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Dick Grayson, out of the hospital, returned to Wayne Manor to have a serious conversation with Bruce. He had seen him, of course, at the hospital, the usual rerun of an all-too-familiar scene, one or the other of them having been stabbed or drowned or blown up and the other sitting at his bedside ignoring the knowledge that one day death would no longer be cheated. (Though it hadn’t been either of them, when death came).
Dick, by his own reckoning, had matured substantially since his years as Robin, and could now look on Bruce with more understanding and, when necessary, forgiveness than previously. Which made his time in the hospital more uncomfortable, as his conscience commanded him to have patience with Bruce’s stoic silence and to downplay both the physical pain he was in and his continued anger at Bruce over the whole situation until they could have the argument on more even moral ground, i.e. when Dick was no longer internally bleeding and in danger of organ failure.
Which was now (at least, he was no longer heavily bleeding), hence, Wayne Manor. Alfred hugged him, a greeting the restrained Englishman reserved for near-death experiences or those in mourning. Dick smiled as he stepped back, then asked for Bruce.
“Speaking to a board meeting but I expect him back shortly. Master Drake is in your old room, however.”
Dick frowned. “Tim’s here?”
Assured he was, Dick headed upstairs (resolving, mentally, to be patient and calm with Bruce, no matter the circumstances. But why Tim was here, and not with his family…). He had been here often enough as an adult that it wasn’t quite like being dropped back into childhood, but he nonetheless paused outside his old door when he heard the slightly muffled strains of Radiohead through the wood.
While you make pretty speeches, I’m being torn to shreds…You throw me to the lions, a delicate balance…and this just feels like spinning plates…
Smiling slightly, Dick knocked and entered, saying “Hey, Tim.”
The room was dark, so Dick automatically flipped the light switch, revealing Tim, who had apparently been lying on his back on the bed, hastily sitting up and wiping his eyes.
“Oh,” said Dick.
“Oh, hey,” said Tim, face hidden as he turned to pause the music, “It’s fine, just the dark is supposed to be good for my concussion.”
“Oh. Shit, sorry. Right.” He turned out the light. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good. Just can’t be on screens, which sucks. I’m kind of trying to speedrun recovery, though — some studies say the darkness helps even after the first week, and moderate audio stimulation, actually.”
“Uh-huh. You get that off Google?”
Tim laughed the type of laugh you do when you’re in the middle of crying. “Yeah, but I put my phone down right after.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” said Dick, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and feeling suddenly sorry for the boy in front of him, whom, really, he didn’t know at all.
“You’re out of the hospital,” said Tim.
“Yeah, they let me go. No heavy lifting for a month.”
“That’s good. I was worried,” said Tim, voice determinedly steady. Dick, thinking of himself at thirteen, resolved to leave him alone; but before he left he would tell him the truth. Positive feedback.
“You did great, you know,” he said. “Getting the ambulance and protecting our identities. While you were injured too. You should be proud.”
Perhaps predictably, that proved to be too much for Tim, and who couldn’t hide a sob. Dick wavered by the door before hesitantly going to sit by the kid, who eventually looked up from his hands to say shakily, “I don’t think he’s going to let me be Robin anymore.”
“Oh,” said Dick, thinking of the serious conversation he wanted to have with Bruce. “Oh. I don’t- I don’t know, Tim.”
Tim sniffed miserably.
“If he doesn’t,” said Dick carefully, “It won’t be because of you. You know that. After Jason…I wasn’t even convinced Jason- I mean, it’s always an inner battle with Bruce. He has to be okay with that judgment and he just might not be okay putting you in harm’s way anymore. But that doesn’t mean you failed.”
“I know,” said Tim. “I just really want to be Robin.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Dick. And he did; what else was there to it?
Tim wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I wish I was good at it. Like you,” he said.
“I wasn’t good at it. I mean when I was little, it was like a game. Robin was just me being a kid.” And that had changed, somehow, into the training for hours every day, the nights on patrol, the endless exhaustion, all from a child playing. Was that true? He had been so young, he wondered if he was coloring the memories — he remembered the thrill of it, and yeah, the fun, laughing and winning and being clever and being happy with Bruce. But hadn’t he been furious, out for revenge, even then? Hadn’t Bruce seen that rage and taught him to channel it? And all the while he had been devastated with grief, waking up sobbing in the middle of the night…
“Tim…” he said, “I was Robin because I was Bruce’s son. And I needed it after my family was killed. But you have a family. I don’t know if you get along with them or not, but don’t risk losing that. There’s nothing more important.”
“This isn’t to do with them,” said Tim (comically stiff, given the traces of tears on his face). “I love them, I just…I don’t know why. I just want it.”
“Yeah,” said Dick. He couldn’t think of anything else to say so he patted Tim on the back.
“Would you have given it up, to get your family back? Being Robin?”
“Of course,” said Dick, trying to keep his tone gentle and wondering if he was lying. That was about the limits of his emotional endurance, though, so he stood to go. Conscience smiting him, he paused by the door again and said, “Anyway, what can Bruce do? Seems to me if you really want to be Robin, he can’t stop you— you were pretty firm on that count.” A somewhat shaky grin rewarded his effort.
…
He found Bruce in the west sitting room, reading an account of the Taiping rebellion.
“Bruce.”
“Nightwing.”
Dick sighed, and reminded himself for the thousandth time that he could not control anyone else’s behavior, just his own reactions to it.
“Tim thinks you won’t let him be Robin anymore.”
He didn’t look up from his book. “Do you agree?”
“Why isn’t he with his family, Bruce?”
“It was easier for Dr. Thompkins to treat him here. They’ve been fully informed.”
“Oh, yeah? You told them you sent their son after a psychopath who tortured him?”
“He went off on his own. And was not tortured, by his own account-”
“And you told them I was the one who had to rescue him? You weren’t even here when his distress signal went off?” He was shouting.
“I was with the Justice League. In space.”
Dick had been angrier than he realized and the fact that Bruce was in enough control of himself not to say the obvious (‘as you of all people should understand,’) did nothing to calm him. Bruce had stood up once the yelling had started, but only, Dick suspected, to respect Dick’s sensibilities of what was appropriate for an argument rather than from real emotion. Which only made him angrier.
“He only went off on his own to impress you,” said Dick.
“I know. How do you think he’ll react if I tell him he’s not ready?”
“He’s not ready. He should be in high school. Not going on patrol.”
“Middle school,” said Bruce. Dick glared at him.
“Dick, I can’t force him to stop.”
“Because he has our identities?”
“Because he’ll keep going anyway. If he’s patrolling with me he’s not patrolling by himself.”
“So it’s just fine, then?” His voice was rising again. Probably because he had just told Tim the same thing.
“You were fine,” said Bruce, at last showing mild emotion.
“Oh, was I?” yelled Dick at the top of his lungs, which, on reflection, wasn’t a good argumentative strategy. Bruce stared at him silently.
“Well, relatively,” said Bruce, and Dick snorted, and then they were both laughing.
“I’m still angry about it,” said Dick a minute later.
“I know. Come up with a better solution. How’re you feeling?”
“Fine, thanks for asking. The internal bleeding’s pretty much stopped.” He sat in an armchair and Bruce did the same across from him.
“Anyway, we need to talk business,” said Dick. “What’ve you found out about this Red Hood?”
“Not much,” said Bruce, “but he seems to be escalating.”
…
After beating Robin unconscious and nearly killing Nightwing, Jason knew he had destroyed any remaining chance of reunion. It was a relief, really, because he had known they were false hopes all along, and they had been painful. Now, more because he had nothing else to do than as revenge, he committed himself to being a villain, or at least what Batman would regard as such.
It was easier than he had expected to gain power. He had already built up a reputation over the past months, and now he let loose. Drug dealers that marketed toward children, for instance, were an easy target for his rage; so he removed them and took over their territory. Not that he was trying to be a moral actor. He had had enough of that. They just made him angry and it was convenient. People like Bruce, too, always thought there was this clear, bright line between righteous violence and murder, but that was ridiculous. He had killed as Robin. Bruce knew that, even if he pretended he didn’t. And he had killed as Red Hood — probably, but who knew? You beat someone up, you didn’t stick around to see if they were okay or maimed or dead. It wasn’t his problem.
And just doing something made him feel better, too. It wasn’t hope, exactly, but it was funny when he received the first tentative diplomatic acknowledgement from Carmine Falcone. He scared his underlings by laughing at that. He knew they were terrified of his temper, the way he was alternately apathetic and driven; none of them had any idea who he was. But Falcone had done terrible things and now he had a life, a family. Children. Though he didn’t wear a mask.
And then things got a bit out of control and Jason felt the first stirrings of fear, and he was sort of too numb to care, but he realized rationally, at least, that he would soon be dead if he didn’t take action. So he chopped off a dozen heads, which was also, weirdly, easier than he had expected, he didn’t get sick or anything, and he knew them, they were all bad people, and then he took the heads in a golf bag to the meeting of the remaining people in power and opened the bag on the table and said he was in charge now. And the looks on all their faces and the power did feel kind of good. And it was a relief to know that now, if not earlier, he had forever put himself beyond the bounds of Batman’s- tolerance.
That night he lay alone on the flat roof of an apartment building in the Narrows and stared up at the sky. He had taken off his mask because sometimes it made it difficult to breathe. You couldn’t see any stars in Gotham because of the light pollution. Nocturna would’ve hated it.
He had never had any sympathy with the suicidal impulse as Robin, or as a kid. Even when the worst had happened he was always so focused on surviving. He didn’t even know if he could die now.
Humiliatingly, he was crying, so he put the mask back on in case anybody saw him.
…
The next day he saved Harvey Bullock’s life. Probably. He had seen him from a distance a few times since he had returned to Gotham — he couldn’t keep himself from surveilling Batman, who had occasional meetings with the cop when Gordon was busy. As a kid Jason had disliked cops on principle, but he hadn’t minded Bullock, who was tough and sort of interesting and didn’t fall over in awe every time Batman appeared. They had worked together on the film freak case, after Nocturna, when Bruce had been spending time with Catwoman and Jason wanted to prove he didn’t need him anymore.
Jason had been keeping an eye on the police station from a nearby rooftop — he was considering buying a cop himself, but there were a lot of possible complications, and he wasn’t sure he needed his profile that high yet — when he saw Bullock come out the back way, whistling Danny Boy, clearly shitfaced. He hadn’t aged well.
For no reason he could think of, Jason followed him from the rooftops for a block or so, and so he saw the kid with the gun alternately watching Bullock and pacing in an alley fifty yards ahead. Without really thinking about it he swung his way down and shoved the kid into a doorway, knocking the gun from his hand. The kid crouched to reach for it and Jason kneed him twice in the face and heard him groan.
He kicked the gun out of the way and said “Stay down,” pulling a knife out of his boot to emphasize the point. He didn’t want to deal with Bullock now- still maybe ten yards back, and he’d been trying to be quiet, but who knew if the cop had heard anything- so he crouched himself and angled his body so the would-be mugger was out of view. Just another junkie…He heard Bullock’s footsteps pass without a pause.
He waited a few seconds and hauled the kid, who was maybe sixteen or so, up to a sitting position.
“You after that cop specifically or is this a random hit?” he asked.
Silence. The kid’s eyes skidded over Jason’s mask. Jason pressed the knife to his throat.
“Know who I am?”
“Uh, yeah. I- Christ- I didn’t know he was a cop-“
“What is this? You’re just waiting here with a gun for anybody?”
“It’s just a- Fuck, I didn’t know who he was. It’s just an initiation thing. Oh, God, they’re gonna kill me. Oh my God, Jesus, what am I gonna do?”
“Shut up,” said Jason, but he wouldn’t until Jason had hit him twice more in the face and once in the solar plexus; at least after that he was too busy trying to breathe. Jason left him semiconscious in the alley, for which, he thought, his restraint should be commended. Fucking idiot kids and the gangs. And Bullock wandering by without a clue in the world.
Though Jason had saved him, maybe. Which slightly lessened his desire to be dead.
He followed him home, reaching Bullock’s door maybe two minutes after his quarry. Out of habit, he stepped back to kick the door in, but stopped himself and knocked. Which seemed, as he heard Bullock approach, grumbling, to have been a bad idea; surely he would look through the peephole and call for backup? But maybe the liquor made him stupid, for a moment later Jason heard the lock spring and the door opened wide.
Bullock was shorter than him now. He always used to have to look up to him. Bullock looked at him blank-faced, then turned and retreated back to a stuffed armchair across the room.
“If you’re here to kill me, I want a drink first,” he said.
“I know you’ve got a gun under the chair. Don’t move,” said Jason, and Bullock stopped.
The same movie posters — Casablanca, Hitchcock — were still on the walls. Empty bottles sat on the windowsill.
“I don’t remember you being a drunk,” said Jason.
“Well, shit happens,” said Bullock, and moved forward again; Jason prepared to move, but Bullock said, “Relax. The gun’s under the other chair. You can see.”
It was. Jason remained standing as Bullock sat.
“So. Red Hood. Attempted assassin of Nightwing. Do I know you, then?” He took the whiskey from the table beside him and poured out a generous glass. In the cheap white light the liquid looked opaque and dusty.
“No,” said Jason, and heard the word transformed through the mask, and wondered if he ever wouldn’t be a coward.
Bullock was glaring at him. “You should get out of my-”
“Yes,” said Jason, reaching up to release the mechanism, “You do know me. I’m Robin.” He had pulled off his mask as he said the words, so he hadn’t seen Bullock’s face, and now he was looking down, awkwardly holding his helmet in one hand. He had meant to drop to one knee by Bullock’s chair so the old man could see his face.
“No you’re not. Jason died,” said Bullock. Sharp as ever, this one.
“Yeah,” Jason murmured, feeling tired, “I did.”
Quickly, Bullock stood and approached him closely, peering up into his face. The scars on his cheek. Green eyes. The shock of white hair. The years.
Bullock raised a hand wonderingly and Jason flinched away. Since he had come back no one had touched his skin, except in violence.
Embarrassed, he stepped back, and saw Bullock falter. “Shit, are you-”
“I’’m fine! I’m just- fuck, I’m just drunk.” He had stepped back and sunk into the chair again. Jason hovered for a moment and then sat in the other, the one with the gun, as Bullock waved him down. He listened to the older man slow his breathing and stared at the floor, feeling of absurdity increasing. He reached to pour himself a drink.
“Hey!” said Bullock. “Oh. How old are you now?”
“Depends how you count,” he said, sipping the whiskey. Truthfully, his palate hadn’t really matured beyond beer.
“Does Bruce know?”
Jason snorted. “That I drink?”
“That you’re alive,” growled Bullock, his voice still weak.
Consciously, Jason set the glass down. “I don’t give a fuck about Bruce. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Jason. You have to tell-”
“Harvey, the Joker beat me to death and Batman let him go! Whatever was there is gone.” As if it hadn’t been pretty damn clear before that that he wasn’t what Bruce wanted.
“He- he was messed up afterwards, Jason. Everybody was. For months, we didn’t see Batman. And then-”
“Yeah, seems like he was real cut-up. Doing the same thing to another fucking kid.”
“Tim Drake.” A pause. “I heard you gave him a concussion.”
“That was- yeah, I did, and a lot worse will happen to him if he keeps going the way he’s going. When did Bruce adopt him?”
Bullock cleared his throat. “He has a family. I think it’s a part-time thing.”
“What the fuck, Harvey? How are you- how is Gordon letting that happen? For me at least it was Bruce or the street!”
“I don’t- I don’t know the whole story. And you think I have that kind of leverage?”
“That’s bullshit, Harvey.”
“You know, you used to call me ‘sarge.’”
“Yeah, well, I’m not a kid anymore.”
“No, you’re not,” said Bullock, voice wobbly; and Jason looked up to see him wipe his face.
“Stop it. You’re drunk,” said Jason.
“You were a kid, and I saw your body before they fixed you up. Just a little kid, all messed up and bloody and Bruce was carrying you like a baby. Little fucking kid. Never saw Batman cry before. Never saw Nightwing lose it like that…”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Jason, and because Bullock didn’t, he stood up and said, “I’m leaving.” By the time Bullock pulled himself together and said “Does Dick know?” Jason was at the door.
“No,” said Jason, fumbling to put his mask back on.
“It wasn’t his-”
“I know it wasn’t his fault. He was in outer space. Leave me the fuck alone, Harvey.”
“You came to see me.”
Yeah, and I saved your life too, you ungrateful, nosy bastard. He made his voice as hard as he could through the helmet. “Robin’s dead, old man. Robin’s dead and Jason’s dead and now there’s Red Hood. Tell anyone otherwise and I will come back here and fucking kill you.”
After he left, he couldn’t quite stop himself from being hurt by the fear on Bullock’s face at his parting words, though it was exactly what he had intended. As if he could ever hurt the man who had carried him, once, on his shoulders, who had done nothing to harm him — though neither had he taken revenge…
Bullock sat alone, blew his nose on his sleeve, and wondered what to do. Red Hood’s crimes forgotten, he didn’t believe Jason’s threats for a second; but he feared to do more damage. There were wounds here that were deep, and he wasn’t the type of man to solve it, though he knew from experience the pain found only in shattered families…
And more than anything, he thought, he couldn’t tell Jason’s secret, because he knew it would’ve been a betrayal of the little boy he had known and loved. He had known Jason best, back then; Dick he had respected professionally, but he had been kind of an obnoxious kid, and Robin before Bullock was on the force, and Batman was a black hole of course, even after you knew his identity. But Jason he had liked; it couldn’t have been easy to be Robin Number Two, and it wasn’t easy being Harvey, but they had joked together, and sometimes he had played games with the child, though he pretended to be too big to enjoy them…
And now, according to the latest report, that murdered child was decapitating half of Gotham’s ruling underclass, and had beaten people to death with- fuck, with a crowbar…a little child and a bloody crowbar, he had seen the pictures…
And nobody, except him, knew a thing…
He poured himself another drink.