at a dead end. Following her own path out, she doubles back and goes the other way, pausing to listen at the intersection.

The next turn brings her to a carved-out, low-ceilinged room, empty but for a single safe tucked against the wall. She lingers at the door, curious, skeptical...but Bruce’s secrets can wait. She moves on.

At the end of the path, which splits into another two passages, she pauses once more, holding up the glowstick and casting strange red shadows down each one.

A voice.

Cass follows the left passage, going slowly to make sure the sound is coming from that direction. The tunnel narrows, so much that her head nearly brushes the rock above, and more than once she has to duck beneath a stalactite.

She hears it again, louder as she approaches—muffled murmuring, like someone speaking from behind their hand. There’s a sudden gleam ahead of her, and she stops. In front of her, a shiny metal door is embedded in the rock, the muffled rhythm of human speech barely audible beyond it. Cass glances back, at the glowing red droplets that stretch behind her and out of sight. She takes a deep breath, reaches out, and yanks open the door with a screech metal to see—

Another set of doors.

Cass huffs, reaching out for the next door with less concern, and pulling. It doesn’t budge. Cursing quietly, she holds up the glowstick, scanning for hinges and finding none. She kicks it, the metal giving in slightly, but catching on something from the other side.

Beyond the door, she thinks she might hear someone shouting, and she straightens her stance, panicked.

She kicks at it again, tempted to shout, I’m coming, I’m here but the noises vanish all of a sudden. She pauses, breathing. Listening.

There’s another murmur.

Cass hesitates for only another moment, before raising her fist to knock.

Chapter Text

“You’re fucking kidding.”

“Todd—”

Jason wants to throw something. He wants to shove the shelf before him, watch it fall into the next, and the next, until the entire dead end room is in shambles, and then yell until the carved walls echoes with noise and he doesn’t have to think about what a big mistake this whole stupid operation is.

It’s almost funny. Actually, no, it’s pretty fucking hilarious. He gets caught up in bat drama just in time to watch everybody fall apart, fuck up enough that it’s actually crossed his mind to start yelling at the sky for a Super, and now he’s been dragged god-knows how many layers beneath the earth only to have picked the wrong way and run into a dead end. Even with all this other shit to deal with, the niggling unease of having all that dirt above them makes it hard to focus.

At least Damian had switched out that green fucking glowstick. As far as narrative irony went, it was a bit heavy-handed, even for him.

He’d love to say he wishes he weren’t even here, wishes he’d never even demanded to go on that mission to get Nightwing in the first place—he’d love to say that, but even he can recognize when a ship is sailed.

“He could still be hiding, somehow.” Damian’s voice is subdued, as they stand in the doorway, looking in upon the rows and rows of storage shelves sitting quietly in the dark. They’d swept it, ducking beneath shelves and over boxes and rapping against the heavily padlocked storage cabinet only to hear a hollow ring. “Or we could go back, go the other—”

“Damian, do me a favor and shut the hell up.” Jason kicks at a loose rock, sending it flying into the gloom. He takes a deep breath, trying not to explode at the kid. “It took us fifteen minutes to reach the end of this tunnel. If Cass and Tim couldn’t find him, and he found the exit, he’s halfway to the city proper right now.”

“If, Todd.” Damian strides forward into the room, peering between the shelves with that lurid green light held out in front of him. “You’re the one who said he didn’t want to go by likelihoods.”

“Yeah, well, there’s likelihoods and then there’s being realistic.” He grips his glowstick tighter, staring furiously at the blue glow until it prints negatives against his retinas. “We made the wrong calls, simple as that.”

Damian tuts, crouching beneath one of the shelves and scanning across the floor of the room.

“If you’re going to sulk like a toddler, then we might as well have stayed in the main cave.”

“You are so lucky you’re concussed, or else I’d have to kick your ass.”

“I’m serious.” He straightens up, and Jason can see that the kid is serious. He sighs, bracing himself for a tantrum-lecture on justice, or perseverance, or whatnot. The kid really is his father’s son. Jason is already turning away, when something catches his ear, something metallic and out of place. He waves his glowstick at Damian, who's still prattling on. “You act like I'm a child who can’t handle this, but you’re the one who’s pretending like the mission ends here. We still have options—”

“Be quiet.” Jason says, tilting his head.

“No! You’re acting like everything’s already lost! Like Grayson is in the wind, and he won’t be able to—”

“Damian, I’m serious.”

“You give him far too little credit, just because you have problems with Father doesn't mean everyone in this family will disappoint you!"

“Shut up!” Jason yells, holding up a hand, only half startled by the words themselves. Shocker, Damian actually does, face contorting in anger. “Just. Quiet.” He hesitates, turning back towards the far wall. “Do you hear that?”

Something is knocking from the inside of the locked cabinet.

They drop into defensive positions simultaneously, flanking the cabinet. Jason eyes the padlock—no way not-Dick could have gotten inside and locked it back up. He crouches, picking the lock easily and grabbing at the chain before it draws loose. He holds it for a moment longer, standing to the side and considering. The knocking has become a light tap, almost hesitant.

He catches Damian’s eye, whose bearing the glowstick forward like a lonely green escrima.

“Stand back, brat. If it’s him, remember, we made a deal.”

“And if it’s something else?” The way Damian is drawing himself up, Jason’d expect it to be Killer Croc in there.

“I doubt Bruce keeps bogeymen in the basement, if that’s what you’re wondering. But still stand back, since this is the Batcave.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“It means, it might be a bat, and bats have rabies. Ready?”

“Tt. Of course.”

Jason yanks open the doors, jumping clear and wishing for guns he doesn’t have. He starts as red light spills out, so completely out of nowhere that he’s half-dazzled, eyes drawn away from the figure behind it.

“Cain?”

"Hi." Cass steps forward, eyes glinting blue and green as she gazes between the two of them. Her greeting smile is just barely offset by the worry in her furrowed brow.

“Wrong way."

Chapter Text

Tim hears water. The passage is cold, getting colder as it slopes even further downward, and the faintly detectable whisper of running water is echoing up before him. Tim slows, leaving a few more glowing trail markers as he comes up to a blind corner.

Logically, he knows, there has to be an underground river, a place the now-dry well on the manor grounds used to tap into. But when his vision suddenly gleams gold, light from his glowstick glancing off the surface of the water and refracting around the room, he gasps in surprise. The passage ceiling has opened up, vaulting above him into flickering and indistinct blackness. He can only stare for a moment, breathless, at the brilliant reflections dancing across the open space.

Why do we not know about this place? Tim thinks, almost incensed. Bruce would know almost every one of them would at least be interested, if not enchanted with a part of the Batcave they’ve never thought existed.

There’s a noise behind him, breaking him from his thoughts. He whirls, some of the light vanishing as his silhouette eats up the room.

“Tim?”

A shadow moves at the back of the tunnel, and Tim takes in a sharp breath as his light catches the shine of two eyes, a familiar figure lurking across the room.

It’s Dick. Or.

“Stay back,” Tim says, forcing himself to not reach for the utility belt. He doubts he’ll use anything on it. Not on Dick, who looks like he’s barely standing. “When’s my birthday?”

Dick sways slightly, brushing a hand across his forehead. In the yellow light, his skin shines with sweat.

“July. 19th.” He leans back against the wall behind him, shoulders slumping. ‘S okay Timmy, ‘s me.”

Tim hesitates, but he can’t stop himself from taking a step forward as Dick slides down the wall, huddling against the cold stone. He bites his lip, thinking.

“That’s technically public knowledge.”

Dick smiles half-heartedly, and Tim’s chest almost physically hurts, because it’s a more genuine expression than he’s seen on him in days. He takes another step.

“You...love pineapple on pizza.” Dick huffs a tired laugh. “Which is horrible. An’ that’s me saying that, Tim.”

“I think I mentioned that in an interview, once,” Tim says, still wary. Another step, close enough to crouch down, reach out. He does so slowly, legs tense. “Something else.”

“Y’were a cute kid.” Dick smiles again, eyes reflecting gold from Tim’s glowstick. “Mam and Da thought so too. Told ‘em I wanted a little brother, later. Right before the performance.” Dick swallows, looking away for a second. “Can’t remember what they said.”

“I—”

Dick looks right at him.

“But they woulda loved you.”

Tim knows that now is not the right time to cry.

“It’s you,” he says instead, voice thick. Dick offers him another weak smile and something in him loosens, like a breath he’s been holding for too long. “How...is it...are you okay?” It’s a stupid question. Tim still wants an answer.

“I...I don’t think it’s gone.” Dick pinches his brow together, and Tim tenses. But Dick’s voice clears, gets stronger. “It’s like—you ever heard something so loud, it’s like you can’t breathe?”

“Yes,” says Tim automatically, because no matter how many gunfights and explosions you live through, they don’t really get quieter.

“‘S like that. Only,” Dick grits his teeth, hands shaking for a moment as he wraps them around his knees. Tim reaches forward, but Dick waves him away. Tim can see that his hand is wrapped in a torn piece of hoodie, but it's already bleeding through. “Worse. Louder.”

“What can I do?” Tim asks, because it’s becoming clearer and clearer to himself that they really have no plan, beyond catching up to him. Batman would be shaking his head. Dick seems to have a handle on his brain at the moment, but they can’t just stay here forever, with no idea of how to even fix this. “Can you stand? We can get you back upstairs, figure out what—”

“No, no,” Dick interrupts, shaking his head firmly “It’s better down here. I think I understand, I think—” he squints at the light-speckled wall. “It’s quieter, down here, weaker. Like a radio with a bad signal, or something.”

Tim frowns, turning over the words. There’s something there. Bad—oh. Oh. Oh.

“Holy shit.” It’s like he’s being doused in icewater, because of course. Of course, of course. “Holy shit.”

“What? What is it?”

“We are so fucking stupid.”

“Hey, language,” Dick chides weakly. “Stop picking up Jay’s bad habits.”

“But we—Dick, you went missing by the radio tower on Burdock. Comms started going in and out the moment we got near you in that lab, and have been since you’ve been around. The cave’s internal audio signals have been jammed every time you’re awake, holy shit.”

Tim shakes his head, elation tempered by the maddening feeling of how obvious it is.

“It’s using radio waves.”

Dick squints at him, pain etched on his face.

“Thrilling, now NPR is ruined.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. “Why do the bad guys use everything I love against me?”

“Dick, this is good, though.” Tim rocks back on his heels, mind racing. “I’m trying to think how it would even work, though. There must be a connection between the broadcaster and your brain, right?

“Won’t correct you there,” Dick snaps, clutching his head for a moment, eyes clenched shut. “Ow. S’rry. Got loud. Keep talking.” Tim reaches out a hand again, Dick just waves it away once more.

Tim breathes through something that feels a lot like guilt. Later. That’s a feeling for later. He continues.

“...but to make the connection, they would have needed a receptor, something for the waves to actually interact with. But there was nothing to suggest they injected or implanted anything, Alfred knows how to check for that.”

Dick blows a breath out, slumping further against the wall.

“I think I remember a doctor? Or a lab, or something. I think I was there a while.”

Tim frowns, tapping his glowstick against the ground.

“Could they have projected waves powerful enough to latch on to the natural electricity produced by your brain? And when Jason shocked you—”

“It overloaded the connection, and shorted-out.” Dick nods, frowning. “But it was never gone gone. The connection wasn’t broken, just scrambled for a bit.”

“So all we have to do is find something strong enough to sever it for good.” Tim thinks back, mulling over what he knows. He hugs his knees, trying not to let the hopeful feeling in his chest blossom too soon. “And I think...I have some ideas.”

Dick grins, shoulders relaxing slightly, and Tim can’t help but smile shakily back. It’s like they’re finally on the right track, days after they should have been.

“‘course you do. And not that I don’t love Detective Tim, but does that mean we have a plan here? Where’s everyone else? Everybody’s okay, right?”

“Yeah, they’re fine, it’s...What do you remember?” Tim asks, doing his best to keep his face neutral. Dick presses his hands to his eyes, scrubbing at them.

“Y’ know, I hate that question? Because it always means there’s definitely something I don’t. Ugh.” He sighs, tipping his head against the stone behind him.

“I don’t remember anything past...I’m not sure. I was trying to warn Jason, in the medbay, and then...did you put me in one of the batcells? I remember I—whoever, was talking, I think...you were there, and Jason, and...Damian? It’s pretty...hazy.” He shakes his head, lips pursed in a way that tells Tim to back off. “Where’s Bruce?”

“He’s…” Tim clears his throat, traitorously hoping that Dick is still too out of it to notice him skating over details. “He sent Cass to help us, and you...well, not-you turned on us and escaped into the tunnels. Cass and I had to split up, but we left trails for each other, so she’ll come find us sooner or later. Jason and Damian should still be in the cave.

“So the plan is just to wait here until one of them finds their way down here with a fix?”

“We, uh—pretty much.” Tim crosses his arms miserably, cheeks warming slightly. “We were a little...caught off-guard. Waiting is the right call though, if the signal can’t reach you here. Until we figure something out.”

“Cool, cool.” Dick sounds tired, but he glances around the gold-flecked cave with a nod. “There are worse places to kill time. But...”

“But what? What is it?” Tim straightens, turning to the empty space where Dick seems to be staring, just a few steps away. “Dick?”

Dick looks up at him, and Tim wonders if it’s the strange light that’s casting such deep shadows across his face, because Dick’s never looked so gaunt, so exhausted.

“I just...any chance you’d wait with me?”

Tim stares at him for a solid five seconds in silence before thinking screw it, and storms over to drop down next to Dick.

“You’re a real liability, you know that Dick?” He feels his brother tense up next to him, and Tim feels a blush burn up his neck as he scrambles over his next words, realizing how that sounded. “I mean, not in a bad way. I mean—”

“‘S okay Timmy.” Dick swallows audibly, leaning into Tim slightly. “I get it.”

“No, no, you don’t,” Tim says, tone fierce. He’s not gonna mess this up, not after all the pain and worry and uncertainty of the past few days. “I mean, that something happens to you, it’s like...it’s like we don’t know how to behave. We knew something was wrong, and we just—I don’t know. I couldn’t even begin to put the pieces together. Jason’s completely forgotten to pretend not to give a shit. I don’t think Cass has even slept since she got back. Damian tried to kill me again. And Bruce—”

“Damian what?”

“Bruce has barely spoken to any of us,” Tim finishes with a sigh. He turns his head to look at Dick, and is greeted by the sight of blood tracks cutting down Dick’s earlobe. He looks away quickly, leaning closer into Dick’s shoulder.

“I sometimes think Jason’s right,” he says quietly. “I mean, I know I chose this. And I want to help people, I always—it’s what I want to do. But Bruce….it’s like he’s in this with us until we get hurt...then he’s just not.”

Dick sighs, leaning his head back against the stone wall.

“Bruce...he’s got exactly one setting when he’s in crisis mode, and that’s go. He’s got tunnel vision. Not unlike some other people I know.” Dick knocks his shoulder against Tim’s.

“But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. It means he cares a lot, and sucks at expressing it. I mean,” Dick laughs, the noise echoing over the sound of running water. “I mean really sucks. If Batman is supposed to be the best at everything, then when he’s bad at something, he’s the best at being bad at it. And I’ll be the first to tell you, sometimes it feels shitty to be on the receiving end of that, no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes you gotta tell him that to his face, or he literally won’t get it through his skull. ”

He tilts his head to peer down at Tim.

“But he does. Care, I mean.”

Tim stares at him for a heartbeat, chest fractionally lighter, before burying his face in his hands, groaning.

“I’m letting you make me feel better when you’re the one who’s literally got some sort of mindcontrol radio being beamed into your head.“ He hears Dick snort, and shoves him. “But do you see what I mean? Whoever did this had our number, going after you, because I honestly have no idea what we would have done if—”

Tim breaks off, not even certain what he wanted to say. If you had died? If you had vanished? If you had shot yourself in the head in front of me, with no explanation but our own wonderings?

He shivers.

Tim already thinks about...possibilities every day, for all of them. The dying, the being killed, the vanishing from the face of the earth. It’s impossible not to at least think of them, as impossible as it is to look them in the eye for too long for fear of literally losing it. This mess...hadn’t been new. It had just happened in a less expected way.

Dick interrupts his train of thought.

“You would’ve done just fine, Timmers,” he says with a sigh, pressing a hand to his forehead. “‘n’ I’m sorry, I know this is shitty of me to bring up, but you did do fine. You know. When I was...gone. In Spyral.”

Tim bites his tongue at that, side-eyeing his brother. Jason and him had made the unanimous decision to stop giving Dick a hard time about his death, but also not to tell him they’d actually watched it happen on camera. Dick might be better at dealing with emotions than your average bat, but he tended to get cagey about his own issues. And as much Tim wants to grab him by the shoulder and shake sense into him—we weren’t fine, we aren’t fine with it—he isn’t sure if he’s ready to open that particular can of worms when this current fiasco hasn’t even been wrapped up.

“Don’t be stupid,” he settles for, clearing his throat. “We would’ve been a wreck. I’m….glad we didn’t lose you. We...”

“‘M sorry. Love you.”

Tim shudders at the vivid memory, pressing closer to Dick so their shoulders touch.

“You’re an idiot, you know?”

Dick hums in reply. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed and Tim’s itching to ask more questions, to haul Dick out of there, to do something with the information he finally, finally has. But really, until Cass comes, there isn’t a lot he can do.

Well, actually.

Tim gingerly leans his head against his brother’s shoulder, watching the light of the glowstick dance across the glistening walls and listening to the steady hush of dark water as it moves across rock. He clears his throat, the sound echoing back to them.

“That’s a yes, to staying. If you were wondering.”

“I’d kinda hoped.”

Chapter Text

“You sure about this, Cass?” Jason glances behind them, at the trail of glowing yellow droplets that might almost be pretty, if they hadn’t produced the instant, wild concept of Hansel and Gretel going to a rave.

Cass just tosses a Look at him over her shoulder, brow arched in a manner worthy of Alfred. He raises his hands in defense

“It’s likely Drake was ambushed, and the impersonator could have already doubled back and snuck out,” Damian argues for the umpteenth time, and Jason smirks when that earns him almost the same exact Look from Cass, if a little more pitying.

Jason shoves the kid forward playfully, making him stumble and throw him a furious glare.

“You wanted to talk about credit where it’s due, maybe don’t insult the guy who actually did a bit of legwork,” he says gruffly. “Timmy can handle himself.”

“Quiet.” Cass’ voice echoes back to them. She’s stopped, one hand in the air as she looks back at them, brow furrowed. “Listen?”

Jason falls silent. Damian fidgets next to him, green light flashing in a way that makes Jason want to grab it and throw it.

Then he hears it. Well. He hears something.

“Is that water?”

Cass nods, shadows on her face deepening for a moment.

“And...voices?” She says uncertainly. They wait a moment longer. She shakes her head. “Maybe not. I thought—”

A soft laugh echoes down the passage, surrounding them, and Jason’s blood runs cold. Thank god for Cass, who doesn’t hesitate, but whirls around, and sprints further down the passage, red glowstick bobbing wildly as it recedes.

“Todd, come on.” Damian is tugging at his wrist. He shakes himself, following Damian as they break into a sprint. He overtakes the kid easily, eyes jumping from one yellow glowing spot to the next as Cass’ glowstick vanishes entirely between one second and the next.

He skids to a halt, holding an arm out that Damian runs into, spitting insults under his breath that Jason pretends he can’t hear. He peeks around the corner, and takes in a sharp breath.

The room is glowing.

“Cass?” he hisses, unwilling to leave the relative safety of the passage for whatever weird alien bacteria is casting gold and red lights around the cave walls.

“Come here,” a voice whispers, and Jason curses to himself before slinking into the center of the open space, one hand behind him to stop the brat from speeding ahead. The room lightens, as blue and green flickers join the lights dancing around the walls. Cass is already across the room, her red-lit silhouette frozen near the far wall.

She’s glances over her shoulder, then gestures before her.

“Here.”

Jason takes a deep breath, and crosses the room to join her, Damian silent on his heels.

It’s Tim and Dick, huddled next to each other against the glittering wall. Tim’s head is leaning against Dick’s shoulder, and Jason’s mouth goes dry as Cass’ light glances over their faces. Both of their eyes are closed. It’s not…

Cass steps forward, voice faltering.

“Tim?”

Tim’s eyes pop open and he raises a hand to shield them, blinking hard— but Dick. Oh.

Dick doesn’t even twitch. It’s hard to make out, but as Jason approaches, a chill runs over his skin. There are tracks of blood running down Dicks neck from both of his ears, dark against the unnatural sallow cast of the colored lights. His head tipped back is tipped against the stone so Jason can see the smeared traces of the batarang’s cut.

He’s absolutely still. Jason...Jason just stares, uncomprehending. He can’t be. Not after all this.

“Tim, he—I...fuck,” he breathes, because he’s not sure what else to say. Tim’s expression is shockingly normal, squinting as Cass crouches down next to them, waving her glowstick.

Jason faintly feels a small hand grab his elbow.

(“He’s dead in here.” Dick’s voice says, somewhere far away. “Super dead, now.”)

Jason...should be doing something. He should be shielding Damian. Should be coaxing Tim away from Dick’s side. He should be fleeing the scene, or seeing if there’s a handy-dandy adrenaline shot tucked into his utility belt or something other than stand and gape at Dick’s gaunt, discolored skin.

Tim prods Dick’s side. Jason feels sick.

(“...never supposed to survive in the first place…”)

“Hey, wake up,” Tim says, sounding annoyed. “You’re giving Jay a heart attack.”

“Tim, he—” Jason’s voice catches, as Tim pokes him again. “He’s—”

“‘M up.” Dick’s head jerks up, and Jason nearly drops his glowstick. Dick blinks blearily at Tim. “Wha’s it?”

Oh, Jason’s gonna kill him.

“You...motherfucker,” Jason exhales, bending in half at the waist as all the adrenaline washes out of him in a single breath. “Not cool. Woooow. Not fucking cool. Jesus fucking christ, Dick, I thought you’d died.”

“Jason?” Dick’s voice is rough. “Cass? Dami?”

“Yes, it’s us, you giant fucking douchebag,” Jason shakes his head, as if that will rid him of the faraway ringing in his ears that he hadn’t noticed creeping up on him. “Couldn’t you pick a better time for a nap? I mean—”

It goes to show how thrown he is, that he doesn’t immediately catch on to the fact that he’s actually talking to Dick.

“Wait, what the hell? How are you even you right now? Cass, that’s him, right?”

Cass is already lowering herself to sit cross-legged in front of Dick, but she spares Jason an amused nod. Damian hasn’t moved from Jason’s side, but he lets go of his elbow, holding his glowstick higher, washing them all in green.

“Richard?”

“He—I think I figured it out,” Tim says, shooting a glance at Dick, who’s scrubbing his eyes. “Basically, there’s a radio broadcast that’s tuned specifically to his brainwaves, messing with them. It’s what’s been jamming our comms, too.”

“A radio signal?” He scan’s Dick’s face skeptically. Dick blinks at him, gaze still a little too unfocused for comfort. “Alright, I buy it. I’ve heard weirder. Let me guess, no reception down here?”

The furrow in Tim’s brow somehow deepens further.

“I’m...actually not sure. That’s what I thought at first, but it doesn’t quite make sense if you think about it. Why would the broadcaster have him keep going deeper into the cave, if the signal was breaking up?”

“Ask,” Cass says, tapping on Dick’s knee. “Dick?”

“Hey, Dickiebird, you with us? Almost the whole gang’s here, ready to drag your ass out of this hellhole.”

Dick squints at the blue light as Jason waves it in his face.

“You guys all came together?” Dick asks, and there’s something sappy about his expression that makes Jason cross his arms, restraining a grin despite his lingering, furious exasperation.

“Yeah, it was awful.” He shoves Damian forward, trying to dispel the kid’s hesitancy. “Nearly threw hands with a ten-year-old, Dick.”

“I’m not a ten-year-old,” Damian hisses back at him, like the gremlin he is. But then he turns back to Dick and his whole demeanor changes, shoulders seeming to shrink as he takes a hesitant step forwards.

“It is you, Richard?”

Dick smiles weakly, rapping a knuckle on his forehead—a technically innocent gesture that Jason can’t help but tense up at, while Tim actually starts away from Dick, shoulders tensing.

Joy, Jason thinks faintly, as Dick frowns at Tim in worry. It’s our old friend, fresh trauma.

“Present and accounted for,” Dick is saying, still frowning slightly at Tim as he relaxes. “Even proved my authenticity to Tim by remembering how terrible his taste in pizza is.”

Jason highly doubts that pizza had been their choice of post-mind-control-identity-affirmation, but he’s not one to pry. He clears his throat, shoving Damian again, who scampers over and claims Dick’s other side, glaring at all of them as if they had threatened to take the spot.

Jason clears his throat.

“Well, Dickface, that’s good.” he says, squatting down and tracing zigzags over the stone with his glowstick. “‘Cause even I gotta admit, you’re marginally less obnoxious than that dipshit whose been running around—”

There’s a sudden crackle, and all eyes go to Jason, who stares down at his own chest, startled. The utility belt makes another noise, a hiss, then:

“Cassandra, come in. All points, come in. Does anyone copy.” It’s Bruce’s voice, tinny and as panicked as he ever sounds, but clear through the comm. “Come in, all points. I—please.”

Jason freezes up as Bruce’s voice breaks, hand hovering over the belt strapped across his shoulder. Everyone’s staring at him.

“Jay?” Dick peers at him, the multicolored reflections making his eyes glassy. “Gonna get that?”

“All points, come in. Cass, do you copy. Does anyone—goddammit.” There’s a crash through the speaker, like a fist smashing. Jason clears his throat, holding up the comm unit.

“You sound worried, old man.” Cass whacks him in the knee with her glowstick as Dick and Tim roll their eyes almost simultaneously. Damian just scowls.

“Jason.”

“That’s me,” he says flatly. “Care to tell us where the hell you’ve been?”

“Jason,” Tim looks disapproving, but honestly? He doesn’t really care. The cloying, almost delirious relief is wearing off, and Jason can feel his temper sharpening in its absence.

“Jason, I need you to tell me—”

“No, I don’t need to tell you anything, not when you haven’t told us jack shit, and think you can just tag in at the last minute while the rest of us have been scrambling around like—”

“Jason,” Dick interrupts, voice strained enough that Jason actually pauses, glancing up to see that everyone is gazing at him, expressions arranged in varying degrees of upset. “Please. Not now.”

Something deflates in his chest.

Cass takes the opportunity to snatch away the comm, and Jason lets her. There’s a sour taste in his mouth. He can feel Dick’s eyes still on him, but refuses to meet them, instead shifting forward and grabbing at Dick’s hand. It’s wrapped in pitiful, half-soaked scrap of hoodie, because Dick’s an idiot who hadn’t thought to ask Tim to help him rewrap it.

“Was that Dick?” Bruce is saying. “Jason. Please.”

“He’s here.” Cass responds, in that steady way of hers. “He is...him. He’s okay. We...”

She looks around at all of them, nodding at each of them—Dick’s dead-man pallor, Tim’s impatient frown, Damian’s hand on Dick’s arm. Cass herself looks exhausted, though her hand doesn’t shake as she casts the red light over each of their faces. Jason isn’t sure what he looks like right now, but he won’t be nearing alright until he’s breathing fresh air. But Cass nods at him in turn, speaking into the comm.

“We’re all okay.”

That’s a relative truth if Jason’s ever heard one, but there’s a rush of feedback against the comm that he recognizes as Bruce exhaling against the mic. He bites his tongue, unwrapping the makeshift bandage.

There’s a pause.

“Is the information he took compromised?”

“Are you kidding,” Jason snarls, tugging on the fabric probably a bit harder than necessary, and Dick winces. He lets go, taking a deep breath.

“Threw it in the river,” Dick sighs into the comm that Cass offers forward, speaking up before Jason can elaborate. “Also, there’s a river down here? I'd thought it dried up forever ago, B.”

Damian silently passes Jason a roll of gauze from his own utility belt, and Jason focuses on unwrapping the rest of the fabric as gingerly as possible, biting his tongue almost hard enough to draw blood.

“Oracle is working on reopening the cave. The infiltrator was a skillful hacker, and our systems are in complete emergency lock-out mode. It’s taking her a minute.”

“Bet she’s not happy about that,” Dick smiles, closing his eyes again. And Jason kinda forgives himself for mistaking him for a dead body, because jeez the guy looks wrecked.

“Was?” Tim asks, and Jason freezes, looking up. “Where are you?"

Bruce pauses across the line again.

“I’ll debrief you all on the complete situation once we’re all together and the Cave is secured.”

Tim’s eyes dart to Dick, before going back to the comm.

“Tell us now, Bruce," Tim says flatly. "You’re not doing us any favors by letting us wonder." Jason kind of wants to high-five him.

Then Damian pipes up.

“Drake’s right, Father.” Damian visibly blushes as they all swivel their heads to stare at him at once, but lifts his chin all the same. “It’s better we know, so we can prepare ourselves.”

“Cass, is that really Damian?” Tim fake-whispers across their little circle. Cass reaches over, and pinches Damian’s arm—he smacks her away, and she shrugs.

Probably, she signs with a smirk, glowstick bobbing.

But Jason’s not paying attention, still biting his tongue as he stares at the comm.

“I—you’re right.”

“Sorry, we lost you for a second,” Jason replies sardonically. “Apparently Dick’s brain is breaking radios, these days. Say that again, why don’t you.”

“The lab tech mentioned a name I recognized, the old head technician of the Burdock street radio station. She moved out of Gotham years ago, but it turns out her son recently returned,” Bruce says. “He had a degree in neuroscience and bioeng, and the tech’s access to the radio tower. He managed to hook up his device there, and broadcast the amplified signal to Nightwing.”

“But what about the lab? That’s nowhere close to the station,” Tim says, leaning towards the comm with a furrowed brow. “Why keep him for days, if they whammied him right there?”

“And what’s with the past tense, B?” Jason asks, trying to keep his tone casual. “You accidentally push him off a roof?”

“He’s dead.”

The comm’s words echo, and Jason glances over at Dick. His eyes are still closed, looking like two bruises set into his skull. Jason subtly turns Dick’s arm over, avoiding the newly wrapped gauze, and rests two fingers over the veins on his wrist.

“The initial broadcast was to establish the connection. He was using the lab to...experiment, I believe, with others’ brainwaves, as well as secure the broadcast’s connection to their brain.”

“Great, cool, but how’d he die?” Jason bites out, still counting Dick’s pulse. He hasn’t so much twitched, and Jason’s fairly certain he’s actually fallen asleep.

“I went straight to the radio station, but he ran up the tower. I believe he sent out some sort of feedback transmission as a last resort.”

Cass nods, tapping her ear with a grimace.

“After that he...I believe a piece of the device was inside his brain. It…”

“Went kablooie?” Jason suggests. “Like a rotten melon in the microwave?”

“Yes, Jason, I’m sure that’s exactly what he was about to say,” Tim says, looking disgusted. “But that makes no sense, Bruce. Why would he implant a device that can self-destruct in his brain?”

“Because he was clearly insane,” Damian sniffs, gripping Dick’s arm slightly tighter. “And Batman was chasing him. His only other option was to surrender.”

“I don’t believe it was intended to be self-destructive. On his own computer, I found readings that suggested the other side of the connection was creating too much disruption. The broadcast was already unstable from his own flawed design, but the transmission ruptured entirely when the other end proved...uncooperative.”

“Meaning?” Jason thinks he understands. He counts out another few of Dick’s heartbeats before Bruce speaks again.

“It seems Nightwing didn’t take kindly to being told what to do.” There’s an undeniable note of pride in Bruce’s flat tone. “His brainwaves essentially began to...reject the transmission.”

They all, slowly, simultaneously turn their heads to look at Dick. He’s definitely out for the count, head barely brushing the top of Tim’s shoulder. Jason whistles, if only to break the silence.

“Par for the course I guess. But B, you do realize this means you can never criticise him for being a stubborn bastard again, right?”

There’s another rush of air against the mic.

“I’m coming to get you.”

The comm blinks off. Typical.

Jason glances around at his siblings, unevenly illuminated, but all fully visible in the multicolored lights. On impulse, he leans forward, shaking Dick’s arm.

“Hey, Dickhead.”

“Jason, c’mon, let him—” Tim protests, but Dick’s already blinking awake again.

“Li’l wing.”

Jason swallows, the moment a little too deja-vu for him, the stale panic from that long-ago lab welling up in his chest.

“Yeah, Dick.”

“‘verybody still okay?” he rasps, and Jason is suddenly blinking very hard. Cass places a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah. We’re okay,” he says, and now he’s the one spouting half-lies. “But I think it’s time to head back upstairs, before Mr. Spleenless over there catches a cold.” Tim scowls at him, but Dick sits up a bit straighter, so Jason counts it as a win. “Scoot, brat. Tim?”

Damian grumbles, but allows Jason to move around to brace an arm around Dick’s shoulder. He nods at Tim, who copies him, and they stagger to their feet. Cass snatches up the glowsticks behind them, standing back with Damian.

“What about the signal? C’n still hear it.” Dick sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. He lowers his voice, muttering into Jason’s ear. “Fuck, Jay. ‘S like my brain’s in a fucking echo chamber.”

Jason grips his shoulder tighter, glancing at Tim.

“But the connection’s broken, right? Plus, there’s nothing on the other end anymore.”

“I mean, think of a rope breaking. There’s going to be frayed ends on both sides, right?” Tim reasons. “It could just be remnants, from when it snapped. Comms are back on, so that's something.”

“But will that go away?” Damian looks troubled. “He looks...unwell.”

“‘M right here, Dames.” Dick flashes him a weak grin, but Jason can tell the brat’s not even slightly convinced. “Just tired. Starving, too. Feel like I could eat a horse.”

“Batcow?” Cass offers, straight-faced.

“You will do no such thing,” Damian snaps, crossing his arms, as Cass cracks a grin. Jason’s pretty sure the kid’s playing it up, but Dick huffs a genuine laugh, so he can’t exactly fault him.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jason says, because apparently that’s the only kind of support he can offer when he has no fucking clue if things are actually going to turn out even half-way okay. He steps forward, grabbing at Dick’s hoodie so he doesn’t sag out of his grip. “But step one is getting out of here.”

They begin to shuffle forward, Cass and Damian hovering anxiously in front of them, holding out glow sticks to light the way.

“S’gonna take forever,” Dick pants. “What about—”

“Listen,” Cass says suddenly, holding up a glowstick. They all freeze, listening to the sudden rumble that echoes through the cave, overwhelming the sound of the river across the room.

Jason barely has time to swear, before there’s a thunder of rocks, a scream of metal, and blinding light spills into the cave

Chapter Text

The thought occurs to Bruce only much, much later.

It comes after the MRI, during which Dick somehow fell asleep despite the machine’s volume as they all held their breath for Tim’s theory to work.

It comes after the look of heart-rending relief on Dick’s face once he’d emerged, grinning sloppily as he blinked sleep from his eyes.

“It’s gone,” he’d said simply, and Bruce had closed his eyes as part of the world shifted back into place.

The thought comes after the examination for which Bruce had to leave the room to breathe out his anger, when it was discovered that the reason Dick was so exhausted, so worn out and starving, was that the broadcaster—technically not needing to keep his body healthy—had failed to allow Dick to eat or sleep while the transmission was active.They’d set him up with a saline-vitamin drip, and Alfred had vanished into the kitchen, only to emerge laden with high-caloric snacks, assisted by Damian and Jason.

After the brief flash of surprise, as he’d helped a protesting Dick through the manor, when Cass had beckoned them into the den, where they’d found the pull-out couch lined with blankets, black-out curtains across the windows, and Tim fiddling with the television.

After Dick’s face lights up in a way that informs Bruce that getting Dick to go to his own bed is a losing argument before he even opens his mouth.

The thought comes after Cass had fallen fast asleep in the first five minutes of Jumanji, despite her claim that post-mission adrenaline was too much, that she wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours.

“I told you,” Jason had snickered, throwing a piece of popcorn at Dick, who hadn’t managed to duck away without tugging the IV strung over the back of the couch. “She’s out. Though to be fair, she’s been doing the heavy-lifting if you ask me. Took her all of ten seconds to figure it out.”

“Cass for Batman, 2k20,” Dick had crowed softly, shifting beneath his blanket. His color had improved since those first, heart-stopping moments Bruce had laid eyes on him in the cave, once again strung between Jason and Tim and somehow looking even worse than when he’d been pulled from a river. “No offense, B. You’ll like early retirement.”

“None taken. ”

“She’d be scarier ‘n I was,” Dick had mused, looking fondly down a Cass, curled between him and the crook of the couch. “Way scarier.”

“She’s already scarier than you,” Tim had said, monotone, from his place huddled on Dick’s other side. “Where’s the remote?”

It comes after Damian had wrestled with Tim over the remote, complaining about subtitles, and eventually giving in with surprisingly minimal violence.

“It takes away from the imagery,” Damian had grumbled, word half-muffled by his pillow. He’d been laying on his stomach at Dick’s feet, hugging the pillow so his face was almost buried, eyes glued to the screen.

“Yeah, well, not being able to hear the TV takes away from the plot.” Tim had clicked through the settings, unbothered.

“Then just turn up the volume, Drake.”

Bruce hadn’t missed Tim’s inconspicuous little glance at Dick, who had mentioned several times during the procession from the MRI to the manor den how loud everything was. Tim had tossed the remote to the floor, out of Damian’s reach as the movie continued.

“Nope. If Cass gets woken up, it’s not me who’s getting blamed.”

It comes after Jason had departed, quick and quiet, with a promise to Dick that he’d “kick his ass when he didn’t look so ass-kicked already” and an awkward, half-standing hug from behind the couch that he probably doesn’t think Bruce saw.

“Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?” Dick’s voice was a faint murmur in the dark.

Alfred had long since retired, and everyone else had already been asleep since Robin Williams had confronted a frankly malevolent pelican on the screen. Bruce was fairly certain Dick and Jason thought he had fallen asleep in his reclining chair beside the couch.

Jason had snorted, tapping absently at the IV bag.

“It’s the middle of the day, dumbass.”

“Time isn’t real, Jaybird. Tim reminds us every day.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s a weirdo.” Jason had cleared his throat, lingering behind the couch, eyes on the credits as they rolled down the screen. “Anyway. I should tell you now though, I’m uh, pretty flattered you kicked radio-head’s ass long enough to jump off a bridge instead of killing me or whatever.”

In the dim light Bruce can see Dick’s teeth glint in a smile.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a sentence that could only be meaningful to our family, and I don’t know if that’s beautiful or really fucked up.”

“It can be both,” Jason sniffs, shrugging his jacket on. “Just look at me.”

“You’re hilarious, Jay.”

There’d been a pause, broken only by the light breathing of the sleeping bodies around them.

“Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell...you can tell everybody I’ll stop by, uh. Tomorrow.”

Bruce hadn’t caught Dick’s final, murmured reply, but Jason had ambled out of the room with loose shoulders and a steady stride.

The thought, when it finally comes, doesn’t floor him. Bruce doesn’t stumble, or clutch the sink counter, or smash a fist against the glass before him. He just meets his own gaze in the bathroom mirror, steady and unforgiving.

It had been such a brief moment, and he’d been moving so quickly, zipping down the shaft in the earth with sunlight spilling down over his shoulders and the dark rising up to meet him. Different, from that day long ago when he’d first tumbled from lesser heights down the same shaft, because this darkness had been fractured with colorful, fluorescent lights that grew larger and brighter as he’d descended, his children’s silhouettes taking shape.

Bruce supposes there’s probably something symbolic about that. He hadn’t had time to think about it too hard.

And the thought wasn’t about the poetry of it all, no. It was about the expression on each one of his children’s faces—a cross between relief, hope, and something Bruce is far too cowardly to label happiness. The look of people saved. Of a nightmare ended.

Bruce blinks at himself in the mirror, brow furrowing, and thinking of Alfred’s words, how easy the answer is. Making them forgive him—for leaving, for following the lead, for taking action the only way he knew how— was never the goal. Bruce knows this. Bruce knows, in some, deep, cold part of himself, that he could even live with himself if every last one of them decided to hate them, if it were for something he’d done to protect them. It would hurt—it does hurt, every time Jason looks him in the eye, and tells him to get out of his life.

But if leaving them to solve a case, or neutralize a threat, or telling them spare truths, means they’re alive to hate him?

Maybe it makes him a poor guardian, to anyone. But it seems like an inconsequential tradeoff.

Still, their expressions, that relief as his boots had hit the cave floor and he’d thrown aside the rescue line, rushing over to them. As he’d ascended with each of them, one by one, up the old well entrance and into the early-morning sunlit grounds, where Alfred was waiting with the batmobile.

They’d been relieved, yes. But not one of them had looked surprised. All of them, in some way—even Jason—had expected him to show up and do what Batman did. It had been almost understood.

And Bruce isn’t certain how to interpret to that. But the thought sits in his chest all the same, distracting and warm, until there’s a rattle at the doorway.

“B?”

Dick is standing at the door, IV rack trailing behind him.

“Dick.” Bruce says, turning away from the mirror and crossing the room in two strides. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“I can walk, Bruce.” Dick’s tone is exasperated, not sharp, and Bruce relaxes slightly. “I'm tired of sleeping, anyway."

"That seems counterintuitive," Bruce says, raising an eyebrow. Dick ignores him with a wave of his hand.

"And I haven’t really had the chance to talk to you. Outside of, you know, convincing you that Jumanji is a classic.”

Bruce grunts noncommittally, eyes sweeping over his son. Dick’s still gaunt, still scraped up and sporting enormous bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. But there are no fresh spots on the bandage around his hand, or the one on his neck, and he stands without supporting himself on the IV rack. Mildly satisfied, Bruce finally meets Dick’s eyes.

Dick is raising an eyebrow at him, smirking.

“You done with the once-over? You can do this thing where you just ask if I’m okay. It’s not a crime.”

Bruce purses his lips.

“Are you...okay?” It feels like a foolish question. Even more so when Dick’s face screws up slightly, eyebrows coming together.

“I actually wanted to ask you something.”

Bruce braces himself, ticking down the list of reasons he knows Dick is going to blame himself for any part of the situation. Shoving down the voice in his head that’s telling him Dick’s self-blame is a product of his own influence, he sets his shoulders. Bruce is ready.

“I…”

Dick bites his lip, looking to the side.

“Did I kill that guy?”

Bruce actually hesitates, he’s so taken aback. In that brief pause, Dick’s eyes widen, and Bruce curses himself for not predicting this.

“Jay said something about me disrupting the signal, so much it...backfired,” Dick says, folding his arms over his chest. “I didn’t mean to, B. I just want you to know that. I mean, I meant to break the control, but I never thought—I didn’t know—”

“No, Dick,” Bruce interrupts, voice as firm as he can muster without summoning Batman. “By no means, or in any form, did you kill him. His death was not your fault.”

Dick just looks at him, frowning in a way he has that means he’s about to argue. Not good enough, Bruce thinks, chest twinging.

“Dick, listen to me,” he says, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Aside from the fact that his broadcasting device was deeply flawed in a way that was never meant to be a part of a two-way transmission without inevitably breaking down, and the fact that he was the one who implanted an unstable transmitter in his own brain with no technical oversight—aside from all that, he was infiltrating your brain with malicious, erratic technology. You were acting reasonably in fighting the transmission, given the situation and the stakes. You are not at fault here. In fact...”

Dick still doesn’t look convinced, so Bruce takes a deep breath. Time to act beyond Jason’s estimation of him. Even if it feels empty, feels laughably overdue.

“In fact, I am...proud of you, Dick, for fighting back. For making it back to us. You...shouldn't’ have been put in that situation, but I couldn’t be more proud of how you handled it.”

Dick squints, leaning away from him slightly with a nervous smile.

“Should I get Cass? Is that really you?”

Bruce sighs, dropping his arms.

“You’re the second person who’s asked me that in as many days,” he says, exasperated. “Is it really so strange for me to express a modicum of trust in the people who call themselves my family?”

“For you? Very strange.” Dick's grin turns into something more authentic as he slings an arm over Bruce's shoulder. “But we could get used to it. Now, come help me wake everyone else up. I want breakfast.”

"It's almost 6 pm."

"Irrelevant."