Chapter Text
A joke’s supposed to be funny.
At least, that’s what Dick keeps repeating to himself.
A million metaphors swim in his head as he sways deliriously. Lethargy pin his feet down to the ground. Barely standing, Dick’s now a thousand pound marionette. Limbs made of lead, string restricts his movements and hinder his dance.
Unable to gracefully waltz across building tops, Dick finds himself alone on the edge of nowhere. Having inched out death a mere hour ago, Dick regrets not having back-up. Regrets recklessly running into danger alone. Regrets the sins of his past that led to Nightwing taking on the dangers of the city alone. With two gargoyles perched on either side of his aching body, Dick’s moments away from passing out. Inches from his comm, a finger hovers hesitatingly. Shame stops him from calling his brothers for assistance because, with no reason for his torpor, Dick has nothing to request. No real cause of distress or need of assistance. Just a tired body from a night performing alone for an empty audience.
Initially, he had come to Gotham for a nonsense reason. To visit family, reconnect with some old friends, yadda, yadda.
Now, one night turned into two, which quickly turned into a month.
Somehow.
Alongside pretending to be shocked at how that’s happened, Dick’s followed along with Bruce’s— no, sorry, Batman’s — orders this entire time. Trapezing rooftops as Nightwing has been a blast, even with the Bat’s overbearing nature. But a month of brothers avoiding him for reasons unknown breaks his heart. Leaves him feeling empty, forgotten, forsaken.
Call him a sap, but he’s missed his family and doesn’t want an unnecessary fight to ruin it, even if he doesn’t know what the fight had been.
But from Gotham’s hilariously unfunny clown prince to its horrendous street gangs, Dick can almost say he’s missed the city too.
Patrolling without the baby birds, due to fair reasons or foul, led to him sitting alone on the edge of some old building. Unsteady, Dick holds a death grip to the edge of the roof. Despite wearing kevlar gloves, gripping the ledge leave rocks biting his skin.
A soft breeze carries comfort, and dark clouds shroud him with a feeling of familiarity.
With no real motivation to head home any time soon, Dick cranes his head to look up, vertebrae cracking to the motion. Light pollution hide the sky’s stars underneath a blanket of nothing, but long past nights touring with the circus had taught him about the hidden beauty smog hides. Beneath his eyelids, Dick can admire the constellations. It’s with them open that they’re hidden.
Nausea waves into Dick, but in an act of rebellion, his eyes try finding Orion’s Belt. Darkness hides it alongside every other constellation. In spite of that, just remembering the familiarity of it eases his lonely fear for a second, letting him catch his breath.
Unperturbed, he settles for just gazing at the all-encompassing sky while listening to his brothers babble on the comm system. Chittering and chattering amongst themselves, acting oblivious to their brother’s return to Gotham. Purposeful words twirl in and out, silent only when Nightwing dare tries to join in conversations.
Even now that he’s in town, Dick’s almost certain that his brothers have only exchanged a sparse amount of words to him. But if the sinking feeling in his gut says anything, it’s that he just has to stick out the drought for the rainy season.
No. That doesn’t make sense.
But maybe he’ll be able to catch up with the elusive birds eventually. For now, he’s content to patrol Gotham and tackle its crazies feeling alone.
He doesn’t know when or why it happens, but the end of everything has just begun.
Shaking limbs, cold sweat drips from Dick’s brow, staining brown suede cushions.
Time blending with reality steal moments. Because when did the patrol end? How did he end up here?
“Nightwing, focus,” Bruce barks, finger snapping quickly, “Are you following the mission?”
Investigating a series of strange deaths— rumors had been floating around about Scarecrow’s latest experiment, flashing neon signs point to that. Fog in Dick’s ears block the how’s and why’s he desperately wants to ask. But sitting here with Bruce— no, Batman— leave him drowning.
Time blurs again. Feet stumbling alone once more, Nightwing feels sticky. With gloves wrapping around fingers, with numb skin yearning for any connection.
Alone. Always alone.
A tip led to him being there. Thanks to his connections on the police force— correction: thanks to Amy— Dick’s found two recent victims to his ongoing investigation without all the typical violence.
So, Dick’s obviously not going to look a gift horse in the mouth and not use the information. But, somehow, he’s still annoyed.
Annoyed that he can hear Batman talk in his ear but not have him talk to him. Annoyed that Nightwing is chasing a ghost alone again.
Hot, humid air engulf him, quickening the smell of decaying flesh. Sidestepping a misplaced limb, Dick’s careful to not soil his Nightwing suit. (Which is quite possibly the only clean one he has at the moment.) Nose twitching, he can hardly take note of the scene with the way his eyes are watering.
Yeah. He’s definitely annoyed.
Alright, so maybe investigating a recent, hours-fresh murder scene alone hadn’t been his best idea ever. But who knew he’d get locked in the place of death?
Would anyone have joined him if he had asked for assistance?
Having accidentally jammed the doorknob, Dick wishes he had been trapped in a room with, at the minimum, one window.
Actually, at this point, he’d settle for having even just an air vent.
Due to his lovely brothers currently not answering his calls, Nightwing sits patiently waiting for his investigative partner to swing by. The one person who should have joined him when the plan had been formed. Who had chosen to inspect her nails and sit in silence while he explained the layout, what tools to bring, and what the symptoms and signs there were to find.
But it’s okay. Because when isn’t Nightwing alone these days.
Patiently, time slows.
With nothing to keep busy, Dick buzzes restlessly on the only non-blood splattered furniture in the apartment. Floorboards moan underneath his tapping foot. If anyone lived below, Dick knows a landlord would’ve been called ages ago regarding a noise complaint.
He’d long since finished analyzing the blood splatters on the floor and logging evidence. Within the first hour, Dick had even tried counting every tile on the floor, as well as airing out the stale room
Nonetheless, musty air hugs his chest, suffocating his lungs.
And with nothing to do comes intrusive thoughts. Ifs and whys and hows swirl in his head. The inevitable questions pop up too. If only for a brief moment, Dick’s plagued by what he did wrong.
Long forgetting about why he’s there, Nightwing’s mind loop back to his family. The silent treatment. The blank stares. How none of them seem to remember who he is these days. No reason comes to mind, but his skin crawls with the thought that his family’s upset with him.
Blood turning to ice, Dick’s heart seizes at the very notion that he’s alone. Figuratively, of course. But literally being trapped alone in a room with sticking blood and torn apart furniture doesn’t quite help either.
Maybe he can make everything okay and shake away this invisible conviction of his mistakes. Maybe he can keep his brothers. Maybe… everything can be fine.
Or maybe Jason and Tim could just pick up the goddamn phone next time.
Dick needs his brothers to talk to him, to reciprocate phone calls, invitations out, to show they care .
For now, it’s okay that they don’t. So long as he can earn back their trust eventually.
Dick can’t quite remember the reason behind their ongoing squabble, but it might have something to do with the bodies he’s currently hanging out with.
Running a hand over the chair’s arms, the reason behind his current feud with Jason and Tim evades his mind. Something’s forever wrong within the entire family, and it feels like there’s never a real reason for it.
Tired to the bone, Dick’s been busy. But nothing explains how brittle he feels on the inside.
Someone has to wear black and blue. Someone has to run around as a bird-themed hero. Someone has to be stretched thin, constantly tired, always on the move….
Someone has to—
“Ring, ring, bird brain.”
Completely oblivious to her having pried the door open, Dick turns to see Stephanie step out of the shadows. The only working lamp in the room dances light across her purple suit and highlights the dark red on the now-open door.
Dick’s glad there aren’t any mirrors in the room... Fluorescent lights would only accentuate the nightmare reality the room brings.
Spreading her arms out triumphantly, she says, “I hope you weren’t waiting too long for me, pretty boy.”
A smile stretches her lips, but Dick immediately notices the black ring around her eye.
Attempting nonchalance and ignoring the mind-numbing boredom he’s been suffering from, Dick quips, “Not a problem. You alright though, Spoiler? Your eye looks a little…”
Shitty is what he wants to say. Before he can continue, Steph shrugs, waving him off.
Right . No need to be personal. No need to share secrets. No need to be anything more than work accomplices.
Maybe that’s his ongoing problem with Jason and Tim. Should he stop pretending to be their brother?
Heart suddenly restricting, Dick realizes that recently there’s no connection between them anymore. Jason and him, as well as Tim and him... Really, it feels that way between him and everyone. When will Damian completely stop answering his calls? Bruce? Does Bruce even answer currently?
“I’m here to save the day. No need to fear.”
Casual and smooth. Besides this case, maybe he really has nothing to fear. Maybe it’s all in his head.
Dick wants to ask where she’s been, what took her so long. Afraid to know though, the questions remain unsaid, burning away at his nerves.
Chuckling softly, Dick’s glad for her happiness. Who knew someone could make a room with two decaying bodies seem so exciting?
Holding up a tray of vials, her bright voice announces, “Time to take some dead people’s blood!”
Dick springs to a standing position and snags one from the tray. Acting as though he hadn’t done that hours ago when they were supposed to meet here. Quickly getting to work again, absentminded hands twirl syringes, and a choreography of limbs dance around the victims.
A fan spins quietly in the background, but it does nothing to freshen up the room. Morbid thoughts eat at his head, and it feels as though bugs have burrowed within his flesh.
Maybe this will be him one day.
Having some sadistic villain’s plot drive him to insanity. All to what… Cause chaos?
Maybe it won’t be from this— or, at least, he hopes it won’t be.
From the data collected in previous samples of this investigation, it’s been found that the toxin doesn’t cause direct death.
No.
It’s what it causes the victim to do that kills them.
Mindlessly pacing concrete, Dick finds himself in the Bat Cave once more. The sound of furious typing serenades the bats above, and Dick almost regrets having come down.
Skin crawling, a distracted hand rubs his left shoulder. With drafty air pressing into cold limbs, Dick almost wishes he had worn a jacket... Is it still jacket weather? Something about March coming in like a lion and leaving like a lamb rings in his ears, but the phrase feels wrong. Maybe it’s sweater season then.
But that’s not right. The phrase must have a better meaning.
With no time to sort his thoughts, Dick braces on in the cold room— cave?— and finds himself a foot away from the cause of all the ruckus.
Red Robin, in all his glory.
Perspiration spreads between thin fingers, and a stab of pain runs alongside his head. There’s no better time than now to sort out their squabble though. Anxiety only shows that he cares, right?
Skipping towards the system, heels click underneath flailing limbs. To join the typing, tapping feet help orchestrate subtle music too.
“Hey there, little bird.”
Swaying from side-to-side, Dick leans next to the main monitor. Watching Tim with eyes half-closed, Dick begins to regret having walked down even more than he had a few moments ago.
No response comes as the typing doesn’t pause.
Not surprising, albeit disappointing.
Persevering, Dick continues, “Interesting case there, Timbers?”
Throwing his arm against the leather computer chair, Dick considers patting Tim’s shoulder. Though, not one to particularly enjoy annoying others— despite what some might claim— he steps back instead and shrugs.
That’s fine. Tim gets quiet when he’s working. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s fine.
Still, it’s disheartening to see that Tim’s still giving him the silent treatment. Black spots swirl in Dick’s vision. It feels as though he swallowed a mouth full of batteries. Acid swims in his throat, limiting his breathing, quickening the pulse that drums in his ears.
Alright. So, maybe his and his brothers’ problems are a bit more than “Dick’s being overbearing”. It’s clearly edged more into “If we ignore him completely, maybe he’ll stay out of our way”.
That’s fine.
Maybe if the noise quiets in his ears, he could’ve heard Tim’s reply.
Toxicology has never been his strong suit.
As Nightwing, Dick likes to stick to more cold cut cases. Stopping robberies and drug busts, mostly. Sure, he has to deal with the occasional supervillain on his own, but not nearly as frequently as he had to as Robin.
Blüdhaven, for all of its faults, lacks the crazies that Gotham has. Shimmying into black and blue spandex— while a chore on its own— doesn’t usually ignite a ceaseless stream of anxiety in his veins.
Well, not the way it does in Gotham, at least.
For all his bravado, Dick can comfortably admit to his own hesitation when it comes to Batman’s city. Recently, the city’s smog has been suffocating him.
Stuck away from home, Dick sits staring intently at a screen of numbers, lines, and medical nonsense. Identifying the cause of the two people’s death was… hazy. While he doesn’t have detailed reports of what the drug makes people do, he can easily identify its patterns in the victims’ blood and unique marks on the body. At every scene, the victims follow a similar pattern.
Laceration wounds. Bruised handprints on throats. Scratch marks up and down exposed skin. Sometimes, the victims’ eye sockets have been… Well, empty would be an easy way to explain it.
Disturbing would be describing it all lightly.
It’s only March, and Dick’s heard enough about scarecrows to satisfy his Halloween desires for the year. Staring at reports and data makes his head spin, and he’s jealous that Stephanie got out of the case. Reviewing data and making connections only calls for one person, apparently.
(Bruce had been adamant that they would have to infiltrate Crane’s lab as a team though. That’s something that keeps slipping Dick’s head.)
“Do you need me to repeat what I just said?” Batman asks quietly, breaking his train of thought.
Startled, Dick sits up straighter and turns his attention back to Bruce. The chair creaks under the sudden movement, popping in his ears dimly.
Dick wants to say yes, if only to prolong the inevitable silence that will follow him out the door. But instead, he sighs, waving a hand absentmindedly.
Softly, Dick replies, “Of course not, B. I’ll review the chemical agents now.”
Having lost himself in thought mid-conversation should embarrass him more, but Dick knows Bruce doesn’t have a high enough opinion of him for this to really matter.
Nonetheless, Bruce’s gaze burns, but Dick quickly turns away to look at the monitor. Of course, just his luck, the case he and Spoiler had been working on came up definitely positive as a link to Scarecrow’s work.
Wonderful.
With an ample amount of blood spread throughout the crime scene, Dick’s tired of seeing the color. In evidence photos and through sample collection, Dick swears that he can see it with his eyes closed. Reminding him of the stars he sees hidden beneath his skin. But a bone-deep ache crushes him where he sits. Tired of the mind-numbing case that pokes at his heart and twists at his gut.
He’s tired of Gotham.
A staggering number of bodies have shown signs of Scarecrow’s latest toxin, and the symptoms the bats have been able to collect are… worrying.
“We’ll see you in a few weeks,” Bruce says.
“Remind me again,” Dick asks, “Where’re you even going?”
If Bruce were any other person, he would’ve rolled his eyes. Instead, he tosses a file at Dick and continues walking out the cave without a word.
Despite Bruce’s inaudible steps, something in the cave rings in Dick’s ears. A figurative band of tension tightens around his forehead as he forces himself to open the manila folder. Pulse pounding in his temples, the black ink blurs for a moment as he presses himself to read the report.
Ah. Another Justice League mission. Dick would’ve loved to have gone on one when he was Robin, so maybe he should be excited for Damian. Regardless, a sour feeling of jealousy settles in his stomach instead.
With his youngest brother leaving town, Dick feels more alone than ever. Tim still hasn’t indulged him with his presence, despite living under the same roof for the time being. And Jason certainly hasn’t made an effort to return his calls either.
Whatever. Dick can handle the loneliness Gotham brings without relying on his family. (Or had he decided to lay off his not-quite-family? The nonreciprocal brothers?)
Feeling like too much of a nuisance, Dick’s tried to avoid bothering Stephanie too much as well. Working the case with her is one thing, but she doesn’t need to be involved with his personal life. And now that she’s off the investigation, he has no reason to call her whatsoever at the moment.
Skimming through the J.L. file further, Dick’s pleased to see that they’re venturing out to Europe. It’s a good change of pace for the Dynamic Duo. Fresh air and a new culture will at least help placate Damian for the time being. A sea away does cause his nerves to coil, but it’s for the best.
He swears. It’s for the best…
Four more bodies turn up before the week’s end.
Time spins out of control, quickening at a rate faster than normal. Minutes suddenly feel like seconds. Dick’s positive that the clock on the wall is wrong because surely today can’t be Wednesday. Yesterday had been Saturday, after all.
It’s not as though it really matters.
Four bodies. Four innocent people .
And what does he have to show for it? After working nonstop for apparently five days, Dick has learned nix.
Yeah, he knows the perpetrator behind the poison outbreak. Sure. Fat guess. What villain’s known for fear toxins in Gotham? It definitely isn’t the Penguin.
Burning like sandpaper on skin, Dick can hardly close his eyes without tears leaking.
Dry, dirty… Burrowing from within, it feels as though he swallowed a million centipedes that are only now breaking free.
Why? Why release the poison city-wide? It clearly takes several days to take full effect. Crane can’t possibly enjoy seeing his fear mongering like this. There aren’t any front-seats to this deadly show, and there’s definitely no standing ovation to celebrate either.
But also, how? Victims keep dropping at random intervals. Not enough to imply he released it airborne. Victims find themselves neighborhoods apart, too large a geographic spread for him to have released it into waterways.
Weak in the knees, Dick feels fragile. With a spine made of glass, the slightest tap could shatter him. Head swimming, Dick’s afraid to open his eyes and see a fish staring at him.
With no rhyme nor reason to explain anything, Dick’s choking on failure, on the fact that if he doesn’t shape up soon, hundreds of people will suffer.
A tunnel of black greets him as he stares and stares at reports and evidence. Laughing faces call out as he sits powerless to clawed out eyes and torn open throats.
Time for action. Time to save the day.
Leaping up, Dick snags a domino mask from the table and stalks his way to the garage.
Time for moping ended ages ago.
Trembling fingers snag a key and rip a helmet off a shelf, jamming it on his head. Rough plastic snags his glove, slowing down his frantic actions for a fleeting second.
Swinging a leg up and over, Dick settles on a motorcycle before he can really consider his game plan.
Bust in on Jonathan Crane’s lab? And do what? Break test tubes and vials until he confesses?
Sighing, Dick squeezes the bridge of his nose before starting the engine. His game plan needs work, but he has the entire ride to figure it out. An entire forty minutes.
“Dick?”
Focused on planning his route, Dick misses the call of his voice; he’s too hyper fixated on his sudden pursuit of nothing.
The voice calls for him again, but before it can reach the humming bike and anxious rider, Dick’s already kicked it into gear and is gone.