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Every time Dick thought he knew the extent of the depravity in Gotham’s underbelly, he was proven wrong.
“Robin,” he called out scratchily. There was no danger of being overheard, he couldn’t raise his voice any higher. “Robin.”
Robin remained a limp pile of limbs in the other cage. Dick couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.
A wave of jeers echoed from somewhere deeper in the building and Dick squirmed closer to the cage bars, having long since given up on undoing the restraints. He didn’t have the hand-eye coordination for it, not when the world was fuzzing in and out and his stomach was roiling and his mouth tasted like something unpleasant.
“Robin,” he tried again, desperately wishing that the boy would stir, “Robin, please get up.”
It was supposed to be a routine patrol. Batman had a League mission, Alfred had accompanied Bruce Wayne on ‘business’, and Dick had dropped by from Bludhaven to partner with Robin for patrol. No Arkham breakout, no big cases, it was just supposed to be a fun weekend with his brother.
“Robin,” Dick’s voice cracked and tears blurred his vision behind his mask. He didn’t know what they’d given them, only that they’d blacked out somewhere in Burnley, Dick had woken up five minutes ago, and Robin hadn’t stirred. “Please wake up, baby bird, you have to wake up.”
No one listening to the comms. No one watching their trackers. No one was coming.
Dick attempted to pick at the knots again, but the effort drained his energy and he slumped against the floor, panting. They needed to get out of here. There were—there were people out there, people calling out awful things, Dick could hear snippets of their voices amidst the cheers and roars. Whoever had captured them didn’t intend to keep them, and that was what terrified Dick.
“Robin, please,” Dick tried again, hoarse and desperate, and there was no response.
The cheers cut out to sudden, ringing silence.
Dick twisted his head up, heart pounding and stomach twisting, but there was no one walking through the gloom. No sign of what had cowed a crowd of Gotham’s underworld into shutting up. Batman, a part of Dick said eagerly, the part that had never forgotten that he’d once been Robin, but he was older and wiser now, and he knew that Batman couldn’t work miracles.
A deafening roar of noise and Dick braced as it washed over him. It sounded…jubilant, jubilant and vicious and angry, and Dick swallowed against a thick throat as he heard the sound of booted footsteps underneath the noise. Not good.
“Robin!” he hissed again, struggling more fiercely against his bonds—if he could just free himself from the rope binding his wrists to his ankles, he could pick the lock on the cage and—
Robin stirred faintly just as the booted footsteps stalked into view.
The feeling of relief was forestalled by the smarmy grin of the lead thug. “It is indeed a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Hood,” Smarmy smiled widely at his companion, followed by three guards.
“I told you,” the red-helmeted guy said, voice mechanized and cold, “I want to verify the authenticity of the goods first.” Dick remembered the note in the Batcomputer, something about a duffel bag of heads and a lightning-fast takeover of Crime Alley. That getup—not everyone in Gotham would recognize it, but Dick knew that the Red Hood was the Joker’s old name.
The pit dropped out of his stomach.
“Of course, of course,” Smarmy said obsequiously, “Feel free to check them yourself. They’re the genuine article—my men captured them swinging through the air.”
Hood stepped forward and Dick met those glowing white eyes, struggling not to bare his teeth. If this man had bought them—if this was one of the Joker’s tricks—
The man turned away from him and stared at Robin. His hands were twitching, like he wanted to ball them into fists, and they were drifting awfully close to his guns. Dick could feel the murderous aura.
“Yeah,” Hood said shortly, “It’s the real deal.”
“Like I told you,” Smarmy started, but Hood cut him off.
“Bring them to my truck,” Hood said, already stalking away, “You can get your guys to unload the kryptonite.”
“Of course, and thank you again, Mr. Hood—” the man vanished into the gloom before Smarmy had finished speaking.
Dick and Robin were unceremoniously pulled out of the cages—Robin clearly wasn’t conscious, but Dick was reassured by the steady heartbeat underneath the costume—and dragged to a massive truck parked in the back. People were unloading crates out of the back and Dick caught sight of an open one before he realized what it was.
Sickly green. Kryptonite. Dick had never seen so much of it, and especially not in Gotham.
He didn’t get the chance to dwell—this was a Watchtower-level threat, but there was no one to contact—as he was roughly hauled into the back of the truck. Robin was dropped on top of him, making Dick wheeze as his ribs were constricted.
The truck door slammed shut and the floor began vibrating beneath them as the engine turned on. The shakiness of the drugs had slightly dissipated and Dick took a deep breath before worrying away at his bonds again.
The good news was that he managed to fray the rope enough to snap through the knot tying his wrists to his ankles. The bad news was that when Hood stopped the truck and yanked open the back door, all Dick could see was the steel gray of an underground bunker.
Hood didn’t say a word, didn’t even acknowledge him, just reached in and hauled Robin out, throwing him over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Wait!” came tearing out of Dick’s throat as he wriggled upright, “Wait, where are you talking him?”
Hood didn’t respond, swiftly walking away. Dick’s limbs were still uncoordinated and not willing to listen to him, but he managed to peel himself off the riveted steel and roll out of the truck.
Underground bunker was the right guess, there was a ramp leading up to a set of steel doors and Hood was keying in a code to open the other door. Dick assumed they were in Crime Alley and hobbled after Hood as fast as he could.
“Stop!” Dick tried to make his voice firm, Nightwing’s quiet steel, but it ended up hoarse and desperate, “Wait!”
Hood didn’t stop or wait. Dick caught the edge of the heavy door before it shut and continued limping after the man, blearily aware that he was in a corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly. He stumbled and the world spun into a dizzying mix of grays. By the time it stopped, Dick realized he was slumped on the ground.
Robin and Hood were nowhere in sight.
No, something screamed inside Dick’s head, the same sick, swooping feeling he’d had when he returned to Earth to see the somber expression on Alfred’s face. No, not again, please not again—if there was any justice in this world, he wouldn’t fail another Robin.
If there was any justice in the world, he wouldn’t have become Robin in the first place.
Dick took a deep breath and shouted, as loudly as he could, “Hood! Hood! Where are you?” He continued yelling until he heard the loud slam of a door and heavy, angry footsteps.
“What?” Hood snarled, the distorted voice loud and menacing. With Dick on his knees, he was abruptly aware of how much bigger Hood was. It wasn’t just the red helmet and body armor and leather jacket, Hood was nearly as built as Batman, and moved like he knew it too. “Did you want a gag? Because I’m not—”
“Where’s Robin?” Dick unstuck his mouth to ask.
The red helmet looked cold and forbidding. “Somewhere he can’t fly away. What’s it to you?”
“Please,” Dick swallowed thickly, “Please, leave him alone. Take me instead—” don’t let me fail another little brother, oh gods, please—“He’s just a kid—”
“Take you?” Hood sneered, “You’re old news, Nightwing. I’m much more interested in Batman’s shiny new Robin.”
Dick’s stomach ended up somewhere in his feet. No didn’t quite make it past his throat. His strength was returning, but not fast enough to take on Hood in a direct fight. And if he couldn’t fight directly—deflect. Distract. Buy some more time.
He’d been too far to save one brother. He wasn’t too far now.
“He’s a kid,” Dick said softly, slumping deeper into the sprawl, spreading his knees enough to sit flat on the floor. He looked up at Hood at an angle, knowing that his lips were bitten and red. It didn’t take much effort to make his voice come out in a breathy rasp. “I have more experience. I’m more flexible.” He stressed the word, his stomach cramping painfully at Hood’s unmoving countenance. “If you leave Robin alone, I promise, I’ll make it good—”
“The fuck is wrong with you,” Hood jerked—back, where Dick had expected him to move forward. The hunch to his shoulders was defensive, “I’m not going to rape you!” Oh. Well, that was a relief. But—“Or Robin!” Hood said loudly, correctly interpreting Dick’s flinch.
“Then,” Dick swallowed, and this time it was easier, “Then why did you buy us?” Where the hell had so much kryptonite come from, and why had Hood given it up to buy two heroes if he wasn’t going to do anything to them?
“What, did you want to become a mobster’s plaything?” Hood sneered, shaking his head, “Jesus, Dickie.”
Dick froze.
“What did you call me?”
Hood went still. Dick stared at him, caught halfway between shock and horror—he’d been called a dick numerous times, it was a common insult, but very few people had ever called him Dickie. None matched Hood’s body type.
“I called you Dick,” Hood said, the heaviness to his tone indicating it wasn’t just an insult, “Because that’s what you are.” Dick was teetering on the edge, caught between he-can’t-possibly-know and how-the-hell-does-he-know. “How’s Bruce by the way?” Hood asked, deliberately casual, “There’s only so much you can tell from the tabloids.”
He knew.
He knew.
He—Dick didn’t know how, his mask was still on, Robin—Tim—but he couldn’t have figured it out that fast, Tim’s face wasn’t that recognizable—he knew he knew he knew—did the thugs know? The guy who captured them? Where was he getting his information how many other people knew how far had it spread how far was it spreading how could Dick do damage control when he didn’t even know where to start?
The last time someone had figured out his identity…
The laughter ringing in his ears, cold and cruel and maliciously satisfied. Dick was frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think.
“Move aside, Nightwing.”
Cat had a gun. He kept trying to teach her that killing wasn’t the answer, but she had a gun. He was in her way. In the way of the gun.
“Move aside, Nightwing.”
Blockbuster promised to ruin his life. To kill anyone and everyone he cared about, to destroy everything he loved, to turn his every step into death and destruction. He laughed as he told Dick that he’d murder anyone who so much as smiled at him.
“Move aside, Nightwing.”
He couldn’t think. He couldn’t—he didn’t know what to do. He looked up, and Cat’s eyes were narrowed in fierce determination. She knew what to do.
Dick stepped aside.
The bang and blood and Blockbuster’s dying gasp and everything was ringing and—
“Shh, querido, shh, he can’t hurt us anymore—”
“Shit, Dickie, Dick, breathe, come on—”
Someone was pulling him and he didn’t know where they were taking him but nothing mattered, not when he was the harbinger of death—
“I’ll make you feel better, shh, come on, I’ll make it all better—”
“I’m sorry, Dickiebird, crap, I was being an asshole, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you—”
“He’s gone, mi amor, he’s gone, it’s just you and me—”
“Deep breaths, Dickie, it’s okay, it’s just you and me—”
Hands on him. Hands moving. Hands tightening in his hair—“No,” Dick croaked out weakly, knowing it was useless, knowing they wouldn’t stop.
To his surprise, they did.
“No?” said a rough, gravelly voice, “No, you don’t want me to touch you?”
That wasn’t Cat’s voice. Dick came back to himself in parts—the softness underneath him wasn’t rooftop gravel, the gunpowder scent was faint, there was no rain, he was wrapped in a thick, heavy blanket and the hands were hovering above his shoulders.
He was—in a room. On a couch. With—Dick blinked. And then blinked harder. And blinked again, staring into green eyes on a face that was older and harder than he last remembered it, but still so achingly familiar.
“Jason?” Dick said slowly. This was not a good time to start hallucinating—except this didn’t feel like a hallucination. He felt present, and scared, and real.
Dick pressed a bare hand to Jason’s cheek. It was warm.
“Hey, Dickiebird,” Jason’s face split into an unsure smile. It was a mirror of the one that he’d given Dick the very first time they’d met. Dick stared at him, older and bigger and flickering green eyes and a white streak of hair and—it couldn’t be.
His little brother was dead. His little brother was dead, and miracles weren’t real. Jason couldn’t—couldn’t come back from the dead, couldn’t be walking around, couldn’t be the Red Hood—but the skin under his fingers was warm.
Making a split-second decision, Dick curled his fingers and raked his nails down the soft skin. “Ow,” Jason reacted instantly, hissing and jerking back and clapping a hand to his cheek, “What the fuck was that for?”
Dick stared at his fingers. Rubbed them. “You’re not Clayface,” Dick said numbly.
“You didn’t have to claw my face off to check that, Jesus Christ, Dickie—”
“Jason?”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” the man grumbled, looking at Dick with an aggrieved expression, “Honestly, what drugs are you on—”
“The first time I took you train surfing,” Dick said. His heart was beating painfully hard, a desperate, foolish hope rising inside of him—it couldn’t be Jason, Jason was dead, but what if—and every inch of him was humming in anticipation.
“What?”
“What happened the first time I took you train surfing?” Dick repeated, the words stumbling over each other in his effort to push them out. Jason blinked at him, confusion clear, and Dick waited, his heart caught in a throat.
A beat. Two.
Jason’s expression was changing. His skin was turning darker, his jaw harder, his green eyes flashed.
Three beats. Four.
He was embarrassed. “Really, Dickie?” Jason groaned.
“I didn’t tell anyone and I know you wouldn’t. So tell me what happened the first time I took you train surfing,” Dick said flatly. He needed an answer. He needed it now.
Jason dragged a hand over his face before groaning loudly and staring determinedly at his lap. “I chickened out,” he hissed, low and furiously mortified, “I couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t get on, and you bought me consolation ice cream and swore you wouldn’t tell anyone.” Jason dragged his gaze up, cheeks still red, “Are you happy now—”
His voice cut out with a wheeze as Dick tackled him, chest clenching painfully and eyes prickling and his little brother was alive.
“I still need air,” Jason groused, but he hugged Dick back so Dick didn’t care. “Are you crying?” Dick pressed his face harder against Jason’s armor and didn’t even try to suppress the sobs. “Why are you crying?”
“I m—missed you,” Dick gasped, and everything hurt so much but he never wanted to let go, “I missed you s—so much, Jaybird.”
There was a long pause before Jason spoke up, voice gruff, “S’okay. I’m here now.” Dick tightened his grip. “Fuck, Dickie,” Jason’s voice sounded wet, “You’re going to m—make me cry now.”
Dick couldn’t stop the sobs even if he tried, they tore out of him, shuddering and shaking and acutely painful, and all he could do was hold onto Jason as tears streamed down his face. Jason held him just as tight, sniffling as well, and it was a stretching eternity before either of them let go.
“I need tissues,” Dick sniffled wetly, several other practical considerations muscling their way in, “And where’s Tim?”
“You better not have gotten snot all over my jacket,” Jason grumbled, but he didn’t let go of Dick’s arm when he detached from the hug to grab the tissue box on the coffee table, “The kid’s in the bedroom. What the fuck did they give him, he’s completely out of it.”
“Don’t know,” Dick paused to blow his nose loudly and attempt to mop up his face, “Is he okay?”
“He’ll be fine,” Jason huffed, “My street cred, on the other hand, will not. You have any idea what the market value of four tons of kryptonite is?”