Work Text:
Gotham was a city that screamed when she was in danger. There wasn't a city on Earth that slept, not really, but Gotham wailed in the night, her streets funneling wind through the alleys and slums. All roads led to Crime Alley. All roads led to shallow, nameless graves. All roads led out of town, and tonight, those roads had been used by anyone with common sense.
Crane had fought him tooth and needle on the evacuation, their argument stretching long into the night. Jason's skin crawled the whole time, the stale air of Arkham Asylum, long abandoned, dredging up ghosts in his periphery. But he'd stayed, brokering an escape for the citizens of Gotham through careful bartering and thinly-veiled threats.
Happy Halloween, Gotham City. Get out while you can.
The city was quiet from here, his boots the only noise in the hush, not even a breeze whistling through his helmet. He didn't know how Bruce stood having the stupid ears on his cowl. It was distracting, especially in the silence he was used to operating in.
The comms crackled to life as he paced the length of the crane arm. Wisps of toxin curled around his ankles, sickly sweet through his mask. He felt a tremor, barely repressed, shudder through him.
"Deathstroke to Knight. Deathstroke to Knight. Do you read?"
"I'm here. What is it?"
"Wasn't sure you'd gotten out."
"Scared you wouldn't get paid?"
"Something like that. Look, I had one of your guys focused on breaking the Bat's communications. We've been tracking movements through the city."
"And?"
"Robin is still stuck in Panessa Studios, pacing back and forth, possibly confined to a specific area. He's been yelling in the comms for hours. Batman is back on the airship, talking to someone on the outside. I'll send a unit."
"Don't bother."
"Strike that order, then. Ah, this one is interesting. Nightwing. He's been here for quite a few hours, mostly messing up Cobblepot's day. We lost his exact location about an hour and a half ago, when he stopped checking in, but we have a few of his usual haunts on record. I wouldn't even mention it, but when he showed up in defense of Robin and called him his brother—"
"I remember. I want silence on this channel. Do what you want with the troops, but my line just switched to emergency only. Understood?"
"Understood. Deathstroke out."
He paced the crane, turning the information over in his mind. There was an emergency supply of oxygen in his suit, enough to buy him about an hour without any inhalation of the toxic air. If he knew Dick, and he did, he'd be in one of two places: Wayne Tower, the gleaming bastion of home, or the ruins of Haly's Circus, a reminder of the worst moments of his life.
The problem? He hadn't seen his brother for half a decade. It would be little more than a stroke of luck to find the right place on the first try. Geographically, they were far enough apart that it would take a half hour to get between them with sufficient time to search. Wayne Tower was more likely to provide other distractions, so the circus seemed the better option.
He hated clowns. By proxy, he hated circuses, the smell of sawdust, the sight of the big top. If given the choice, a few hundred gallons of gasoline and a carelessly flicked cigarette would've been the end of every caravan in Gotham. But this was a necessary evil.
His mask was working, thank God. The ragged breaths thundered in his ears, his heartbeat picking up erratically and then slowing down as he forced himself to breathe steadily—no sense wasting oxygen.
Gotham was orange. The toxin cast the city in a sickly pallor, screams reverberating through the streets. Occasionally, he'd hear glass shattering or explosions in the distance, his head snapping up every time, scanning for threats. The remainder of the time was spent combing through wreckage, the remains of that fateful night left to rot. By the time he'd stepped over the third clown nose, he determined that Dick wasn't around. 40 minutes remained in the tank.
Five minutes later, a street thug leapt out of the path of the police car he'd borrowed, swerving through the tight corners of Miagani Island. He could feel the adrenaline dump settle in his spine, the way it always did, and his mouth curled upwards. Gotham was fun at night. She liked to challenge him.
"Deathstroke to Knight."
"I said emergencies only," he growled, jerking the wheel to avoid a row of hastily abandoned cars. "Someone better be dead."
"That someone is you. Why are you moving on the ground?"
"I'm taking care of some unfinished business, Slade, not that it's any of yours."
"It's my paycheck," was the gruff reply. He stepped on the gas harder, watching the speedometer surge towards 110.
"You were paid in advance, jackass. Get off the line." The sirens came on as he flipped the switch, the more heavily populated area of the city looming on the horizon.
"You're in a police cruiser?"
"Bye." The comms switched off with a crackle and a hiss, then blessed silence. He was about 5 minutes out from the tower, picking his way through the quickly dispersing crowds, catching flashes of hunched-over masses of terrified citizens. Their wails matched the sirens. He unbuckled hastily, kicking out the front windshield and shimmying over to the passenger seat, bracing himself.
This is a dumb idea.
He drove straight into the Wayne Tower gate, left foot on the gas as he steered from the passenger seat. The car crunched against the gate, sending him flying through the air and rolling violently to a stop. Pain exploded all up and down his frame, the impact almost too much to be absorbed effectively. He felt the breath leave his chest and lay there gasping until he found it again. His fingers curled into the glass that littered his landing site, pushing himself up.
The sound that escaped him couldn't really be classified as a moan so much as a whimper. You needed air for a moan, and he didn't have any to spare. There were fifteen minutes' worth of oxygen to get above the gas, ideally with his heavy, probably incapacitated older brother over his shoulder. Fortunately, he knew exactly where that bird tended to roost.
The elevator slid open with a ding, and there he was: Dick Grayson, domino mask sliding down his face, curled up against the far end of the small elevator. Jason sighed as an escrima stick buzzed to life, stepping on Dick's wrist gently and scooping the stick out of his hand.
"None of that, c'mon now. Work with me, Dick."
He made the mistake of turning. Pain exploded through his body again as Dick tackled him, legs wrapping around his back as his hand slammed into the back of Jason's helmet, smashing his face into the closed door. There was a ding as they passed each floor. A feral snarl ripped from Dick's mouth, pure instinct taking over as he dug his knee into Jason's back. They both tumbled out into the penthouse as the door slid open, scuffling around like they did when they were kids. But he was bigger now, Dick's acrobatic frame no match for his sheer size.
"No! No, get off—" Dick cried, clawing at him. Jason could see the whites of his eyes, clearly visible as he thrashed around. Outside the penthouse, the clouds hung heavy.
"Calm. Down." He gritted out. "No one's out to get you."
A palm smacked against his helmet, cracking against the glass and shoving his entire head back. Jason could see the exact moment his brain caught up with his body.
"How do you know my name?" Dick demanded, one hand still firmly on Jason's faceplate. He'd somehow gotten his fingers wedged in the only groove available and showed no sign of letting go. The only way to dislodge him without losing the mask entirely would have been to break the Boy Wonder's fingers.
Somewhere in the distance, a PA system screeched to life, Scarecrow's smooth voice filtering through the air. A shudder went through Gotham; he could feel it in the air. They were alone in their bubble for now, but who knew what could happen on a night like tonight?
"Fuck it." He muttered, hitting the release. There was a whirr and eventually a clank as the plate fell away, Dick's hand falling away with it. They blinked at each other for half a second before all the fight completely drained out of Dick, his arms going slack.
"Jay?" Unnervingly blue eyes, irises red and raw with the gas, filled with tears almost instantly.
"Yeah," Jason said roughly, easing up a bit. No sense in crushing the calm. "It's me."
"How?"
"It's a really long story, D. A very long, bloody story that isn't going to help with your current state."
He rolled off his brother, knees hitting the marble floor, the cold leaching through.
"No, I want to know. Jaybird, tell me. Please." Dick struggled to sit up, pulling his legs up like he used to when they'd sit on the gargoyles, looking over Gotham during patrol. His fingers still twitched periodically. Jason had ordered his men to do an in-depth study on Scarecrow's latest trick…this toxin was different and somewhat more variable. He didn't know how, but Crane had managed to synthesize a toxin that didn't induce fear, not directly, but amplified it. Hence why Dick snapped out of it, the shock of seeing him altering his state. Hence why Bruce didn't seem to be affected all that much. Hence why some of the violence on the streets was more calculated than simple survival.
Jason felt the sigh building, but he tamped it down, moving to sit beside his brother. The mahogany desk was cool against his head as he tilted it back, closing his eyes.
"It was…I was sixteen and dumb. The Joker had blown up a kindergarten, I mean, there were pieces everywhere. Horrific stuff. Parents fighting each other over scraps of kids, each of them convinced it was their baby, piecing them back together like fucking puzzles. Bruce told me not to go, but how can you not? When people are suffering like that, Dick?"
"Bruce did tell me that part," Dick said softly, his lashes sweeping low as he studied the ground. "It took him months to open up at all."
"Didn't take him months to replace me."
"Tim kind of found us," He chuckled, the sound quickly trailing into a cough. "Saw Barb on his second week and stuck around."
"Can't blame him for that," He muttered, fishing a cigarette out of one of the numerous pockets on his suit. "Do you have a light?"
"What, no shitty Zippo lighter?"
"Must've lost it hauling your ass out of your own insanity." He shot back, and for a moment, things felt normal between them. He had his brother back.
Then the inevitable happened. A gentle, sad look was the shield, logic was the sword. Don't you feel so bad, Jason, trying to kill the man who raised you? The office went quiet, Dick's breath the only noise in the hush. Finally, he spoke.
"Y'know, Jay, it was horrible without you."
"Don't start, Dickface. I have my mission. Getting in the way isn't going to stop it."
"No, no…I know that. I've known you since you were fifteen. But is killing Bruce going to save you? It's the emptiness, right?"
"What?" He snapped, tossing the cigarette and standing.
"The emptiness. In your chest. I know the feeling, Jason, and it's not hatred or purpose. It's grief."
"What would you know about it?" Jason felt his voice getting loud, fighting to keep the shaking at a minimum.
"About grief? You want an itemized list?" Dick hauled himself to his feet too, stepping closer. "Or about anger? I know both. Intimately."
"Gross."
"You haven't changed."
"I have, though. That's the point. I'm not fifteen anymore."
"You're hurt."
"I was hurt then! I'm hurt now! Nothing changes," His voice cracked, embarrassingly high, embarrassingly weak, and suddenly, there was silence, a moment of understanding from the Boy Wonder.
Then he was being wrapped in a hug, and the role reversal stilled his rage for a moment. It used to be him who did this for Dick when he would have bad days or nights. He used to be the smaller of the two, even at fifteen, because street life still produced smaller kids than circus life would, and because 21 seemed so grown at the time.
"You're the age now that I was when you disappeared, Jay. Would you have known what to do?"
"I don't know," he said, letting Dick rest his head on his shoulder. "Maybe I wouldn't have, but I do know one thing."
"What?"
"The Joker would be dead within the week. If he'd taken Bruce from us? I would've hunted that clown to the ends of the earth. And you'd have done the same."
"I don't know, Jay, I might not have."
"You were the angriest little kid in Gotham, or have you forgotten?"
"No, I remember," Dick said, pulling back, his voice retaining a bit of an edge. "I also remember that you used to be the sweetest. I can't stop you from doing anything. We both know that. But I want you to think about what you're doing. What it could mean for the city. For kids who are living like you did."
"I just took over the city. What makes you think I care about this cesspool?" He heard the growl in his voice and tried not to wince. Sorry, Gotham. No hard feelings.
"Y'know, someone had to convince Crane to evacuate. I'd bet the entire Wayne estate on the odds it was you."
"I've gotta get out of here," He said quickly, turning away. "I can't listen to this. I can't sit here while you try to appeal to my humanity. It died with me."
He slid his helmet on, thumbing over the comm switch. "Get a drone out here. Wayne Tower, just below the top floor."
"What are you doing all the way out there?"
"Unfinished buisiness."
The sigh was loud in his earpiece.
"Thirty seconds, Knight."
"Thank you," He said, saccharine sweet.
"I should've beheaded you outside that asylum."
When he turned around, Dick was back to sitting, this time on Bruce's desk. "You didn't tell me you were married."
"You're hilarious."
"You could stay, you know. Set things right. Or you could dissapear for a bit, come back on your own terms. We miss you."
He studied his brother's face, rememorizing the contours and hollows that age had left. "I've come too far to let it go now. Stay safe, Dick." Stay out of my way.
He didn't look at Dick as he tipped back, entering freefall for the second time of the night. The flip was showy, but the landing was perfect, and Dick Grayson had always been one to appreciate show tricks.
"You really nailed that one, boss." Deathstroke said, monotone as ever.
"I have a proposition for you, Slade." He replied, laying down on the cold metal surface of the drone. The stars were pretty tonight, above the gas. "How do you feel about a promotion?"