Chapter Text
The blood on Dick’s knuckles hadn’t even dried before the decision settled in his bones.
The Joker had to die.
Bruce was naïve if he believed letting that piece of filth breathe did anyone any good. He preached that vigilantes didn’t get to decide who lived and who died—but that line had been crossed a long time ago. The moment the clown decided Dick’s little brother deserved a crowbar to the face, the argument became academic.
Dick considered breaking into Arkham that very night, finishing what he’d started while Bruce was distracted. But the Bat would be watching everything after an incident like that. And worse—now that the shock had faded—Dick wasn’t sure he could actually do it.
He’d been ready in that church. He’d crossed the line. But now his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His knees threatened to give out. Steam curled around him as the shower scalded his skin, but he felt frozen all the same.
Despite everything—despite knowing exactly what the Joker was—Dick couldn’t bring himself to murder him.
A bitter laugh clawed its way out of his chest and turned into vomit before it reached the air. He slid down the tile, letting the spray hit his face, bile burning his throat. Bruce’s lessons had sunk in deeper than he wanted to admit. He should’ve known, really. Not after Zucco. Not after choosing justice over blood with Bruce standing beside him.
So no. He couldn’t kill the Joker.
But could he live with letting someone else do it?
The thought settled easier than it should have.
Bruce would say there was no difference. But Dick wasn’t Bruce. He never had been. If their roles were reversed, the clown would already be dead—and Dick would have slept fine afterward.
So he’d find someone else.
Deathstroke was the obvious choice, and Dick dismissed it immediately. He wasn’t about to endure Slade’s smug satisfaction—or risk another attempted “apprenticeship.” And it couldn’t be a rogue. He refused to pay someone like Black Mask or Scarecrow, not if it meant trading one corpse for ten more.
Another assassin, then. Someone new. Someone competent. Someone desperate enough—or angry enough—not to care about Gotham’s fragile criminal balance.
By the time Dick shut off the water, resolve had replaced the shaking.
He had research to do.
The assassin called Red insisted on meeting in person.
That alone made Dick wary. Most hits were handled digitally now—encrypted messages, anonymous transfers, clean separation. Red wanted face-to-face. Maybe he thought it was a joke. Maybe a test.
Dick pulled his hood low as he entered the abandoned warehouse in Crime Alley. He’d scouted it earlier: neutral ground, no rogue claim, mostly used for street deals. Drugs. Worse things. He filed it away for later. One crisis at a time.
The phrase my assassin turned in his gut, sharp and wrong.
He didn’t sense Red until a gun pressed against his skull.
Dick stilled—not from fear, but surprise. Sneaking up on a Bat wasn’t easy. If nothing else, that was reassuring.
“You’ve got nerve,” Red said, voice distorted. “Making a fake hit and showing up anyway.”
“It wasn’t fake,” Dick replied evenly. “I want the Joker dead.”
Silence.
Then a dry laugh. “You and everyone else in this city.”
The gun withdrew, but when Dick turned, Red snapped, “Don’t.”
“Why?” Red asked.
“Why does anyone?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“He killed my brother.”
A pause. “That it?”
“Is that not enough?”
“For me? No.”
Dick clenched his jaw. “He paralyzed my friend. Kidnapped my other brother. Shot me.”
Red inhaled sharply. “Turn around. Slowly.”
When Dick did, red lenses stared back at him through a helmet.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Does it matter who I am?” Dick said. “I’m good for the money.”
“Did your dad put you up to this?”
“What? No. Bruce doesn’t know. And he never will.”
Red studied him, something unreadable in the tilt of his head. “Then why you?”
“Because you’re good at what you do.”
“Why not Deathstroke?”
“Because I don’t want to deal with his smug fucking face.”
Red slammed him to the ground.
“Answer the question, Grayson.”
“Because I don’t want him,” Dick snapped back. “Happy?”
A beat.
“You don’t know who I am,” Red said quietly.
“No,” Dick shot back. “You haven’t exactly been forthcoming.”
Red hauled him upright. “Why now?”
“How do you know it wasn’t then?”
“Jason Todd died years ago,” Red said flatly.
The name hit like a punch.
Dick swallowed. “Because it finally became clear he won’t stop. Arkham doesn’t hold him. Rehab doesn’t work. He likes it. And every breakout kills people.”
Red listened without interrupting.
When Dick finished, Red’s knife spun idly in his hand.
“You’re not wrong,” he said. “But you’re lying to yourself.”
“About what?”
“This isn’t justice. This is fear. Fear of losing another brother.”
“Fuck you.”
“You weren’t even at Jason’s funeral.”
“That wasn’t my choice!” Dick shouted. “You don’t get to tell me who I loved.”
Silence stretched.
“…Oh,” Red said softly.
Red took the job.
Six months later, the Joker was dead.
Crowbar. Warehouse. Crime Alley.
Gotham celebrated.
Dick threw up in the shower.
Bruce summoned him to the Cave without preamble.
When the autopsy photos appeared, Dick didn’t breathe.
It was brutal. Intimate. Familiar.
He felt shock—not regret.
And that scared him more than anything.
Then Bruce said, “Only one of us knew exactly how Jason died.”
Dick’s phone buzzed.
"Catch you on the flip side, Big Bird."
The room spun.
The questions. The knowledge. The crowbar.
Dick looked up.
“There’s another possibility,” he said.
Silence fell.
He met each of their eyes.
“Jason’s back.”