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Gotham was a city that whispered, if you knew where to put your ear. Subtlety wasn't an issue for the mobs, but tonight, subtlety was going unnoticed in favor of addressing more pressing issues. Crane was drunk on his own power, playing it cool but clearly giddy. Bruce was acting strange, talking to ghosts under his breath, and Tim had called to warn him that their father had called him "Jason" while they were cleaning up Panessa—something he hadn't done since Tim was a kid.
"Nightwing, keep an eye on the Master, please." Alfred pled over the comms while he was stalking the Penguin's contacts, sitting high over the city. "I'm worried he's planning something rash."
"Are we talking about the same guy?"
"Sir, I implore you to take this seriously!"
"Okay, okay. I'll keep an ear to the ground, I promise." He said, hands moving in the air, a placating gesture that no one would see. The comms clicked off, leaving him in the hush, and he reveled in it. It was a rarity for him to get a moment off from the loudness, first at the circus and then those first few, awful months at the manor when the press wouldn't leave them alone. After that point, things settled, but the galas and the press spots and the charity balls were neccessary for keeping up appearances. The nightlife wasn't much different. He'd heard plenty of vulgar language living in a circus, but some of the goons were truly innovative in their filth and the city never stopped producing them.
He'd hated asking for help and permission in equal measure since he was a kid, and Bruce had never tried to train it out of him. Jason had been easier, never late to bed or school, never caught swinging from chandeliers or running on the various parapets around the manor grounds. Angel child, gone too soon. Blüdhaven was his city, a city that smelled of decay and desperation, but his home nonetheless. Gotham was Bruce's and Batman's in equal measure, and anyone stepping in to help better ask one or the other of them first.
They'd been hunting Penguin jointly, avoiding each other until it came time to crack skulls. A few blown-up vaults later, they were no closer to reconnecting on a personal level, despite his efforts. Bruce was just too busy, swooping in and leaving just as fast, pulled in a dozen different directions.
"Another fire station just went up," He growled as soon as Dick turned to him, the words dying on his lips. "Call me when you have a new lead."
"Or we could just, I don't know, talk? Come up with a plan that isn't call-and-response?"
"I'm busy, Nightwing. Arkham Knight, Crane, Dent, and now Cobblepot…Gotham's giving me everything."
"Maybe accept some help?"
"I don't need help. I need people to do their jobs."
Dick rolled his eyes. "I'll stay in touch."
He hadn't.
He'd been perched on a streetlight, hiding in the shadow left from the bright light below him when the thugs pulled up in the North Refrigeration van. They followed the same predictable patterns, the same transactions, and went on their merry way. Did he really need Bruce for this?
The answer was no. Bruce wasn't a necessity in his career anymore. He'd proven that many times over. This was textbook, anchor a line to the light, swing onto the truck (land lightly), and ride it all the way to the bank. Well, the metaphorical bank. He tossed the rope over the light, pulling it taut and wrapping it once, twice, three times around and knotting it to the sturdiest anchor point he could. The hood of the light would have to do.
The wind was howling now, carrying any whispers he might have heard away with it. But, as luck would have it, the wind was howling at his back. His fingers were tight around the rope, his heart pounding that familiar rhythm. He blinked, steadied himself, and swung.
Gotham was a city of rot. The pole broke, and sent him sprawling as the van drove away. The surrounding area was plunged into darkness as he rolled, and in the darkness, he saw a cloud creeping over the moon. Seconds later, he was clawing at his legs, pain shooting up both limbs. Wails pierced the night, the van swerving wildly a few blocks down before crashing through a storefront. The asphalt scraped his hands and knees raw as he attempted to drag himself up, his chest tightening and breath coming faster. His legs shook wildly as he staggered to his feet, limping in the direction of the van, fighting what felt like a sprained ankle.
The vehicle was almost cartoonish, front tire spinning wildly as the back tires both locked, shredded by the glass of the busted display windows. The back hung open, its occupants scrambling out, screaming bloody murder and running over each other trying to escape…something.
"It's the Bat!" one of them, a portly man with a serious overbite, shouted before booking it towards the alley.
"Thanks, buddy." He muttered before raising his voice. "B? You in there?"
His legs were screaming, but he continued to hobble. The only difference between a dead man and a living one is the movement. He'd heard that somewhere as a kid, and it stuck, even if that wasn't strictly accurate. It used to drive Alfred crazy, the way he felt the need to be in constant motion.
The inside of the van was cloaked in shadow, the glass crunching under his boots. "Batman?"
A shot rang out, and he instinctively ducked out of the way. He heard footsteps retreating quickly, trying and failing to shake the spots from his vision. Lights extinguished as the footsteps got further away, plunging the surrounding area into darkness, the tail lights slicing the night. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, the roar of it clouding the rest of his senses. As his vision cleared, though, he saw it…a black shadow sprawled at an unnatural angle, an equally black puddle spreading quickly from underneath his cape.
"Bruce?" He breathed, stumbling towards him, knees absorbing the blood as he knelt. "No, no, no no, please, Bruce. Stay with me, B, please…"
He was gone, the wound in his neck ugly and foreign. Blood soaked into Dick's knees and through his gloves, warm and slick, the red getting lost in the dark fabric. It would appear normal to anyone who saw him, only he would know that his father's blood stained him. He stumbled through the streets, taking random turns and weaving through the wailing masses, heart beating faster and faster until he stumbled, gasping and choking, into the Wayne Tower lobby. The shadows stretched long across it, the building mostly dark. Bruce would've wanted him to get a call out, to mobilize everyone. Tim, Barbra, Alfred, Lucius…who else was there? Kate? Selena?
He could get to Lucius. Bruce had built a protocol for Fox to stay behind in events like this, working around the clock to support Batman with whatever gadget he may need. He pried the doors open, adrenaline forcing his hands to shake, his entire body wired. One snapped fuse later, and the elevator was lit, it's buttons pulsing slightly in the otherwise still surroundings. Panic still coursed through him, but it was sharper now, more purposeful than blind. He could work with that. The elevator was keyed to his fingerprint, he could get where he needed to go. He could get to the people he needed.
He grit his teeth, peeling one of his gloves off. His stomach lurched violently…feeling the blood was one thing, but seeing it, the red garish against his slick skin, was a different thing entirely. He wiped it on his pants, trying to breathe. The sensor beeped rapidly when he tried to use it, his fingers too wrinkled to scan. His back hit the elevator wall, the doors the only movement.
A huge crash resounded through the already chaotic atmosphere, a loud scraping accompanying it. Metal on metal followed by metal on gravel. His ears strained, catching the faint crunch of glass and a very mechanical whimper.
Footsteps drew closer, and Dick felt himself cowering the way he used to when he was a kid, drawing his limbs in and thumbing one of his escrima sticks. He felt it hum to life as a hulking figure, clad from head to toe in armor, filled the elevator door. Arkham Knight. His mind tried to catch up to his body, far too late, and his stick was gone, a boot grinding into his wrist.
"None of that, c'mon now. Work with me, Dick."
Dick. What was that, a lucky guess? An inside source? He clawed through his already unccoperative memory, trying to place faces and names, coming up with nothing for the Knight's identity. Bruce hadn't been able to figure it out. All they knew was that he was fast, smart, and lethal.
He was dumb enough to turn his back, though, punching the button for the penthouse. The elevator began to move as Dick shoved against the back of his helmet, a satisfying crack echoing through the small space. His legs locked around the Knight's waist, keeping him trapped against the elevators. He heard himself growl, driving his knee into his back, trapping him against the door. When the door slid open, he used the leverage to ride the Knight straight to the floor. He didn't stay there for long, the momentum allowing the Knight to simply roll them both, pinning him after a relatively short-lived struggle.
His breathing kicked up again, his body dumping adrenaline into his system. His hands scrabbled uselessly against the armor-plated behemoth on top of him, who, strangely enough, didn't seem too committed to seriously injuring him. It felt like sparring with Bruce. The familiarity hurt, given he knew it wasn't and never would be.
"No! No, Get off!" He raked his fingers down the side of the Knight's neck, trying to worm his way out from underneath the crushing weight. No use. He was far too well positioned.
"Calm. Down." His captor seethed, staring down at him, his visor glowing blue in the dark room. There was a slit in the faceplate, just wide enough for a finger. "No one's out to get you."
He wiggled his arm free, slamming it into the groove, wedging his fingers in tight. His fingers protested, the metal pinching them. "How do you know my name?"
He sounded less hysterical, he thought. Maybe not.
There was an awful screech, his head snapping up involuntarily. Crane's voice dominated the hush. He forced himself not to react, staring defiantly up at the Knight. It was silent again.
A modulated mutter finally cut through, a tired-sounding "fuck it" accompanied by the mechanical purr and finally, a face. A young man stared down at him, expression entirely neutral, familiar and somehow not, a raised "J" just under his eye. It didn't look like a traditional scar, not a cut made by a bladed weapon. His stomach lurched as the reality of it hit him. The Joker had branded his brother.
"Jay?" Heat pooled in his eyes, the tears refusing to fall, instead stubbornly collecting and blurring his already hazy vision.
"Yeah, it's me." He said, his weight shifting significantly. He could breathe better now.
"How?" The cogs in his mind were working overtime, screeching over one another. Bruce watched you die on tape. Twice, at least. Probably more.
"It's a really long story, D." His voice was gentler now, the tone of a man talking to a spooked animal. "A very long, bloody story that isn't going to help your current state."
"No." He said immediately, drawing his knees up as he sat up. Maybe he was trying to contain himself, maybe it was muscle memory…he wasn't sure. "I want to know. Jaybird, tell me. Please."
Jason flinched at the nickname, trying and failing to completely suppress the sigh as he joined Dick at the table. His head tilted back, his throat working as he thought.
"I was…" A long pause, longer than he'd ever heard Jason take, followed. Dick wanted to shake him, to ask him what he'd done to his brother. Jason always knew exactly what he was saying next. He'd never heard him stop to consider his words. Finally, though, he spoke. "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." That was the only part he told us. "It took him months to open up at all."
Jason snorted humorlessly. "Didn't take him months to replace me."
"Tim kind of found us," He said, his laugh quickly turning into a wheezing cough. "Saw Barb on his second week and stuck around."
"Can't blame him for that," Jason muttered, rifling through one of the seemingly endless pockets in his suit. "Do you have a light?"
I always wondered about you two. "What, no shitty Zippo lighter?"
The dark look he recieved was all Jason. A strange sense of normalcy descended over their conversation as he spoke sharply. "Must've lost it hauling your ass out of your own insanity."
He had to say it. He had to try. It was a virtual impossibility, a shot in the darkest of dark nights, but he had to try. He softened his voice, fixing Jason with a look that he hoped was open and honest.
"Y'know, Jay, it was horrible without you."
Jason's face darkened, his brows pulling together in that familiar scowl. They'd seen it a lot, towards the end. "Don't start, Dickface. I have my mission. Getting in the way isn't going to stop it."
Backpedal, Grayson. You're losing him. "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?" Jason growled, flinging the cigarette, rising to his full height. Dick scrambled for words.
"The emptiness," He started, his voice growing stronger as he continued. "In your chest. I know the feeling, Jason, and it's not hatred or purpose. It's grief."
Jason was losing it. They'd seen that a lot, too. "What would you know about it?"
"About grief?" He grabbed the desk for support, swinging himself up. "You want an itemized list? Or about anger? I know both. Intimately."
"Gross."
"You haven't changed." He said.
"I have, though. That's the point. I'm not fifteen anymore."
"You're hurt." Blood pounded in his ears. The comments were having the opposite effect on calming his brother. He meant it in a reassuring way, a kind of I understand and I'm sorry.
It didn't land.
"I was hurt then!" Jason's voice was raw, cracking a few times as he lost himself completely."I'm hurt now! Nothing changes!"
Oh no. No, Jay, don't do this.
He was pulling his brother into a hug before he could think better of it, and it shook him to the core how easily Jason dwarfed him. This was the same kid who used to seek him out after he'd had a bad mission, who'd sit with him and wrap him up, not letting him leave until he'd calmed down.
"You're the age now that I was when you disappeared, Jay. Would you have known what to do?" He asked weakly, giving himself a moment of peace. There'd been nothing but bad missions and long patrols lately.
"I don't know," Jason said after a moment. "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."
The idea made his stomach twist again. "I don't know, Jay, I might not have."
"You were the angriest little kid in Gotham, or have you forgotten?" Jason rasped, his voice still a bit weak after his previous display. It held weight, though.
He pulled back, fighting to keep his voice neutral. "No, I remember. 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?" Dick watched him wince at his own words. There was too much heat behind them, but none of Jason's normal fire.
"Y'know, someone had to convince Crane to evacuate. I'd bet the entire Wayne estate on the odds it was you." He said, and it was the wrong thing. He watched Jason's face fall again begore he turned away.
"I've gotta get out of here. I can't listen to this. I can't sit here while you try to appeal to my humanity. It died with me."
Dick didn't move to stop him. His nerves were still frayed, shaky from the toxin. He stumbled towards the desk while Jason's back was turned, hoisting himself up to sit on the surface. Jason was talking to someone, his cowl back in place. He was arguing with one of his countless subordinates, no doubt.
"You didn't tell me you were married."
The joke landed, he could tell. Visions of Jason smiling, laughing even, swam before his eyes. The response was a familiar one. "You're hilarious."
"You could stay, you know. Set things right. Or you could disappear for a bit, come back on your own terms. We miss you." It was a shot in the dark. He didn't know if Bruce was dead or not, if it was the toxin or a real moment. It felt the same either way. When he shook the thought, Jason was staring through him. "I've come too far to let it go now. Stay safe, Dick."
The subtext was clear.
Jason was gone, landing on a drone and disappearing into the Gotham night. Fox was nowhere to be found, Bruce's comms still off. His eyes were heavy, a full-body ache setting in. He lay back on the desk, his arms behind his head, and watched the stars. Jason would come around. He always had.