Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason hated his phone’s ringtone. Only a few people even had the number, and they rarely used it for good news. Usually, it meant interaction with his family. Even in the field, where the need for stealth blessedly limited their conversations, their mere presence irked him and raised his blood pressure. Roy always just texted him, unless it was an emergency, in which case they’d circled back around to a bad situation, but of course this call wouldn’t be Roy. Couldn’t be Roy. Jason had other people he cared for scattered across the earth and the galaxy, but they weren’t especially inclined to use a cellphone when they could simply teleport into his apartment or send a hologram communication.

At least this time when his phone rang, he knew it wouldn’t be Bruce calling him. Conversations with Bruce ranged from mild discomfort on the best of days to near-homicidal fights on their worst; after their showdown in Gotham, where Bruce had beaten him nine ways from Sunday, it was safe to say their “talking” days were firmly behind them.

He dragged the phone across the coffee table and blearily regarded the screen from his prone position on the couch, checking the contact information.

Nothing — just a number, and not even one he recognized. New York City area code, if he recalled correctly. It was off-hours for vigilante work, both on the East Coast and here in his Chicago apartment, where the phone had just disturbed his morning nap.

He disliked spam calls almost as much as he disliked calls from the rest of his family, but he couldn’t risk ignoring what might be a genuine plea for help. He kept only sporadic communication with most people; it was entirely possible he’d missed a phone number change.

“Hello?” he said, already resigned to the headache the phone call would bring.

“Hello, can I have the name of the person I’m speaking with?” The voice was female but unfamiliar.

Jason scoffed. “You’re the one calling me. If you’re trying to sell me something, you should know—

“This is Star City Hospital,” the voice interrupted.

“Oh.” Star City? The only person he knew with a connection to Star City was dead; even when Roy was alive, they rarely spent time there. “Can I help you?”

“I’m hoping you can,” she said. “We admitted a John Doe early this morning in critical condition. He had no ID, but he did have a cell phone with a single number on it.”

“So you called the number?”

“We’re trying to identify the man as quickly as possible. It’s possible that significant medical decisions will need to be made, and with the patient unconscious, we have no way of contacting someone who could serve as a medical proxy.”

Significant medical decisions likely meant unpleasant, permanent choices between two deeply unappealing options. Things like keeping someone alive through life support after they entered a coma. Things like an operation to save a limb that might put the person’s life in more danger.

“I can’t tell you who he is from the number, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him. I’ve changed phones a few times, haven’t always kept my contacts up to date,” said Jason. “Can you give a description?”

Some paper rustled in the background, and when the voice next spoke, it was clear she was reciting from a piece of paper. Likely a police report, or maybe the medical record. “Around five-eleven, one-eighty pounds, Caucasian. Blue eyes, black hair. Approximately twenty five old.”

Dick. It had to be him. No one else matching that description would have this number, nor would they have only his contact information and no one else’s, even if it was odd for Dick to have Jason as the only contact on his phone.

He gulped, trying to wet his suddenly dry throat. “I can think of few people who match that description, I’d have to see him for myself to be sure.”

“Are you available to come in and identify him in person?”

Jason considered the situation. Chicago was nowhere near Star City, but the nurse or administrator or whoever was calling him didn’t need to know that. Rifling through his mental notes, he found only one solution; his plans for a month-long stakeout of a particularly nasty gang would simply have to wait. Not because the thought of his older brother filled him with any particular warm and fuzzy thoughts, but at least Dick tried to connect every now and then, despite Bruce’s insufferable intolerance. Dick was one of the few family members who tolerated him, and if Jason wanted to maintain even a sliver of that connection, he needed to be at that hospital. Besides, Dick had helped him back in August after Bruce nearly beat him to death. After Roy scraped him off the rooftop, it had been Dick who directed them to a discreet doctor, Dick who shielded Jason’s location from Bruce until he recovered enough to leave. He owed Dick, owed him an escape from whatever mayhem he’d stirred up in Star City, and maybe owed him a kindness or two after years of vitriol. At least he could come closer to evening the score between them.

“You’ll need to give me a few hours, but yes.”

“Good. He may still be in surgery by then, but it’s difficult to tell.”

Against his rationality, a twinge of something, regret or sympathy or something, shot through him. “Still in surgery?”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose any specific information about the patient’s condition, but I can tell you that it is critical.”

“Understood,” said Jason. “I’ll be there this afternoon.”

Promise extracted, the woman from the hospital hung up the phone promptly. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the peeling paint of his shoddy apartment, watching the swirling of his portable fan disturb the paint flakes that jutted out as if the sight could help drown out the abscess of fear forming in his chest.

What have you gotten yourself into, Dick?  

He heaved a sigh and rolled off the couch, shoving his face into his hands as if he could block out the worry like he blocked out the light. No such luck. His best way of finding anything out was to be there in person, and to be there in person, he needed a plane ticket. In short, he needed to focus. He needed to think past the headache building behind his temple.

God, he hated phone calls.

Chapter Text

The flight from Chicago to Star City took four hours, and it was four hours of no calls, no updates on Dick’s status, no way to know that his big brother wasn't, at that very moment, flatlining somewhere halfway across the country without a single familiar face by his side. Assuming it even was Dick — they hadn’t properly ID’d him just yet, and in their line of work, it was always possible someone like Clayface had assumed Dick’s visage for some nefarious purpose. Clayface wouldn’t have Jason’s number though, and it certainly wouldn’t be the only contact in the burner phone they’d discovered on Dick’s person in the process of heaving him back from the edge. While they hadn’t told him much over the phone, he’d surmised from the clipped urgency and the serious tone of the invocation to come as soon as possible that there was a solid chance Dick wouldn’t make it another day. Might not even last until Jason arrived at the hospital, leaving him to identify a corpse.

He took a taxi directly from the airport to the hospital, duffel bag in hand. He grimaced at the prospect of flying for multiple reasons, but especially now, when security forced him to travel without his usual stash of weapons. He wasn’t helpless, not by a long shot, but he’d have to make a trip around the city at some point to pilfer a few of his weapon caches. He’d left some behind in case Roy ever needed his help here, but there wasn’t much point in keeping them around anymore.

The lady on the phone had left no instructions to follow once he arrived at the hospital, so lacking a better plan, he stepped through the automatic doors of the emergency room and parked himself in front of the triage nurse’s desk, waiting for her to acknowledge his impatient fingers drumming rhythmically against the scuffed plastic surface of the counter. She gave a distracted nod of greeting when he arrived, then proceeded to ignore him for several minutes as she cradled a phone between her ear and shoulder, typing and occasionally humming indistinct noises of agreement at the person on the other end of the line. His patience wore thin, but he supposed that in an ER, a perfectly healthy man with no obvious sign of injury fell to the bottom heap of her priorities.

Finally, she set down the phone and looked up at him. “Can I help you?” she asked. He noticed that her eyes swept over him, probably looking for an indication as to why he would choose to spend his Sunday evening in a hospital waiting room.

“I received a call earlier today informing me that a John Doe had been admitted in critical condition. He had a phone, only one contact, which was my number. I was hoping you could direct me to him.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. Her assessment of him changed, skepticism creeping in, but she typed away at her computer nonetheless. Finally, she said, “You can’t see him right now.”

A swell of anger crested in his chest, but he kept his voice steady. “I just flew here from Chicago to see this man. You want to tell me why it’s not a good time?”

“He’s in surgery right now,” she said.

“That phone call was six hours ago.”

“Well, he’s still in the theater according to records. Multiple gunshots wounds require a little more attention than your average sprained ankle, you know.”

Multiple gunshot wounds? He’d been bracing himself for bad news since that first call this morning, but somehow, the situation still managed to be worse than he’d feared. He didn’t bother to hide his shock. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

“I can’t disclose any more information about the patient's health at this time, as you are neither his next of kin nor his medical proxy. Once he’s in a room, we were hoping that you would be able to identify him so that we can begin the process of notifying his family or other contacts.”

“And how long do you expect that will be?”

“I couldn’t tell you even if I knew,” she said, shaking her head. “The only other option at the moment is for you to examine his effects. You’ll need police supervision because it’s an ongoing investigation, but perhaps you could provide some insight. They’ll likely want to speak with you anyways.”

Goodie , he thought to himself. Another complication.

“Can I do that now, or…”

“I’d have to inform the detective in charge. It could take a few hours.”

“Great, well, if you don’t mind, I do have a hotel to get to, so if someone can call me when my presence will actually be useful , I’d be much obliged.” He plastered on an obviously fake smile.

“I’ll make a note of it, Mr….”

“Peters. Jason Peters.”

“Someone will call you, Mr. Peters.”

He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and shoved his way past a middle-aged woman on his way out the door, scuffing his boots against the pavement as he left. Who called someone urgently into a hospital only to tell them to fuck off until further notice? 

Fifteen minutes later he was back inside the hospital, this time wearing borrowed scrubs and the ID badge of some sap named Brad Phillips whose face bore a passing resemblance to his own. From there, it was a simple matter to locate the room where evidence was kept for patients whose cases overlapped with a criminal investigation. He snapped on a pair latex gloves helpfully provided in a box by the door, and began perusing the room. They organized items by date of admission, and a bag full of bloody clothing sat in a box at the very end of the shelf. It was the only John Doe. Aside from the wad of bloodstained fabric (calling it clothing at this point would be exceedingly generous, given its shredded state), the only other items were a key, and the burner phone they’d used to call him. Jason flipped it open and scanned the information. Just one contact — his number — without a name. No other information, no other previously dialed numbers. He put the phone back, and pocketed the key for safekeeping.

That left only the clothing. Jason scanned it for trackers first, using one of the handy gadgets he’d smuggled past TSA, but found none. His manual examination, on the other hand, proved more fruitful, and soon his fingers closed around a lump of something sewn into the seam of the brown leather jacket. Jason used a small scalpel (also stolen from the hospital, though he would be keeping this one) to slice through the stitches, and smiled triumphantly at the result. A flash drive. Old fashioned but, like the flip phone, more secure in a low-tech environment. More evidence to support his theory that the John Doe was indeed his erstwhile older brother.

He slipped out of the hospital as easily as he’d entered it, and then he took another cab to the nearest hotel with at least three stars. He hadn’t spent much time in Star City before, but he recognized the area surrounding the hospital as “less desirable.” Probably a step above Gotham’s Crime Alley, but if he wanted Wifi and a mold-free bed, he’d need some distance. He booked himself a room on the fourth floor and hauled his bag upstairs. Base of operations established, he made himself comfortable at the edge of the bed, pulled out his laptop, and went to work. The first order of business was the flash drive;  knowing Dick, there would certainly be obstacles. Indeed, just as he expected, a message popped up on screen prompting him for the password the moment he plugged it in.

“Fuck,” Jason growled. Dick, John Doe, whoever the fuck this was, had encrypted it. Not surprising, for a flash drive sewn into a John Doe's bloody jacket lining, but certainly more complicated than he'd been hoping. He could crack it, but it would take longer than he was fully happy with. First, he tried one of the decryption algorithms he’d learned from Bruce; Dick always liked to imitate Batman’s methodologies. Setting aside his  laptop for the moment as it whirred through his decryption algorithm, he took the opportunity to raid the minibar for some whiskey. He downed the first of the little bottles in a few gulps and quickly selected a second on to sip as he dutifully babysat the decryption process.

Midway through his third bottle, the algorithm beeped, and the message asking for a password disappeared, replaced by the contents of the drive. He counted ten folders, each cryptically named. When he opened the first one, his stomach twisted in irritation. There were identifying documents, a scan of a birth certificate, another of a social security card, but all of them were for a man named Grayson Katz. He opened one of the scans, a driver’s license, and suddenly Dick Grayson’s face was staring back at him, blue eyes and sharp cheekbones familiar even with the brutal buzzcut. The name Grayson Katz sat next to the picture. An alias then, though not one Dick had used before, from Jason’s recollection. If nothing else, the flash drive proved that he would, in fact, find Dick in the hospital bed tomorrow.

He sat back, relieved to know that his number hadn’t been found in the phone of a complete stranger, but the relief gave way easily to deep-seated foreboding as he realized that this was Dick , and based on the nurse’s words back at the hospital, his brother’s survival was far from guaranteed; worse still, should Dick die, he’d have to be the one to report it to the family, who would inevitably blame him somehow. He and Dick hadn’t spoken in months, not since he’d last been in Bludhaven, but that didn’t mean that he wanted him dead. If Dick died, it would destroy Bruce, destroy Alfred, and shatter the foundations of every other relationship in the family, setting them all down an irreversibly worse path.

He shook his head, snapping himself from his own morbid imaginings. Dick’s fate lay in the hands of the surgeons now; best to focus on the flashdrive and soaking up all available information to increase Dick’s odds of long term survival. He set his focus back on his laptop. The first folder contained only identification documents – official ones – but the second one contained bank statements and financial records, none of them belonging to Grayson Katz. There were multiple owners, none with names Jason recognized, so he continued further. The third and fourth folders contained pictures, clearly surveillance or crime scene photos, while the fifth, sixth and seventh were all case notes, and lots of them. He resolved to read them at some point, but before he could plan further, he opened the eighth folder, and the sight within caused his breath to catch and his heart to stutter suddenly in his chest.

In Case of Emergency, the title of the only document read, and Jason opened it, dreading what he would find.

The stutter returned, even more forcefully, as he read through the section with Jason’s contact information. Not just the phone number, but locations too, lots of them, safehouses scattered all throughout the country. Aliases Jason had used, including his current one, Jason Peters. A list of known associates and their locations.

There was information on the other members of the family as well — some of which Jason would want to examine more closely later on — but Jason’s came first.

The ninth folder contained background information on a man named Giovanni D’Angelo, a name which matched one of the earlier bank accounts. From his skimming of the material, Jason drew two conclusions: One, Giovanni liked to smuggle things – liked it so much in fact that he’d built himself a small empire off of it – and two, sometimes the goods he smuggled included people.

The tenth and final folder contained more financial records, this time for Grayson Katz himself. The main spreadsheet indicated that Katz was employed by (or at least receiving money from) D’Angelo. He deduced that Dick was working undercover, and a brief pass over case notes confirmed it. 

The last case notes were dated from over two weeks ago. Dick likely used the flash drive as backup and kept his more recent files elsewhere. A little more digging unearthed the location of the apartment Dick was using. Not too far from his hotel, but he wouldn’t have enough time to give it a thorough sweep. Dick could come out of surgery at any point, and Jason needed to be there to identify him publicly. And to ask him some questions a little less publicly, such as if he’d lost his damn mind going undercover with only Jason’s number as a lifeline. If he made it through that conversation without killing his dumbass older brother, maybe he could ask some questions about specifics, such as whether Jason should worry about a follow-up attack. If someone had shot him multiple times – a clearly intentional and targeted act – then he might still be in danger.

With the soft hum of the central air unit saturating his hotel room and lulling him into a deep focus, the ringtone from his phone very nearly startled him into chucking the blasted contraption across the room entirely. He answered the call brusquely, trying to keep this thrumming anxiety at bay. A strange voice on the other end informed him that their John Doe was currently in recovery and would be transferred to the ICU within the hour. Jason hoped Dick would be awake enough to provide some answers, though experience told him he would have to stretch his patience much further; since when had life ever given Jason Todd a lucky break?.

Sometimes Jason hated being right. At the hospital, he identified the man before him as Grayson Katz and described their relationships as old childhood friends who hadn’t spoken in several years. No, he didn’t know much about Gray’s life recently, he always moved around from odd job to odd job. He couldn’t explain the phone with the one contact or provide any leads on who might have shot him. His parents died years ago, he informed them, and he was an only child, meaning there was no family to contact. 

In return, the hospital staff proved similarly evasive. They allowed him to see Dick long enough to identify him, but without Dick’s permission, they refused to divulge any more information about his status. Jason knew Dick was in serious condition from the brief glimpse he’d been allowed in the ICU, but beyond that, he could only speculate. The ventilator covering his face, combined with the chest tube and bandages and patches of gauze on his torso indicated probable respiratory system damage, and maybe even circulatory, given how alarmingly close to the heart one of those patches lay. He knew Dick had been hit at least once in his shoulder, and had likely broken a bone or two; he’d seen the splint around his upper arm, which was likely temporary until Dick stabilized enough for additional surgery. Most terrifyingly of all, however, was the bandage around his head.

“Please,” he asked the nurse, and he didn’t have to fake any of the desperation in his voice. “His head, is he…”

“Just a graze,” she said, and the doctor in the room nodded. “He likely has a concussion, but that’s really not the most pressing matter at the moment.”

“Can someone notify me when he wakes up?” asked Jason. “He doesn’t have any family I’m aware of, and I think if you ask him, he’ll give permission to inform me about his treatment.”

The doctor frowned. “We’ll need to confirm his identity with the police and search records to see if we can identify any next-of-kin. He won’t be awake for several days — we need to keep him sedated while he’s receiving mechanical ventilation, and I estimate at least that long before he’s fully weaned from it, though it could be longer.”

“Can I visit him?”

“ICU visiting hours are very limited, but yes. Make sure to call ahead of time to confirm that he’s up for visitors, and be warned that his status could change quickly.”

Jason nodded, because as much as he hated the restrictions, he respected that they were likely necessary if Dick’s insides looked even half as bad as his outside.

Of course, just because he respected their visitor policy, that didn’t mean he intended to be an obedient model citizen. The moment he returned to the hotel, he plugged in the little storage device he’d used to download Dick’s electronic medical record. He’d brushed the little chip onto the PAD before removing it just a minute later, before anyone could notice. He wouldn’t receive the latest updates (for that, he would need to hack into the hospital system, which he would definitely be doing if they denied him information for too long), but for now, he just needed a general idea of what they were dealing with.

He’d been expecting it to be bad, but the report still floored him.

Someone (or several someones — he’d need to get the police report for the full ballistics analysis) had shot Dick four times. Four. A single bullet could already damage a life irrevocably — as Barbara Gordon could personally attest — but surviving four bullets meant you had to get lucky four times in a row, inasmuch as someone who’d been shot four times could be considered lucky at all.

Reading through the chart, he hesitated to apply the concept to Dick; he’d lived, sure, which indicated some degree of fortune, but beyond that there was little in the record he could call ‘fortunate’.

The head wound had come from a bullet graze, like the doctor had previously said; it would scar, and the force and angle of the bullet’s trajectory had almost certainly resulted in a concussion, but the doctor also hadn’t been lying when she’d said that Dick’s head was the least of his concerns. It wasn’t the two bullets to his torso either, though each – one to the chest, one to his abdomen – came with their own complications. The one in his abdomen had torn into his small intestine and colon. They’d cleaned him up as best they could, but gut wounds were notoriously susceptible to infection. In his chest, the bullet had hit his sternum, fracturing it and two ribs attached to the bone. The force of the bullet had also caused pulmonary contusions, and collapsed his lung.

But no, somehow the wound which had come closest to killing him was, astoundingly, the shot to his shoulder. The bullet had caused a complex fracture to his humerus, but this was a relatively minor concern when compared to the damage to his brachial artery and brachial plexus. The tear to the artery had caused massive blood loss; already repaired with an emergency graft (though it would likely require further surgery), they were waiting for the swelling to decrease and Dick to wake up before attempting any treatment for the nerves.

Batman taught every Robin human anatomy; not enough to be a doctor, of course, but enough to know the implications of injuries to each part of the body and what needed to be done in an emergency to keep someone alive. Jason knew enough to understand the severity of Dick’s injuries, although he’d have to speak with a doctor eventually to grasp the full implications of each wound. He knew enough to understand that Dick had survived by the skin of his teeth, and he wouldn’t be fully out of the woods for some time. His stay in the hospital was likely to be lengthy, and his treatment entirely outside of Jason’s control, at least until Dick regained enough consciousness to authorize disclosure of information to him.

What he could control was how he used his time; for now, he intended to spend most of it determining who’d shot Dick, and why. According to his doctors, Dick wouldn’t be conscious for several days at least, leaving him potentially vulnerable to whoever had shot him in the first place. If Dick was undercover, it could have been an enemy of D’Angelo's just as easily as someone from D’Angelo’s organization, if he’d somehow blown his cover, though Jason was betting on the former — someone had taken him to the hospital personally, not by ambulance, and if his cover was blown Jason doubted someone from the crime ring would have shot him four times only to drop him off at the emergency room right after.

He glanced at the file again and thought of Dick lying in a hospital bed, gravely wounded and utterly alone in a strange city. By all rights, he ought to call Bruce, or at least Tim, who could be trusted to pass along the message. If Dick had found Jason alone in the hospital, he would have notified someone, if not Bruce then at least Roy, except Roy was…

Well, he would have notified someone. But Jason wasn’t Dick, and Dick’s phone only had Jason’s number on it; while Jason rarely agreed with all of Dick’s methods, he always acted intentionally. If he’d left out Bruce’s phone number, then whatever the situation was, he didn’t want Bruce involved.

So, whatever. Bruce could wait. In the meantime, Jason needed to piece together the fragments of Dick’s life these past months, starting with the man at the center of the whole operation: Giovanni D’Angelo.

Chapter Text

Jason crouched behind the dumpster currently serving as his hiding place. The odor wafting his way would have repulsed most people, but he’d eaten food from dumpsters before; smelling one was no extraordinary hardship. Instead, he devoted all his attention to the tinny sound echoing up from the grate to the basement of Sal’s Pub. None of Dick’s files contained any audio recordings, so confirming the identity of the men conversing required some careful listening, particularly since they seemed to speak guardedly, even within a supposedly secure location. He hoped it was them – his previous two nights of fruitless searching for D’Angelo had left him with thin, frayed nerves.

One voice caught his ear as he pressed it to the grate. The man who spoke lacked a timbre or cadence that implied authority, but the utter silence of those around him when he spoke suggested that this man was important. 

“Any news on Katz?” the voice asked casually. Jason’s heart jolted.

“He’s not dead,” said another man, his voice more of a growl. “Police still haven’t changed the status of the case to a murder.”

So D’Angelo’s crew had an in with the SCPD, or at least their records room.

“Should we check out the hospital?” asked a third man.

“No,” said the first voice flatly. “Any association is dangerous. They’ll be investigating him and any visitors he may have.”

“They know who he is,” said the second man. “Police report has his name.”

“Katz said he had no record, no identification,” the first man said.

“They found someone who knew him,” the second man replied. “Don’t know how, don’t know who.”

“Hmph,” said the first man. “We’ll have to monitor him. Didn’t realize Katz had much connection with his old life.”

A loud screech had Jason reeling back; the echo exacerbated the ear-splitting qualities. By the time he leaned back in, the voices were fainter, mostly indistinct. He knew they were still talking, but he only caught every third or fourth word, not enough to piece together anything coherent. He lingered another ten minutes, listening even as the voices continued to blend together into mush; this was the first insight he’d received into the operation Dick had been working with; all other locations and leads had yielded nothing of value, indicating that the group was smart enough to change their modus operandi every so often. 

The voices grew fainter still; the men were pulling away from the vent, and Jason did the same; more important tasks awaited him, chief of which was catching a few winks of sleep before returning to his self-imposed vigil at Dick’s sickbed. 

He made sure to arrive early the next day; they would be removing Dick from the ventilator, and he’d be damned if he missed an opportunity to have Dick finally authorize him to receive medical information. Besides, he knew firsthand that waking up alone in a hospital could be a terrifying experience, doubly so if you weren’t sure which identity to provide. Practically speaking, Jason’s presence could prevent Dick from blowing his cover.

Dick’s primary doctor, a Dr. Elaine Goldberg, had agreed to allow Jason in the room while they removed the tube for similar reasons, as patients responded better in the presence of a familiar face. With no other family or friends located, they relied on Jason to be that face, trusting that he wouldn’t agitate the patient any further.

One of the nurses – Aaron, he recalled – recognized him as he entered Dick’s room that morning. Jason felt the staff’s wariness around him, the mysterious, out-of-town friend of a shooting victim. Aaron eyed him skeptically even as he greeted him with a neutral, “Hello, Jason.”

Jason responded in kind. “Hope I’m not too early. I figured if you all were letting me up here, I was probably close enough.”

“Just waiting on Dr. Goldberg,” said Aaron. He straightened up to his full height, which Jason smugly noted still left him several inches shorter than Jason. The past few years had done wonders for his physical growth, even if their effect on his mental health was more suspect.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he said, settling into the chair besides Dick’s bed. He took the time to study Dick, after being denied visitation yesterday due to another procedure they’d performed; something to do with his intestines that sounded deeply unpleasant. Dick’s appearance was unchanged, save perhaps a less ghostly complexion than before. His eyes flickered beneath their lids, a sure sign of emerging consciousness and reduced sedation. He placed a hand on Dick’s arm – the good one – and took comfort in the warmth beneath his fingers. He trusted that warmth and the rise of Dick’s chest more than he trusted any of the machinery surrounding them. 

Aaron typed into the EMR as they waited, glancing occasionally at Dick or the numbers on the monitors. Jason sat contentedly in silence, glad that Aaron didn’t press forward with awkward small talk. 

At last, Dr. Goldberg stepped in the room, hair frizzy and expression frazzled as if she’d already seen too much that morning. Perhaps she had – he didn’t know when her shift had begun.

“Ah, Jason,” she said, sweeping back a lock of hair so she could see. “You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said lightly, leaning back in the chair while maintaining skin contact with Dick’s arm. 

The furrow in her brow deepened. “I should warn you, he may not be conscious long enough to say anything, or may not truly regain consciousness at all.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow then. Or this afternoon, if you’re feeling generous.”

“Hm,” she said, then reached for the tablet from Aaron who handed it over quickly. She frowned as she perused the information there, but ultimately, when her gaze rose, she offered a brief smile. “He should be ready. He’s handled the lower settings well, especially given his injuries.” She glanced at Aaron, and they exchanged a brief, wordless conversation. Then she turned back to Jason. “It would be best if you left the room, at least until we have the tube out.”

“Promise I’m not that squeamish, doc,” he said.

“It’s not a matter of squeamish, and I’m not asking,” she said.

Despite a heap of evidence to the contrary, Jason knew (or mostly knew) how to pick his battles. He could let this one go. “I’ll be right outside.”

He stepped outside into the bustling hallway of the ICU. He despised this section of the hospital, even more than the rest of it; death lingered in the air, tip-toeing around the patients until it could swoop in and snatch the breath right out of its victim’s lungs. His presence here was wrong, unnatural, and it felt like he was tempting fate just by being there. No one who’d died should stand so brazenly before the reaper. 

At the very least, the constant cacophony of the hallway allowed him to focus on other sounds besides the wretched choking coming from within Dick’s room.

Jason itched to return inside, but until Dick appointed him medical proxy, he needed to remain at least somewhat in the staff’s good graces. So he waited, tapping his feet and drumming his fingers against his thigh, until at last Aaron’s balding head poked out the door. 

“You can come in now,” said Aaron. “He’s awake.”

Jason returned to the room to find Dick in a mild panic. Despite his obvious weakness, he jerked away from Dr. Goldberg, though clearly the movement cost him dearly and his face contorted in pain. Dr. Goldberg spoke gently to him, but her words seemed to float past Dick without a shred of comprehension. Everything changed when he spied Jason off to the side.

“Jason,” croaked out Dick, or at least he tried to before his voice died mid-syllable. Jason understood enough, and armed with the recognition, he strode forward until he stood next to Dr. Goldberg.

“Grayson,” he said, careful to keep his voice light. “It’s been a while.”

Wordlessly, Dick reached out his hand across the bed. By the grimace on Dick’s face, the motion strained his wounds, and Jason grabbed Dick’s hand if only to stop his foolhardy attempt at movement. The touch calmed Dick instantly, and Jason felt Dr. Goldberg’s skeptical gaze soften as Dick relaxed into the bed. Jason fed him an ice chip, knowing that Dick’s throat probably burned like he’d swallowed hot ash. 

“Mr. Katz, do you know where you are?” asked Dr. Goldberg.

Dick’s gaze flickered away from Jason to the doctor. His pupils were wide, his focus indistinct. He swallowed, winced, and then spoke in a voice that pained Jason to listen to. “No.”

“We’ll do blinks then, shall we?” she said. Dick blinked once, slowly, and Jason lifted another ice chip to Dick’s mouth. 

“You’re in the hospital. Do you understand?” One blink. “Do you remember what happened to you?” Dick blinked twice, but not before shooting a fervent, glassy glance at Jason. They would have to discuss it later, without company and with a lower dosage of painkillers in Dick’s system.

Jason tuned her out as she asked further questions about his awareness and assessed his cognitive function. He just stared at Dick, keeping a close watch on his face, searching for panic or fear or discombobulation. For his part, Dick responded well enough, but from the sluggishness of his reactions and the glazed sheen in his eyes, Jason knew they’d have to repeat this conversation, probably more than once.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him back into the conversation.

Dr. Goldberg gestured towards him. “Do you know this man?” she asked.

Dick blinked once, then opened his mouth to rasp out, “Jason.”

From across the bed, Jason sensed the weight of Aaron’s gaze even as he kept his eyes trained on Dick. 

“Is he a friend of yours?”

Before anyone could stop him, Dick spoke again. “Brother.”

“Brother?” Dr. Goldberg turned to him. “Are you related?”

“Not biologically,” said Jason. “But we grew up together. Jason Peters and Grayson Katz were quite the duo, right?” He spoke clearly and slowly, hoping Dick would process not only his own alias but Jason’s as well. 

Dick blinked once, and that gesture would have to suffice for the moment, especially as Dick’s eyelids began to flutter and the countdown on consciousness began. Sensing the window of opportunity closing, Dr. Goldberg spoke swiftly, inquiring further into Dick’s memory while offering explanations, until at last, Dick’s jaw slackened and his eyes fluttered shut. Aaron placed an oxygen mask over Dick’s face and took note of his vital signs as they beeped and blinked before them.

Overall, Dick’s brush with lucidity had lasted little more than two minutes. 

Jason demanded an encore.

Chapter Text

The initial days after Dick first clawed his way back to consciousness were inconsistent at best. On the second morning, Dick managed a whole five consecutive minutes of awareness before slipping back into fitful sleep. He awoke later that day with a little more clarity, and Jason practically shoved the medical proxy paperwork at one of the attending nurses, a stern and unamused middle-aged woman named Carol who nonetheless declared it sufficient to allow the hospital to disclose updates about Dick’s condition to him. Jason counted it as a victory, even if he’d already learned most of the information through his own methods.

Another victory was the change to Jason’s visiting hour allowance. Even though Dick wisely kept quite still, it was clear that any movement (including breathing) caused some degree of pain. Dr. Goldberg had noted that Jason’s presence calmed Dick during his first day awake, and in the interest of promoting a healing environment, the hospital now allowed him to remain at Dick’s bedside for hours on end. Not that the company was exactly riveting. Dick spent 80% of the time asleep and the other 20% in an exhaustion- and drug-induced fog where Jason hesitated to trust any information coming from his mouth. He spent much of his time studying the information from Dick’s flash drive, etching the information into the walls of his brain, but his impatience grew as he reached the end of the line on information gleaned from that one source; if he wanted to know more about Dick’s situation, then he would need to ask Dick himself. Unfortunately, even if Dick were more capable of conversation, they’d never find the necessary privacy in the ICU.

The third day off the ventilator, Dick spiked a fever. Not terribly high, but enough to leave him sweating and shivering and elevating his misery to another level. Jason arrived early that day, expecting Dick to be moved from the ICU into a normal room, only to be told that he was being kept in intensive care until they determined the cause of the fever. With so many potential infection sites, isolating the source of the infection and then the specific bacterial strain involved was no simple task. The prophylactic antibiotics were clearly insufficient to counter whatever he was facing. Jason asked for visitation. When the nurse – Anne, her nametag read – frowned, he pushed.

“He’ll want to see me,” he insisted.

“He’s not especially lucid. He might not even notice you’re there,” said Anne.

“Look,” he said. “I was there when there was no chance of him waking up at all. Didn’t bother me then, isn’t going to bother me now.”

“You’ll interfere with his care, tire him out.”

“No, I won’t,” he said. “If anything, I’ll do the opposite. I was always one of the few people who could get Grayson to shut up.”

His insistence and stubborn refusal to leave hardly endeared him to the nurses or the doctors, but Jason didn’t need to be liked. He just needed to be there . In the end, his persistence won out, and he spent another long day at Dick’s side. Guilt flared in his gut as Dick tossed his head feverishly and whispered a soft plea that bore a striking resemblance to Bruce’s name. Though Dick seemed to appreciate his presence, Jason knew the rest of the family would provide even more relief, even greater comfort. Still, without Dick’s express permission otherwise, Jason was going to trust his gut and maintain radio silence. Jason wasn't going to risk compromising Dick's entire operation just to ease his own conscience. He wasn't Bruce.

True to Anne’s prediction, Dick barely surfaced from sleep throughout the entire day, and nothing Jason did could fully assuage the restlessness of the fever. By the time nightfall descended over the city, Jason's own disquiet ran through his body like a fever of his very own. 

By now, his feet guided him down the streets of Star City with confidence, having traversed the path from the hospital to the hotel often enough. Once he returned to his room, he would need to continue his search for a temporary apartment, something with the proper kitchen that his current accommodations so sorely lacked. He also needed to test the bugs he’d acquired from Roy’s old Star City stash before placing them at Sal’s, the one location where he'd confirmed a sighting of D’Angelo’s crew. Maybe he would even hack into the police system again to check on the status of Dick’s shooting investigation, not that he expected much from that particular avenue of inquiry. The only useful information he’d gathered from the report thus far was that two types of bullets had caused Dick’s wounds. Two bullets meant two guns, and likely two shooters. The rest of the report was a stunning ode to the ineptitude of the SCPD, and without a serious break – or a complete staffing overhaul – Jason expected to rely mostly on his own skills and knowledge to extract the rest of the answers he needed. That, or Dick’s memory, if he ever managed to scrape together enough consecutive minutes of coherence to form a complete thought.

The first few blocks led him down well-lit, well-crowded streets, even on a Tuesday evening in one of Star City’s less desirable neighborhoods. As he turned onto Derren Avenue, the crowd abated noticeably, and another turn down Wright Street took him to a quieter, emptier neighborhood yet. Some people gathered on stoops or played music or shouted out of open windows, but those noises couldn't fill the silence in the same way a busy hum of cars and throngs of people did.

Halfway down Wright Street, he realized someone was tailing him. The man maintained a healthy distance from Jason, indicating he wasn’t a total idiot, but the distance was too perfect, too consistent. When Jason stopped at a bodega for a diet coke, he emerged to find the man lingering two blocks away. When Jason resumed his walk, so did the man, and he also observed him typing frequently into a phone, likely to inform others of their whereabouts. A group operation then. He'd been expecting something like this ever since the night he'd first heard D'Angelo's goons discussing Dick's fate in some dingy basement, so when he rounded the corner of Carver’s Circle side street, the gun pointed directly at his temple didn’t startle him the way it should have. At the very least, his even-keeled stance surprised the man wielding the weapon.

“Your friend needs stealth lessons,” he said coolly. “I made him blocks ago.”

“You still walked straight into me,” said the man through slightly crooked, very yellowed teeth. He stood about Jason’s height and age, but far skinnier, and his face bore a smug smile. He thought he’d won. But Jason had faced off in far worse odds against far deadlier opponents; this one’s stance was all wrong – locked knees and elbows – and a flush ran high across his cheekbones. A rookie, or maybe just a chump.

This would almost be too easy. He ducked his head and zig-zagged, popping up just behind the man with one arm around his throat and another at his wrists. A quick squeeze and twist of his hands, and the weapon slipped from the man’s weak grip, where Jason caught it midair. The man fought back against Jason’s chokehold, but the press of the gun barrel to his jaw swiftly ended his struggle. 

Jason held him there, forearm brushing but not pressing into his carotid artery, and waited for his erstwhile tail to catch up. When the tail stepped into view, Jason pressed the barrel firmly into the hollow of his man’s cheek.

“Nice of you to join us,” he said, eyeing his new opponent. The tail stood several inches shorter than the man secured in his chokehold, but his muscles bulged against a too-tight t-shirt, and a wicked scar cut across his nose, stretching from the corner of his eye to the opposite cheekbone and marring an otherwise handsomely tanned face. His right hand hovered over a bulge at his waist – another gun, and in more competent hands.

His eyes flickered in annoyance as he assessed the situation. Clearly, he’d hoped to find Jason already surrendering on his knees, and not holding his colleague hostage.

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse,” said the man.

“Nah,” said Jason, and he pressed the gun harder against skin and bone. “I’m a quick shot. You’ll never get to the one in your pocket.”

The man shrugged. “Fine, then you have the edge. The question is, what will you do with it? Will you shoot Romero there?”

“If I have to,” said Jason, and Romero shuddered faintly in his grasp. He had to be new to this gig if being held at gunpoint affected him so. “I’d rather figure out what you want from me and finish this once and for all. Easier than taking you out one by one.” He cocked his head to the right. “I’m guessing you want information from me too, or Romero here would have shot me point blank.”

The man’s shoulders loosened but he kept his hand over the gun. “You think you could do that? Take all of us out?” A touch of amusement tinged his voice.

“You wouldn’t live long enough to find out.”

The man huffed out a half-chuckle. “I should have guessed Katz picked his friends wisely.” Jason didn’t bother to feign surprise at the mention of Dick’s alias. The man studied Jason a moment longer. “I think we oughta continue this conversation somewhere a bit nicer. What do you say?”

“I say that sounds an awful lot like a setup.”

“True,” said the man. He reached his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a receipt. Without ceremony he dropped the slip of paper onto the pavement, where the static atmosphere kept it flat on the ground. “You can meet us at that address, tonight, ten p.m. sharp. That should give you enough time to scope out the place, see if you wanna show up. I should warn you, if you don’t make an appearance, odds are we’ll find you another day. And next time, we’ll bring more artillery.”

“Is there anything else I should know? A password to get in? A dress code?”

“Just tell ‘em Tony sent you,” said the man. “Mike will show you back. And you can come armed if you want. The rest of us will be.” He arched one well-groomed eyebrow. “Capisce?”

“Sure,” he said. “Now here’s my token of good faith.” Without warning, Jason shoved Romero away, letting him stumble towards Tony and collapse on the pavement. Romero massaged his Adam’s apple as he staggered to his feet, glaring at Jason all the while. His beady black eyes narrowed on the gun still clutched in Jason’s hand. Jason swung the gun up to rest on his shoulder, barrel pointed at the sky. The cold metal at his neck offered strange comfort. “I’m keeping this. You want it, you’ll need to learn to grip a gun properly.”

Romero sputtered in protest, but Tony tugged him away. Jason listened to their footsteps as they departed, waiting for utter quiet before finally bending down and snatching the receipt from the warm asphalt.

The small letters at the heading read “Sal’s Pub.” Jason crumpled it into his palm, thinking of his now redundant plan to plant bugs he’d acquired for the same location. Screw the espionage; he wasn’t James Bond, and the vents seemed much smaller now than in his Robin days. Dick was the one who liked hanging from ceilings, skulking around corners, and being a slippery son of a bitch. Jason...well, he had the common courtesy to look a man in the eyes before he shot him dead. And who knew? Maybe in a few hours he’d get to do exactly that.

Chapter Text

Back at the hotel, Jason planned his encounter carefully. They would expect him to be armed, of course, but he still needed to have some tricks up his sleeve to edge out his opponents. Guns were a given, but they were less likely to expect flashbangs, mini-detonators, and throwing knives, tricks he’d picked up in his Robin days before perfecting under the tutelage of his explosions master. Taking a trick from Dick’s book, he also slipped a taser into his thigh holster right next to his gun. He’d found Dick’s electric escrima sticks stashed away in the apartment, but they weren’t really to his taste. Similarly, most of the other items in Dick’s apartment had been of little use to him, save a few bugs and recording devices. Jason’s algorithm had yet to crack Dick’s laptop either — it appeared to be the very latest in Wayne Tech, far, far more secure than the flash drive. While he tried a new program each day, he expected he would have to wait for Dick to give him the password. And for that, he would have to wait for Dick to stay awake longer than five minutes.

So, armed with both a little knowledge and a small treasure trove of weaponry, he sauntered towards Sal’s at 9:30 on the dot. The only members of the crew he would know on sight were Tony, Romero, and a few other low-lifes with pictures on the flash drive, but priority number one (besides not dying, he supposed) was identifying as many of them as possible, the higher ranked the better. He stepped inside the front entrance for the first time and gave the establishment a quick once over; old, downtrodden, but clearly well-trafficked by a loyal following judging by the weekday evening crowd. Scratch marks littered every wooden surface, from the tables to the bars to even the liquor shelves, indicating a harder crowd. The entire place stank of stale alcohol and cigarettes.

He recognized none of the men or women currently present, and none of them radiated danger, but he scanned each person as he walked by, looking for bulges of weapons. Several clearly sported their own weapons, which actually served him well as no one remarked upon his own visible handguns in his thigh holster. In the end, he surmised that while most of the clientele were probably dangerous for an ordinary human, and practiced in the art of the fistfight, they were mostly civilians. Not everyone in the bar could possibly belong to the same crime ring.

Per Tony’s instructions, he scooched his way towards the bar and nabbed a corner stool where he perched himself on the edge. He ordered a whiskey he had no intention of actually drinking from the bartender, a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a nose crooked from one too many breaks. The corner offered a decent vantage point of the whole room, and he used the position to surveil the room more carefully. Tony and Romero would have passed along a description of him, so he checked for anyone staring at him. Unfortunately, it seemed that the crowd largely contained regulars, as many people offered him a curious or suspicious glance.

He found little of use in his observation for some time, but finally, three men entered who caught his eye. All three were Jason’s age or a little older, and they possessed a swagger borne only of a toxic cocktail of arrogance and a sense of ownership. Furthermore, they made no motion or gesture towards the bar, instead striding straight towards the back of the room. Jason had seen the layout, and there wasn’t much space back there, just an employee’s only sign nailed to a locked door. No one seated in the back of the main area would match their age profile either. No, wherever these three were headed, it was somewhere private. Somewhere they could hold conversations like the one he’d overheard several nights ago.

He set down his full tumbler on the wooden counter with a thunk. The noise caught the bartender’s attention.

“I’m here for Tony and Romero,” he said. He kept his hand on the grip of his gun, in case he needed to counter an early ambush. “They said you’d know what to do.”

The barkeep narrowed his eyes and shifted his stance. Jason suspected he was reaching for his own gun beneath the countertop.

“Code word?” he said.

“None,” said Jason. “And I don’t appreciate anything less than straight talk. Don’t ask for things that aren’t required.”

“Take it up with them,” said the man. He sighed and wiped his hands on a worn, stained rag which probably did little for the hygiene of any surface. “And follow me.”

Sure enough, he led Jason into the back where he unlocked the employee’s only door. Jason understood why Dick might have gone analog on this case. In his experience, organized crime tended towards extremes, either high-tech, cybersecurity experts and new-age crime, or old-fashioned, off-the-grid, scummy jobs. This gang clearly trended towards the latter, and for Dick, too much visible technology would only have drawn suspicion. Fortunately, Jason was well-acquainted with these types.

He kept his hand on his gun as they meandered through the narrow corridors behind the bar, weaving around stacks of boxes and shelves of liquor. Eventually, they reached a dank, narrow staircase, and the barkeep paused.

“I don’t go down there,” he said.

Jason nodded and descended the staircase slowly, listening for noise at either end. As he reached the landing, he heard the barkeep walk away, and a faint chatter drifted past the door, indistinguishable to the human ear. Not to the digital one, though, and he set the first of his bugs at the top of the doorframe once he was confident that he was alone and had performed a quick scan for cameras or bugs of their own.

Then he knocked.

The noise inside quieted instantly. Then footsteps approached the door.

“You come alone?”

He thought it might have been Tony at the door, but it was difficult to know for sure.

Time to see if they had a sense of humor. “Only one way to find out,” he called back, and drew his gun from its holster.

The door swung open just as he pointed the gun forward, directly into the chest of Tony. For his part, Tony flinched, but otherwise remained fairly composed for a man on the wrong end of the barrel.

“You did say I could come armed,” Jason said.

Tony tilted his head. “Suppose I did.” Then he nodded his head at the gun. “You mind pointing that somewhere else? Least while we make the introductions.”

Jason lowered the gun but kept his finger just beneath the trigger. Satisfied with the retreat (or just realizing he would get no more), Tony, stepped aside and allowed Jason into the room.

Much like the bar above, the basement stank of liquor, and stains darkened the concrete floor beneath them. Stacks of boxes lined the back wall, while several scratched and dented oak tables served as centerpieces. Men (and several women, he noted, so at least D’Angelo was an equal opportunity dirtbag) sat haphazardly around them, some reclining in their chairs with forced nonchalance while others abandoned all pretense and leaned forward intently. All in all, he faced fifteen to one odds should the situation devolve; not unbeatable, but certainly less than ideal. Best to keep the conversation a true conversation and not a firefight. He glanced at the table to the left. A half-filled bottle of rum lay in the middle of a pile of poker chips and cards, and he pointed his gun half-heartedly at the table.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything too serious here,” he said. Several people tensed when he raised the gun, but as soon as he lowered it, the tension eased ever so slightly. “Any chance of me sliding into the next round?”

Everyone’s positions scattered around the room complicated his task of identifying the leader. Several men appeared older, and were more likely, but until he received confirmation, he would suspect any and all verbal declarations.

One of the older men — a pale, brown-haired, red-bearded fellow — stood. “How about we get to know you first, hm? I always like to chat with a stranger before we play.”

“And I prefer that we familiarize ourselves throughout the game,” replied Jason. “But I respect the host’s rules.”

The man gestured at the empty chair across from him, center stage. “Come sit.”

Jason scanned the room quickly then gestured at a hefty olive-skinned man at the side, right beside several steps leading up to a hatch door. “I’ll take his seat.”

“Very well,” said the man and he snapped his fingers. “Come along.”

From the way everyone immediately deferred and shifted their chairs, Jason determined that the apparent leader possessed at least a modicum of power in the group hierarchy. He made his way over, keeping his back to the wall at all times, and he settled heavily in the chair. It groaned as he leaned his full weight against the back. He laid his gun across the table, still pointing it forward, still with his finger near the trigger.

“Now,” said the man, “let’s start with the basics, shall we?”

“I think, given the circumstances, you might tell me your name first,” said Jason. “You’ll note I’ve been very cooperative so far.”

“You can call me Joe,” said the man — Joe — and Jason mostly believed him. Mostly.

“And I’m Jason. Now that we have that out of the way, you want to tell me why you sent poor Romero there after me today?”

Several people glanced at Romero, who flushed from his position on the opposite side of the room.

“You’ve been visiting a friend of ours. Grayson Katz.”

“Friend of yours, huh?” said Jason, eyeing them carefully. “Some friends. I’ve been in that hospital every day, never seen any of you visiting, never even flowers or a card. Is that how you treat your friends?”

Joe seemed amused. “We respect our friends by staying away. Our presence would only… complicate matters. Besides, it seems like he has quite the devoted visitor. Funny. Katz never mentioned anyone named Jason.”

“Gray and I go way back, but we haven’t kept in touch recently. I got a call about a John Doe with my number, I came here to find him lying near-dead in that damn bed, no thanks to your incompetence I assume.”

Joe narrowed his eyes. “You assume wrong,” he said icily. Several people around him straightened, hands shifting towards weapons stashed on their person. Jason kept his own body relaxed, even as anticipation coiled within his chest.

“Do I?”

“By your own admission, you haven’t kept in touch with Katz. What would you know about his life? About what we do?”

Without warning, Jason slipped a knife down from his jacket sleeve and threw it against the back wall at the dented wooden bullseye hung there, inches away from Tony’s face. Tony froze, while everyone around him stirred into an uproar, pulling their own weapons and shouting in indignation.

“Quiet!” yelled Joe, and once more, everyone settled into a tense silence. Jason upped his estimation of Joe to at least a second or third in command.

Jason turned to the right, where he found a pistol pointed at his temple with a hand far steadier than Romero’s. The hand in question belonged to a sharp-eyed woman whose long curtain of black hair framed a narrow face and a dangerous frown. He looked up at her. “If I’d wanted to kill him, I would have. So you can put that away.”

Her aim never wavered, though her eyes flickered up towards Joe, who regarded Jason carefully. Eventually, he nodded, and her hand lowered.

“You think I don’t know anything about what you do?” said Jason. “I may not be from this city, but I’m no Cinderella. I don’t turn into a pumpkin once I cross state lines. You think I don’t know shit about you? I’ve worked with dozens of people just like you. People who never would have let something like this happen to Grayson.”

“You think you would have done a better job? Knowing nothing about what happened?”

“I know I would have,” said Jason.

Joe leaned back in his chair. “Well, forgive me if I don’t trust the word of a stranger who mysteriously appeared only a week ago. Who, as I said before, Katz never even mentioned.”

“Because Katz is such a forthright person,” he quipped. He was venturing into slightly unknown territory, working off assumptions. This is where a few minutes of coherent conversation from Dick would have helped. As a rule, in undercover work, you shared only what you needed to share to accomplish the goal. More elaborate lies meant more mental contortion to maintain the façade, more opportunities for a potentially fatal slip-up. Dick Grayson was gregarious, friendly, and overshared with people he trusted, but Grayson Katz would be guarded. At least he would be if Dick still had any functional brain cells left in his skull.

He met Joe’s skeptical gaze head-on. For a moment, the two of them engaged in a battle of wills, and say what you would about Jason’s personality, but no one ever accused him of lacking tenacity. Stubborn as gravity itself, as Alfred once described him.

Jason won. He always did.

“I believe you know Katz,” said Joe. “And I believe you’re here to help him.”

“So where does that leave us?” said Jason. “You’re the one who invited me so cordially to this little rendezvous. My only plan is to stay here and help Gray out ‘til he’s back on his feet.”

“You’re a very loyal friend to drop everything for an old friend,” said Joe. “Especially for someone with your talents, as you describe them.”

“He’s the closest thing I have to a brother,” said Jason, lacing his surprisingly real sincerity into the words. “We were practically raised together.”

Joe glanced above Jason at the woman standing next to him, the one with the gun still poised at her fingertips. “Sylvie, what do you say?”

“If Grayson trusts him, then I say we let him live.” Her voice came out raspier than he expected, and closer observation beyond her locks of hair revealed a nasty, puckered scar across her throat. He knew from experience it would have hurt like hell.

“Goodie for me,” muttered Jason.

“We let you live, then,” said Joe, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of magnanimity. Jason kept his hand on his gun, and everyone else in the room did the same. They all knew his current status was as weak and breakable as a single thread of a spider’s web. “But if you’re staying with Katz, we’ll need to get to know you a little better. Make sure you’re taking good care of him. We’ve grown rather fond of him these past few months. He’s a very resourceful man, very valuable to our little enterprise.”

Jason doubted very much that Dick’s value as an asset compelled them to ensure Jason stayed close. As long as he understood their motives, though, he could control their surveillance of him and Dick. He could keep Dick safe.

“I’ll do what needs to be done for Grayson,” he said.

“Good,” said Joe, rubbing his hands together in a satisfied manner. “Then you won’t mind doing a few favors for us. We run a tight ship, you see, and losing one of our own has made certain things a little more difficult than we’d anticipated.”

“I’m not an errand boy,” said Jason coldly. “I’m not some helpless kid you plucked off the streets with the promise of food and a little cash.”

“No,” Joe agreed. “If you’re anything like our mutual friend, that would be a waste of your talent. I promise you a little more excitement. Unless you’re scared?”

Several men behind Joe sniggered. All of them were eighteen at the most and the kind of lean that came from underfeeding as much as hard work. Two of them sported rather pathetic attempts at facial hair, even worse than Tim’s rare yet ill-conceived attempts over the years. 

Lightning fast, Jason whipped out the knife from his other sleeve and threw it into the seam of the tallest one’s coat, pinning it against one of the boxes stacked behind.

Sylvie’s gun returned to his head. The boy stared at the knife incredulously until one of the others had the sense to yank it out from the fabric.

“No one here scares me,” said Jason. “And I doubt very much that you know anyone who would. But I do have one condition.”

“Oh?” spoke Sylvie from beside him. The rim of the barrel brushed the tips of his hair. “You think you’re in a position to bargain?”

“I want to meet D’Angelo,” he said, ignoring her and directing his words at Joe. “I want the man in charge.”

Several people tittered. He caught several more with naked alarm on their faces. Clearly, they hadn’t expected him to know about D’Angelo.

Joe set his shoulder back. “You’re speaking with the man in charge.”

“In this room, sure,” said Jason. “But you and I both know you’re not the one at the top. If you were, no one would dare laugh around you. Too much camaraderie, not enough fear. So, before I do anything for your little band of merry men, I want to speak to Robin Hood himself.” He turned to the boy holding his knife. “And I’ll want that back.”

The boy glanced furtively around the room before sliding the blade across the table. Jason slid it up his sleeve one-handed.

“I’ll take your request under consideration,” said Joe. For the first time all night, he radiated genuine displeasure. Jason had wrested his control away.

“Consider all you want,” said Jason, and he stood in one fluid motion. Sylvie’s gun fell away in surprise, and he placed his own pistol back in its thigh holster, signaling his intent to leave. “Those are the terms.”

No one spoke as he walked around the perimeter to his other knife, which still sat embedded in the wooden target. He jerked the blade out of the soft wood and inspected the tip for show, basking in the attention of every wary gaze now fixed upon him. Dick might have been raised in the spotlight, but Jason was the one with a true flare for the dramatic. Oftentimes a literal flare; these days his explosives are goddamn works of art.

“Do we have a deal?” he said to the whole room.

Joe nodded stiffly. “You’ll hear from us soon enough.”

“You know where to find me,” said Jason. “And next time, send a better tail.”

He took the back exit, blowing the padlock off the escape hatch with a bullet before stepping into the cool night air. A decent distance separated him from the nearest street where he’d be able to hail a cab. He’d need to buy his own means of transportation if he was going to be staying much longer, preferably a motorcycle for ease of mobility. For now, he didn’t mind the walk. He’d earned a spot in D’Angelo’s game, earned a meeting with the man himself. And, he confirmed with his phone as he strode the street, he’d earned the information he would soon gain from the bugs now implanted in both the target and the wooden crate, each dislodged from the tip of his throwing knives.

Now he just needed to loop Dick in on the action.

Chapter Text

Much to his frustration, Jason found himself waiting another two days before finally earning his alone time with Dick. Though his team of doctors had released him from the ICU, his stabilization only earned him another trip under the surgeon’s knife, this time to repair the nerves in his shoulder and to finish screwing the bones back together in his arm. The hours-long surgery left Dick largely incoherent; he still recognized Jason at first, but after he spiked yet another fever they kept him sedated for a day following the operation, and the following day Dick was so high on morphine he couldn’t tell his fingers from his toes and Jason was sent home summarily.

Thursday found Dick a little less delirious but in a lot more pain. Though he was still heavily medicated, Jason knew from personal experience that nerve pain could cut through any amount of opiates if it were bad enough. Despite the discomfort, his face brightened in recognition when Jason entered the room. He also instinctively attempted to lift himself a little further up, but he quickly abandoned the attempt, his face several shades whiter for his efforts.

“You probably shouldn’t do that yet,” said Jason casually, as if he weren’t talking properly with Dick for the first time in months, as if this wasn’t his first bout of real consciousness in nearly a week. “Doesn’t that hurt your…everything?”

“Jason?” Dick said with remarkable urgency for someone who’d spent most of the past week in a drug-induced stupor. His voice still made Jason’s throat ache with sympathetic pain. “You came?”

Jason shot Dick his best look of disdain. “I came? I’ve been here every day they’d let me through the barricade. Trust me, I’ve been very annoying.” Dick stared blankly at him. “Do you not remember any of this?”

“Thought maybe I was dreaming,” Dick murmured. “Hadn’t seen you in a while.” His body sank even further into the cot, and with the wan, bloodless face and bruised, sunken eyes, sympathy overruled any other conflicting emotions swirling through Jason’s chest. The ghastly bruises across his chest still induced a squeeze of his heart every now and again if he stared too long.

No need to worry Dick, though.

“They wouldn’t let me in,” said Jason, settling into his familiar chair at Dick’s bedside. The seat of the chair groaned in equally familiar protest. “You had surgery to fix your arm, and then you spiked a fever. Again.”

Dick’s good arm lay gently against his chest, and its fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the rim of the sling. The hand poking out from the sling remained entirely still, almost unnaturally so. Images of diagrams and floating words flashed across Jason’s mind from memory, each containing utterly horrific information about the potential long-term consequences of an injury like Dick’s. Things like chronic pain, numbness, paralysis. Complications that necessitated major life adjustments even for the standard office worker, let alone someone like Dick whose entire occupation — his entire life, really — relied upon his physicality.

He swallowed back the questions; they likely wouldn’t know the full answer for some time, and previous experience dictated that Jason needed to spend his time wisely throughout any bout of consciousness.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. An innocuous enough inquiry.

Dick huffed out a soft puff of laughter, then immediately gasped as his good hand moved the bandages just over his sternum. Jason checked the oxygen machine quickly to ensure everything was in order. Eventually, Dick’s arm sank back down to its original position, alighting just above the sheet drawn over his lower half.

“My feet are okay,” said Dick, and he wiggled his toes beneath the sheets. “And my hand.” Now the fingers of his good hand tapped against the edge of his sheet. “Can’t really move… much else.”

“You always did look on the bright side of life.” He eyed Dick critically. “You’ll be back doing splits and pointless flips in no time.”

Dick grimaced, as if even the thought of such movement could cause pain. Jason studied him for a moment. Though clearly uncomfortable, Dick seemed still alert enough. Previous attempts at conversation had all ended with him drifting off after only a few sentences.

A grimace of his own curled his lips. Dick needed to rest and recover, but Jason also needed him to explain what the hell was going on. This could be his best chance before Joe or one of D’Angelo’s lackeys cornered him with demands or further skeptical questions.

“What were you thinking, Dick?” he said softly.

Dick tensed in the bed. “What do you mean?”

“Undercover? Alone? If you hadn’t had my number on your phone, no one in this family would know what happened. You could have died , and it could have taken months before someone found out. Does anyone even know where you are?”

“Bruce and Tim… they know I’m in Star City.” Dick’s breaths were still labored despite the supplemental oxygen.

“Do they know why you’re here?” Jason asked pointedly.

“No,” said Dick, softly on the exhale. “You didn’t… did you…”

“I haven’t told anyone about this,” said Jason. Dick sighed in relief, but Jason wasn’t done. “Look, I’m not one to talk about healthy family communication, but you’re the one always preaching at everyone about keeping people informed and having backup. So, what the fuck, Dick? Where’s the backup?”

Dick flinched, which Jason assumed had nothing to do with his physical condition.

“I’m undercover on the other side of the country,” he rasped. “Can’t exactly… just hop on the comms.”

“You could start by at least saving their number in your phone. If the hospital hadn’t reached me, you’d be lying here alone with the rest of the family sitting pretty in Gotham, blissfully unaware of this whole fiasco. Why didn’t you have Tim’s number? Or Babs’? Or anyone other than me?”

“Didn’t want them to know,” Dick sighed. He rotated his head slowly against the pillow, gazing out towards the window of his room. A dull gray sky and smoggy concrete buildings greeted them. “They’d… they’d bring me back.” He swiveled back, a little too quickly if the wince on his face was any indication. “You won’t, will you?”

“Nah,” said Jason. “The last thing I need is a family reunion. Far too messy, even for my tastes. Besides, I’m already a couple steps into your operation myself. It’d be a shame to waste all of your hard work.”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “You what?”

“Joe and I had a little chat a few days ago. Seems they’re looking for someone with similar skills to you, and I fit the bill. Well, that and they want to keep an eye on me if I’m looking after you. So I’m on the next mission.”

In perhaps his most ill-advised move to date (besides every single other mistake he’d committed to land himself in this situation in the first place), Dick shot upward, and in doing so, probably exhausted what little energy and control he’d earned over the past week of rest. His heart monitor spiked instantly, and Jason pressed Dick back into the bed with as much care as he could muster while still keeping his reckless moron of a brother from tearing himself open once more.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed. He half-expected a nurse to come charging in with a needle for Dick and an eviction notice for Jason. “You need to stay calm.”

Dick was too busy practicing (and largely failing at) controlled breathing. In a last-ditch effort to control the situation, Jason grabbed Dick’s hand and kept his mouth shut as Dick squeezed his bones into pulp with surprising grip strength for a man on his second week of bedrest. When Dick’s vision came back into focus, Jason noted the bright, almost feverish sheen of his eyes with dismay. Neither he nor Dick were known among their family for their excess caution, but Dick’s current status clearly required delicacy neither of them were accustomed to. Still, none of Dick’s physical fragility or persistent wheezes prevented him from whispering intently, “I need...to stay calm? You’re the crazy person… forcing your way… into this mess.”

“I hardly forced my way in,” Jason replied flatly. The heart monitor still beeped somewhat erratically, reminding him to keep his temper at a simmer. “Besides, I’m the one with actual experience as a crime lord. Real experience, too, not just acting. And as long as you’re stuck in this hospital, you’re going to have to deal with me. I’m the one paying for all the happy drugs.” Dick opened his mouth to speak, but Jason cut him off. “It’s not like your gig came with an HMO and dental plan.”

Dick frowned. “Where did you… get the money?”

“Whoever said crime doesn’t pay was a filthy liar; it pays quite a lot if you know what you’re doing.”

Dick chose not to dignify his explanation with a response. Hypocrite , thought Jason. He knew who paid the bills for Dick’s usual haunt in Bludhaven, and it wasn’t like Wayne Industries and the Wayne family had earned its fortunes on a principle of generosity and kindness, however charitable Bruce liked to be now.

“What’s done is done,” he said. “Your plan for a solo mission is officially fucked until you can do more than send your own vitals into a tailspin by sitting up. You wanted someone different involved, you should have kept their number on your phone.”

Lying prone in his bed, Dick still exuded his unique brand of unhappiness — a teaspoon of disappointment in himself, a tablespoon of disappointment in others, a pinch of self-righteousness and just a hint of that famous Grayson temper waiting for just the right temperature to blossom. Jason forcibly reminded himself that any energy or even consciousness on Dick’s part was a goddamn miracle and also a limited commodity. One he was rapidly wasting with the commotion.

“You can argue with me later, I promise,” he said, and Dick rolled his eyes, but some of the tension eased from his body and his breathing, though Jason still observed an occasional but concerning hitched breath.

“I’m holding you… to that,” said Dick. His eyelids fluttered momentarily, increasing Jason’s urgency.

“Man of my word,” he said. “Right now, though, I need the password to your laptop. And anything you can tell me about your cover so I don’t slip up.”

“Still grew up in a circus,” said Dick, his words slurring. “But…parents didn’t die. Settled down in New York. Started running with gangs when I was fifteen.”

“Still in a circus, you—” he sputtered. “Are you trying to get caught?”

“Different circus, toured in places they can never check,” he said. “Explains my skills.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Grayson,” he said, withdrawing his hand from Dick and leaning back in the chair. “The next time you need to go undercover, you call me first okay?”

Dick didn’t respond, a sure sign that he was fading fast. And Jason still needed that password.

“Dick,” he said. Still silence, so he tapped Dick’s hand, fearful of any more drastic movements with Dick’s injuries. “Dick, what’s the password for your laptop? You want me to be safe, I need whatever you have on there.”

Dick’s eyes were closed, but his lips moved in the faintest of whispers. “Mary Grayson.”

And then he was unconscious, leaving Jason alone to process everything Dick had said. He wanted to shake Dick awake again, but even in sleep, lines of pain and discomfort marred his too-pale face. He needed rest. Fortunately, before he could ruminate too long over Dick’s revelations, a doctor stepped into the room, glasses askew and hair in disarray.

“Ah, Mr. Peters,” he said, running his hand through his sparse tufts of white hair. “I was hoping to speak with you. I’m Dr. Manfred, one of the surgeons who operated on Mr. Katz here.”

Jason glanced back at Dick’s sleeping yet still restless-looking form. “So did it work?”

Dr. Manfred frowned as he began reviewing Dick’s chart. “Did it… work?”

“The surgery? The thing that was supposed to fix everything up there?” He gestured at bandages wrapping around Dick’s shoulder and arm.

Dr. Manfred paused in his perusal. “It’s difficult to know at this stage. Nerves heal slowly, and there’s still swelling in the shoulder which makes long term prognostication harder. The fracture might require additional surgery once some of the soft tissue has healed, but Dr. Lukins was satisfied with the results for now. Everything else went as well as could be expected.”

“Everything else? I thought it was just the nerves and the bone?”

“I performed some additional vascular repair, including replacing part of the artery graft as well. The first one was prone to giving way once Mr. Katz resumes movement in any meaningful fashion.”

“So you screwed up the first time.”

“I was not the one operating on Mr. Katz the first time,” the doctor replied sharply, “but many measures taken in an emergency situation are designed to be temporary. Speed trumps durability when someone is in hypovolemic shock with hemorrhaging from the brachial artery. Any physician would support the decisions made by the on-call surgeon.”

“So what you’re saying is that I’m going to need a halfway decent lawyer when I sue for malpractice then,” said Jason. Dr. Manfred gave him a dark look, and Jason relented, grinning. “Joking, of course. I thought physicians were used to some black humor.”

His little quip clearly left the doctor unamused. Dr. Manfred turned back to his chart, and then to the patient himself. He inspected Dick’s hand and pulled back some of the dressing to see the bullet wound as well as the surgical site; from Jason’s vantage point, the view of Dick’s shoulder wasn’t clear, but the little he saw was hideous, a mess of stitching and bruised, swollen skin. After a minute of observation, he began typing in the chart and speaking to Jason once more.

“Circulation seems good, and the vascular repairs seem to be holding. A physical therapist will be coming in at some point in the next few days to begin assessing his hand and arm function, and he’ll need another visit from the respiratory therapist. And then another opinion on where to proceed with the next orthopedic procedure, if it’s required.” He looked up from the chart, eyes only half seeing Jason. “A nutritional consult should be happening as well.”

To Jason’s ears, all of Dr. Manfred’s words added up to an extended and involved hospital stay, which in turn added up into more risk of discovery. “How long ‘til he gets out of here?”

Manfred’s focus returned to Jason. “At least a week, likely two, depending on how he progresses. After that, a short stint at a rehab facility is the next step.”

The latter was not happening, Jason would ensure it. Not because Dick wouldn’t benefit, but because that was far too much time on the grid, so to speak. He still hadn’t learned who shot his brother, nor why they'd done it, nor even if they posed any danger. Given the trauma, Dick might not even recall the events around the shooting, meaning he would need to acquire the information from D’Angelo’s crew himself. The sooner they finished the operation, the sooner he could ship Dick back to the rest of the family where Dick could properly recover under the watchful eyes of Bruce and Alfred and other people who truly understood him, with all the benefits of cutting edge medical technology as needed.

For now, he nodded in his best impersonation of a normal person. No need to reveal his plans, nor the far superior resources Dick would have access to once they could wrap the case up. He didn’t think he was out of line when he asked. “For real, though, what’s his prognosis?” He gestured pointedly at Dick’s shoulder. “What are the chances he recovers fully?”

Dr. Manfred hesitated, which further increased Jason’s trust in his pronouncement. People tended not to overthink a platitude.

“Like I said earlier, it will be difficult to know for sure for some time. Nerve injuries can take months, even years, to recover. I’m not the one who performed the nerve graft, but I know that his injury wasn’t a complete avulsion of the brachial plexus, which is the worst possible scenario . Full recovery from that would be unlikely.” He tapped the medical chart absentmindedly. “That being said, it wasn’t a minor injury either, or he wouldn’t have required surgery at all. He’s likely to experience some short-term loss of sensation or function, but there’s still a good chance for recovery from that. Beyond his shoulder, you’d have to ask one of the other doctors who were responsible for the treatment of those injuries, but from his chart, I don’t see any other indications of long-term consequences once the healing is complete. Although again, that will take some time.”

Time Dick shouldn’t spend in Star City. The sooner Jason could wrap up Dick’s operation, the sooner he could send Dick home and return to living his own life, unburdened by his connection to his family and all the trouble they entailed.

Chapter Text

Jason spotted Joe’s ginger beard ten minutes into his walk from the hospital to a local coffee shop where he had been hoping to purchase a much-needed shot of caffeine before diving into Dick’s laptop. The dusky shadows of a fading daylight obscured much of his face, but Jason recognized his careworn face several blocks off. His plans for the evening would clearly have to wait.

He leaned back against the post of a streetlight and reached in his pocket for a cigarette. All this time in the hospital probably benefited his lungs, if only because it minimized his available smoking time. Leslie berated him each time they met, but nothing she said ever overshadowed the rush of nicotine as it entered his veins, especially now after a long day of abstention.

A block away, Joe dropped all pretense of stealth and simply sauntered up to Jason with a slight swagger to his step. Either he’d forgotten Jason’s dressing down of him several days ago, or he was anticipating the upper hand in this situation. Men like Joe rarely forgot any wound to their pride, so Jason kept his senses on alert even as Joe hailed him in an almost friendly manner.

“I assume this means you’ve spoken with your fearless leader. Come to deliver on your end of the deal?” he asked, jettisoning a puff of smoke off to the side.

Joe smirked. “Even better. He’s asked for your presence on a deal tonight. Word of your little knife-throwing stunt the other night impressed him enough that we can move past the pleasantries.”

It was an interesting maneuver to meet Jason’s demand while still placing him in a pressure cooker of a situation where a lesser man might implode.

“What’s the deal?” he said.

“Does it matter?” said Joe. “It’s not like you’ll be negotiating.”

“It matters,” said Jason, and this time he took care to blow his smoke directly into Joe’s face, relishing as its acridity forced Joe’s face to wrinkle. “If it’s drugs, I’ll bring a bigger gun.”

Joe waved the lingering smell away from his face. “Bring whatever gun you want,” he said. “Just meet us at nine pm sharp.”

“Sal’s again?” he guessed.

In lieu of a direct response, Joe reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, dented flip phone, the kind he’d found among Dick’s possessions that first day at the hospital. One of their stash, clearly. He held out the phone for Jason to take. When Jason opened the phone, he found its entire system factory-fresh despite its obvious age; they’d wisely reset the device before handing it over.

“You’ll get coordinates,” said Joe. “Memorize them, and then delete the message.”

“Coordinates?” he said, pocketing the phone. “An address a little too simple for you?”

“There isn’t one,” said Joe. “Let us know if you need a ride.”

“Not necessary,” said Jason. He flicked the cigarette butt onto the pavement and ground it beneath the heel of his combat boots. “I’ve got transportation.”

Joe shrugged. “Have it your way then. Remember, nine pm sharp or I can’t guarantee you won’t be shot on sight by our partners. They hate surprises.”

“Understood,” he said. He wondered if the people who shot Dick had hated surprises too. “You can count on me. I’ll be prepared.”

And he intended to be prepared, prepared to the point of paranoid just like Bruce had taught him. Now that he wouldn’t be entering a civilian bar – even a bar like Sal’s where gang members mingled with more law-abiding patrons – he could lever his considerable arsenal to his advantage. Once back at his hotel, he set aside his agenda of research and focused on arming himself to the teeth. His leather jacket slid on easily, and his shoulders relaxed as he patted down the familiar lumps and bulges of weaponry in his pockets. The flashbangs and miniature explosives he’d brought to the bar came with him, but so did several larger grenades, the type that, for his own safety, he generally avoided in indoor spaces unless they came with a secure and expedient exit strategy. He left several guns strategically visible while concealing the rest of his personal armory, until at last he felt he could fit no more into his clothing without hampering his movement dangerously. He glanced at his helmet with a brief pang of longing, but the Red Hood didn’t operate in Star City, at least not when Jason Peters was trying to keep his cover.

At eight pm sharp, his phone buzzed with the promised coordinates. A quick search revealed them to be smack in the middle of some abandoned lot on the outskirts of the city, near a ghost town of warehouses. Then, with one last check of his inventory, he set off on his new motorcycle for the meet up.

Over the past week, he’d studied the city’s layout in order to familiarize himself with the major neighborhoods and throughways, but as he drove through the underbelly of the city — past crumbling facades and dilapidated homes — he realized just how worthless that knowledge was; nothing ever beat personal experience. He should have known better; how often had he sneered at Bruce and his arrogance, as he roamed the streets at night and claimed to understand them better than the people who lived there all their lives? Reading a map and taking walks from the hotel to the hospital would serve him better than no knowledge at all, but only just.

He parked his bike several blocks away from the meeting spot and set his usual booby traps for any ill-conceived attempts at theft. The air was already cooling as the seasons turned from summer to autumn, and his leather jacket felt snug and warm as he made his way to the abandoned lot.

Broaching the parking lot, he spotted a small cluster of people huddled beneath the weak glow of a streetlamp. No sign of anyone else yet, so he began his cautious approach. Again, he wished for his helmet; its built-in magnification would have helped him identify the people there far earlier than with the naked eye. Without that support, he proceeded with caution, keeping to the shadows and treading lightly across the cracked asphalt. One of the men twisted his head into the full halo of light, which glinted off his familiar ginger beard. It had to be Joe.

He scuffed his feet against the pavement to warn them of his approach, and their heads whipped around, gazes tense. Eight pairs of eyes regarded him warily, even those he recalled from Sal’s the other night. Sylvie, in particular, still looked skeptical, if the pistol clutched in her hand was any indication.

“You did say nine, right?” he clarified, stepping into the fuzzy glow at the edge of the light. “I was told to be punctual.”

“A man of your word, then,” said a gruff, unfamiliar voice. From behind Joe, a stocky, salt-and-pepper-bearded man emerged. The fluorescence cast his face in stark relief, highlighting the wrinkles and spots that gave away his age, and the sun damage responsible for his deep tan. If Jason had to guess his age, he’d place him at about a decade older than Joe, though probably no more than two. If this wasn’t D’Angelo, it had to be someone very high up indeed; no one stuck around in the game this long without either rising through the ranks, or suffering grievous bodily harm. Sometimes, if your lucky stars had a sense of humour, you got both at once. 

Jason straightened his posture. “D’Angelo.”

The man smiled, revealing straight but yellowed teeth, the product of a lifetime’s close acquaintance with nicotine. He turned to Joe, who seemed less than pleased at being singled out. “You show this kid my yearbook photo or something?”

“I’m not sure how much a yearbook photo would help at this point,” said Jason. “Is there an age filter I don’t know about?”

Joe’s eyes snapped to Jason, disbelief and a tinge of fear etched into his face. For a moment, nobody breathed.

Then D’Angelo laughed, a full, barrel-chested, heaving laugh that doubled him over and left tears of mirth in his eyes. Joe and several others chuckled nervously, clearly more relieved than amused.

“You’re the one who knows Katz, right?” said D’Angelo, collecting himself.

“That’s me,” he said.

“You put the fear of God into a few of my people the other night,” said D’Angelo, his previously jovial smile sharpening into a calculated consideration of Jason’s character.

“Did I?”

“Don’t bullshit me,” said D’Angelo. His eyes flashed dangerously as, just for a moment, the veneer of friendly civility dissipated. Then a split second later, all Jason could see was his amiable expression once more. And the two guns tucked into his own waistband.

“I had a little fun,” Jason admitted, keeping his tone breezy. His fingers wandered towards his own weapons instinctively.

“Hmm,” said D’Angelo. “I’ll bet. Did Joe here tell you what our noble purpose is tonight?”

“Only that I should come on time. And come prepared.”

D’Angelo snorted. “Figures. He never was much of a talker, isn’t that right?” Joe jerked his head in what approximated a nod. Jason felt more and more that it was only thanks to D’Angelo that he was included in tonight’s escapades, or even included in anything other than an assassination plot with his head on the block. Though Joe clearly deferred to D’Angelo, as did everyone else, his displeasure with the conversation radiated off in tangible waves. Chips of pavement crunched beneath his feet as he ground into them with his boot in irritation.

It almost reminded him of his Robin years, in the months before his death, when he'd already begun to chafe at Bruce’s orders while still struggling with his natural, built-in inclination to defer, if only for safety, to the man who’d rescued him from the streets. But Joe seemed too old, and far too scrappy, for such puppy-dog loyalty.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the invitation,” he said, “but I would love to know how I can be of service tonight.”

“Protection,” said D’Angelo, straightening his posture. He still stood nearly half a foot below Jason. “I want to see how you perform under pressure, see if you crack.” He tilted his head. “Your background checked out, far as I could tell. I know you’re not Katz, but if you’re even half as good as he is, I’m willing to take my chances.”

Dick had certainly made an impression. “I’ll try to measure up,” he said dryly.

“Don’t bother,” said one of the younger men to the left of Joe. He grinned wickedly. “It’s hard to beat saving a man’s life.”

“Shut it, Ed,” said another man, but from Joe’s flushed cheeks and Ed’s nervous twitch, they all knew he’d spilled something confidential, at least around a relative stranger.

“It’s okay, Carlos,” said D’Angelo. “I’m sure Katz would have told Jason eventually.”

“Told me what?”

“Gray saved Joe’s life,” piped up Ed enthusiastically. “Took all those bullets for him.”

Ah. So perhaps that was the reason that Joe hadn’t shot Jason on the spot, with or without his boss’s approval. He owed Dick, owed him more than he could ever repay short of returning the favor himself. No wonder he looked so uncomfortable; Joe didn’t strike Jason as the type of man comfortable with living in debt.

Internally, he kept his focus on the movements of those around him, the still suspicious glances which tingled at the hairs on the back of his neck, but on the exterior, he allowed himself a hearty laugh. “Just like Grayson. Far too noble for his own good.”

“I’ll say,” said Carlos. “He refuses to kill anyone. Never even seen him fire his gun.”

Typical. This is why Dick should have brought him in from the outset; it was only a matter of time before hell broke loose if he went undercover without equal footing. Nightwing was one matter, but Grayson Katz wasn’t Nightwing, couldn’t be him.

“He didn’t need to,” said Ed, a tinge of awe in his voice. It seemed Dick had picked up a fan along the way. “Did you see his moves? Do you think they taught him that at the circus?”

“Like hell they did,” said Jason. “He learned to fight from someone else.”

“Who?” said Ed, focusing some of his admiration on Jason now.

“Same person who taught me,” said Jason, letting a bit of his Hood persona bleed into his grin. “I just play dirtier than he does.”

Several people, not just Ed, eyed Jason intently, curiosity warring with skepticism and uncertainty.

Fortunately for Jason and his undercover identity — really, he did need to flesh out his background a little more so he didn’t slip up by mistake — Joe cleared his throat, and everyone’s attention snapped back to the situation at hand. Jason focused on the small cluster of people approaching from the darkness, aglow with the moonlight and the occasional wash of a flickering lamp. All of them were sharply dressed in suits, and all of them were younger than Joe. Whoever these people were, they weren’t local organized crime; they clearly lived in a different echelon from everyone here, save perhaps D’Angelo himself. 

Jason’s new boss stepped forward, hand proffered. “Alexander. Good to see you.”

A tall, thin, blond man at the lead of the posse, who must have been Alexander, nodded in reply. His nose wrinkled and he clasped D’Angelo’s hand for only a second. “Yes, well met,” he said, and Jason’s ears perked at his accent, which hailed from somewhere in Eastern Europe, even if he couldn’t identify the exact country. The rest of his appearance — his slicked back hair, well-tailored suit, smattering of freckles across his cheeks — was entirely, blandly nondescript, reminiscent of a stock photo.

“Long plane flight, I bet,” said D’Angelo affably. “Hope the time zone isn’t killing you.”

“I have already been in this country for several weeks,” said Alexander. “I am meeting all of my… local distributors on this trip.”

Joe’s nostrils flared at the condescension, but D’Angelo’s gracious smile never wavered. “Welcome to Star City then. I trust you’ve enjoyed some of what she has to offer.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” said Alexander. “Although I have a flight to New York in the evening, provided we can settle our business tonight.”

The change was subtle, but Jason noticed as D’Angelo’s posture straightened and his chin jutted forward. “I appreciate your efficiency.”

“Very well,” said Alexander. He cracked his knuckles loudly. “I understand you wish to… re-negotiate our contract. The answer is no, of course.”

Once again, Joe’s nostrils flared, but D’Angelo plastered on a smile that Jason recognized as fake only from years of careful observation and study of human behavior. Of course, Alexander had likely acquired the same skill if he’d survived so successfully in such a ruthless world.

“We’ve doubled your profits this past year,” said D’Angelo. “Such a rapid expansion has overhead costs. Distributors, bribes, security and storage… It doesn’t come cheap.”

“I hear you save if you buy in bulk,” spoke a man off to the left of Alexander. His black skin gleamed in the streetlight, and his English accent told Jason that Alexander’s operation likely extended far beyond the confines of Eastern Europe.

“That might be true for material goods, but not protection. The more territory you cover, the more you need to spend to keep your operation out of the light. Something we have been very successful at, as you are aware.”

“I see,” said Alexander. “And yet, I understand that there was an incident not two weeks ago. A competitor nearly compromising half your drug cache in the middle of a deal, well that's just embarrassing. And then barely evading the police, even with all of that commotion for cover? Perhaps you've found the limit of your abilities.”

D’Angelo swallowed hard, and his eyes flickered momentarily towards Jason, which, combined with the timing, only confirmed his suspicions. Dick’s shooting had occurred during this incident. Jason noticed how several people, including Joe and Sylvie, tightened their grip on their weapons.

“We suffered no permanent damage,” said D’Angelo.

Clearly Dick’s health didn’t factor into the calculations. Either that, or they didn’t want to reveal any level of weakness.

“And,” continued D’Angelo, “they only struck out of desperation. We crippled much of their operation thanks to the excellent work of one of our newest members. There’s still opportunity for expansion and recruitment. We’re not far off from being able to strike a killing blow.”

“Hmm,” said Alexander. He exchanged a meaningful look with the Englishman. “And how long, until you're ready?”

“Ready for what?”

Alexander raised his eyebrow. “This killing blow, of course.”

D’Angelo responded to the jab, but something tickled the hairs at the nape of Jason’s neck. No one on either side of the exchange had moved in threat or in preparation and the conversation, while hardly friendly, hadn’t curdled just yet. The prickling increased, and a strange buzzing flickered up and down his spine in a clear and present warning. Jason’s instincts told him to look beyond what he could see, beyond even what he could hear, so he closed his eyes and focused past the voices around him.

For a few moments, he stood still, forcing his mind to relax and absorb the sensations of his environment without distractions. Then he stiffened.

There was something in the air. Literally.

He snapped his eyes open and snatched D’Angelo’s wrist midair and mid-gesture. Sylvie stepped towards him with a soft growl, and even Alexander and his crew seemed taken aback by the gesture.

“Gas,” he said. “There’s gas in the air. The building’s going to blow.”

“You think this is funny?” said Sylvie.

“No,” said Jason gravely. “I know what an explosion smells like. And all of us need to run.” When no one moved, he bellowed, “Now!”

First Ed and Carlos, then several other members of D’Angelo’s crew began to run. Jason tried to tug D’Angelo along with him, but D’Angelo held fast.

“You’re making a fool of me,” he hissed, ice-cold venom laced into his words.

“Better a living fool than dead one, which will be you unless. You. Run .” He met the challenge in D’Angelo’s gaze with steely resolve.

Several people sniffed the air around. One of them — a member of Alexander’s posse — inhaled sharply and gasped. “I smell it too. We need to go.”

All hell broke loose as nearly twenty people began to sprint, spraying cracked asphalt and pebbles as their shoes skidded along the uneven surface. They were running, and still, Jason feared they wouldn’t be fast enough.

He changed a glance behind him, just in time to see the bloom of the explosion roar to life.

“Get down!” he ordered, and without thinking, he tackled the nearest person to the ground and covered them with the expanse of his body.

The noise was deafening, the heat scorching, and even fifty yards away, the force of the explosion propelled him forward until he and the person below him skidded and scraped to a halt. Something heavy pummeled into his back with bruising force, and he curled around the body below him.

For a moment, he simply lay there, waiting for the debris and dust to settle around him enough to breathe. Finally, instinct and adrenaline took back the reins, and he rolled over onto his back, gun up and ready to fight off any potential attacker.

Several people groaned and stirred from the ground beside him, their voices piercing through the ringing in his ears. One of them was the person he’d tackled, whom he now recognized as Joe. He seemed relatively unscathed from this angle, but when it came to explosions, Jason knew better than to assume.

He tapped at his shoulder. “Joe?” he said. “Joe, you good?”

Joe’s arm twitched, but he didn’t respond, either too stunned to speak or too deaf to hear Jason’s words. His legs kicked at a piece of debris on his foot, though, and that was enough to assure Jason that at least he wasn’t paralyzed. Jason staggered to his feet and nearly fell over as he stumbled across the uneven pile of brick and mortar. He cursed softly. Explosions always gutted his equilibrium, mentally as much as physically; too many bad memories, or really just the one awful one.

Several other people were sitting upright, while others still lay against the pavement. He was the first to stand. He hoped they had all been far enough away from the blast to escape serious injury, but that hardly meant they were out of danger. The building had been clearly abandoned, left derelict for years judging by the exterior, so unless they’d encountered the world’s worst luck, this was more than a simple accident; something more nefarious had caused this.

Flames still licked parts of the building as he approached, crowding hungrily over whatever flammable material still resided within the building. The heat and smoke stung his eyes when he ventured too close, and the acrid scent burned his lungs.

If someone had deliberately set the explosion, they would have stayed farther back, or they would be dead; no one could have survived inside. The blast had also taken out the streetlamp closest to the building, so Jason's only light as he peered out into the night came from the glow of the flames, the moonlight, and the distant residual light pollution of the city. He despised explosions, and yet he couldn’t deny that there was something almost hypnotic about the smoldering embers and the trails of smoke that curled up from the ground.

The sharp bang of a gunshot tore him away from his reverie. The bullet struck a broken wooden chair nearby — not too close, but close enough. Jason whipped around, searching for the shooter even as he began firing at will into the cluster of trees not thirty yards away. Stray bullets could cause just as much damage as intentional ones, after all. Indeed, a sharp cry indicated that one of his shots had hit the mark. Someone cursed, then another voice, which meant there were at least two attackers, possibly more. A quick smoke bomb from his jacket pocket provided the cover he needed to vanish from the light, and he wished more than ever for his helmet and the night-vision it provided. Once this mission with Dick wrapped up, he was never taking it off again.

There was another gunshot, this time from behind him where he’d left all of D’Angelo’s and Alexander’s lackeys. He sprinted out from the smoke just in time for another shot to go off and for a cacophony of voices to rise up from the chaos. When he emerged from the haze, he found several members of D’Angelo’s crew engaged with unknown assailants. Joe was wrestling with another man, and Ed pointed his gun in all directions as he stood over Carlos, who still seemed to be regaining his equilibrium. He looked frantically around, too panicked to notice the man from behind who had raised his gun in preparation for the killing blow.

Jason shot his hand before his fingers reached the trigger, leaving the man howling in agony as he sank to his knees. He also tossed a few small grenades towards the shadowy fingers running towards the fray from the woods; they were too small to be fatal, most likely, but not too small to cause some damage. After the detonation, he found two men lying in shock, burned and peppered with cuts. He tied two of them up handily and shot the one who resisted in the knee for good measure.

He was just about to secure the final knot on them when a familiar voice echoed through the night air.

“Jason!”

Joe had yelled his name, and without thinking further, Jason ran back into the chaos where he found Joe in a desperate struggle with a man, two blades clutched between them as they fought for leverage. Joe’s opponent forced him down, and it would only be a matter of seconds before he gained the upper hand for good.

He’d emptied his clip, and there was no time to reload, so he settled for barreling straight into the two of them, yanking Joe’s opponent away and angling the fall to land on top of him. The man grunted at the impact and bucked frantically to dislodge him, but Jason held firm until another pair of hands seized the back of his jacket and yanked. He found himself face to face with yet another attacker, this one armed with a gun, but a swift punch to the throat sent him reeling, and a follow-up kick to break his hand ensured he wouldn't be pulling a trigger anytime soon. He dropped his weapon with a scream, and Jason spun back around just in time to duck the blade headed his way at the hands of Joe’s original assailant. Jason struck back with his fists but the man dodged the counterattack, and from the way he moved, Jason could tell he’d had some training. The two of them danced around each other, Jason landing blows while dodging his opponent's, until finally he’d bought himself the few seconds necessary to reach for a blade of his own. 

For a moment they locked arms, each struggling for the upper hand and Jason wished again for his helmet and the ability to smash the man’s skull in without breaking his own head. Each pushed with equal force; the man was a mountain, standing larger than Jason, larger than Bruce , and Jason knew any slip up could cost him dearly.

And then with no warning, the man’s eyes suddenly widened, his breath hitching in a desperate gasp. His grip on Jason’s bicep slackened and he sank to the ground so fast he nearly dropped Jason with him. Jason staggered to stay upright beneath the unexpected dead weight, and when he regained his balance, he saw Joe standing over their fallen foe, knife still planted firmly in the man’s kidney.

For a moment, an eerie calm overcame the scene. Apparently, Joe had just dispensed with the final foe, and the only sounds remaining were the crackle of distant fire, and the coughs and groans of every survivor taking stock of their situation. Jason took several deep breaths of his own, fighting the leftover adrenaline in his system now that he’d beaten back the enemy. 

“Thanks for the assist,” he said. “You recognize these people?”

The man beneath them sputtered, startling them both. His breath rattled in his lungs, and blood and spit flecked the pavement as he coughed wetly, but still, he managed to speak. “We’re the ones who took out your man,” he wheezed. “The pretty one.”

So these were the fuckers responsible for shooting Dick. Jason wondered if it was too late to stick him with one of his own knives as well, maybe somewhere a little more personal.

“He’s not dead, idiot!” yelled a voice from off to the side. Ed, it seemed, had also made it out largely unscathed, and his eyes burned feverishly as he looked down at the dying man. “You didn’t do shit.”

“ Ed ,” snapped a sharp, warning voice. Sylvie had joined the party too.

“Not dead?” said the man, coughing again. “Not yet, maybe. He will be soon enough.”

Jason knelt before him and twisted the knife, enjoying the man’s scream, before finally yanking it out of his back. “It doesn’t really matter to you either way, does it hotshot?”

With a final gurgle, the man expired, and then he was just another corpse scattered amongst the rubble. Jason stood and surveyed the scene. They would need time to assess the situation, treat any of the injured. His eyes passed over the dark patch of unlit trees until something snapped into place in his brain. The men he’d tied up — where were they?

Ignoring Joe’s startled shouts behind him, he jogged over to alcove where abandoned them; he’d hoped they would stay far enough from the firefight that he could interrogate them instead of disposing of the corpses. Instead he found a trail of blood, but not one that would indicate a man having dragged himself away, bum knee and all. Jason had tied up his partner quite securely as well, but his rope lay cut and abandoned just a few short feet away. They’d escaped, and they’d had help. Either someone else from the woods, or one of the others who’d fought and then managed to slip away.

Jason cursed. Those men — whoever they were — had escaped with not only their lives, but possibly valuable knowledge as well, depending on how keen their ears were. If they’d heard it, Ed’s outburst confirmed that Dick had survived the initial attack. Somehow, he didn’t think grievous injury would satisfy them in quite the same way. Jason had stepped in, and for what? To put Dick in even more danger?

Someone jogged up behind him, limping slightly from the pattern of their gait, and halted at his side.

“Someone got away?” Joe asked roughly.

“At least two,” said Jason. “I didn’t have time to secure them properly.”

“You mean before you came in and saved my life?”

Jason swiveled to face Joe. For a moment, something flashed in Joe’s eyes that Jason couldn’t read. Gratitude, maybe, but Jason wouldn’t bet any money on that guess. He shrugged. “You returned the favor.”

“Guess I did,” said Joe. “Speaking of which, do you mind giving that back?”

“Huh?” said Jason, then glanced down at his hands, specifically at the knife still clutched in his right palm. “Oh, right.” He held it out, only to pull back a little as he noted for the first time the quality of the blade. “This is a nice one,” he said, eyeing it appreciatively as he rotated the hilt.

Joe raised an eyebrow. “It was a gift from my brother. He liked the finer things in life.”

“I’ll say,” said Jason. He held up the hilt to read the letters he’d felt engraved there, but it was too dark. “What does this say here?”

“My name,” said Joe. “You giving it back or not?”

Jason passed it over without further question and shoved both hands into the pockets of his jacket. He rocked back on his heels, staring once again off into the woods. “So now what?”

Joe looked at him strangely. “You’re thinking ahead already?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. You could start by stitching up that cut on your leg, maybe avoid following Katz into the ER.”

“Huh?” Jason looked down, and as if waiting for visual confirmation, his body chimed in with its own information. Now that he was paying attention, there was indeed a sharp throb at the outside of his hip that corresponded to a gash in the fabric of his pants. It was difficult to see in the dim light against the black fabric, but now that he looked, there was definitely blood there. When he moved it, the tacky sensation of dried blood pulled at his skin.

Jason held out his hand. “Mind if I used your knife again? Just want to take a look and I don’t feel like stripping just yet.”

Joe handed the knife back over, and Jason used it to slice back the torn fabric. “Got a light?” he said.

Joe flicked open a cigarette lighter and held it close to the tear.

Beneath the flickering light, he could see that the cut wasn’t bad; long, but not too deep. Stitches might not be the worst idea, though. As he pulled away the fabric even further though, his breath caught and his heart skipped a beat in his chest.

“You good there?” asked Joe. “Not too bad is it?”

“No, not too bad,” he said.

“Hope you’re not shocked by the sight of a little blood,” said Joe.

“Trust me,” said Jason. “That’s not it.”

Because it wasn’t Jason’s injury that had earned a gasp. No, that honor went to the knife currently pulling his pant leg apart. Specifically, the name that glinted playfully in the flickering light of the flame. The name inscribed there — the name which Joe said was his own, even if it didn’t match the one on his file — read Joseph Zucco, and Jason would have bet his entire weapon stash that his brother was named Tony. Somehow, Dick had tracked down the brother of the man responsible for his parent’s murder. And now both Dick and Jason had saved his life. 

Jason had waded far deeper into Dick’s life than he’d realized, and the knowledge sat like lead inside his gut. Just what were Dick plan to do with this man?