Chapter Text
Prologue
Bruce couldn't help but wonder what his life would be like if Death-Cast had been a thing back when he was a child. Surely they wouldn't have gone to the theatre; he wouldn't have had to watch his parents get murdered, and Batman wouldn't exist. Or maybe it would. Maybe his parents would have tried to live the day as usual, making the most of the time they had together, or maybe they would have been murdered right there in their home, or in plain sight in the middle of a busy street. But would knowing they were going to die have softened the impact? Perhaps they wouldn't have even told him.
Alfred didn't tell him, for obvious reasons. He had no means to contact him, and he had planned his own death; the call directed to him in the early morning only proved that his scheme would work. Still, if somehow Bruce had known, Damian wouldn't have been the one to infiltrate the Batcave.
Bruce came to hate Death-Cast some years into his vigilante career. So what if he wasn't going to die in the next 24–21 hours? He could very well still die at the 25th hour and never know if they didn't call on time. They didn't call him on time for Jason.
Still, as soon as the clock hit midnight, dread would settle in his stomach and wouldn't leave until it was well past three. He would never admit that, of course, and with his vigilante activities, some days those three hours passed almost unnoticed. Death-Cast didn't call Bruce Wayne today. No, that would be too blissful. Death-Cast called his eldest.
2:51 am
The calls all entered with the same tone, a simple beat that allowed Dick to switch from the comms line to his phone line. He absentmindedly picked up with a simple tap. It was past 2:45 a.m.; most likely it was someone with vigilante business who, for some reason, was unable to use the comms. Maybe Jason had broken his again, or maybe Damian was benched and wanted to complain.
"Hello?"
"Hello... Richard Grayson?" There was a man. A raspy voice. Tired. That... that wasn't a voice he knew.
"Speaking."
"My name is Dylan. I'm calling from Death-Cast…" Dick's thumb almost moved to end the call. A reflex; wrong number, spam, something. He suddenly felt cold. It was the middle of April; why was it so cold? — "Richard, I regret to inform you that sometime in the next 24… sorry, 21 hours, you'll be meeting an untimely death. While there isn't anything I can do to suspend that, there's still plenty to do in a day, and you still have the chance to seize it…"
"Carpe diem," Richard muttered to himself, not really intending for the man to hear it. He wasn't sure why he said it. The words came from somewhere automatic. It seemed like the part of him that kept functioning right now was also the one that referenced movies.
"Carpe diem, exactly," the man cheered him. "Now, Richard, you are— yep. You are my last call of the day. So if you want me to tell you about options on how to seize the day, funeral arrangements, or anything else you might need, we have some time."
"I—uhm." Dick never stuttered. "I don't— I'm not sure what I need right now." He hated how small he sounded.
"That's okay. Most people don't. We can chat and I'll tell you some events near your area, places you can—"
"Has anyone… you know, not died?" It was rude to interrupt. The man had been nothing but kind to him, but Dick was desperate, asking for hope like a beggar on the street. Dylan paused on the other line. Dick could hear him take a breath. Richard had always given food and money to beggars.
"No. I wish I could tell you otherwise."
Why could no one give him hope?
The silence stretched for a moment. Dylan didn't try to fill it, but Dick could still hear him breathing on the line. Dick took a deep breath, and Dylan took it as a cue to keep talking.
"I... I can call work for you. We normally don't do that, but… you know, it can be hard."
"That's… thank you, Dylan. Hmm. I'm pretty sure someone will cover me anyways." — he couldn't help but let out a wet laugh at the end. He knew Blüdhaven would be just fine. His will—the unofficial one—allowed any of his brothers to take the mantle if they wanted it. He knew they would not abandon the people of Blüdhaven.
Dylan seemed to wait for him to say something else. Dick couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. He was probably making this more difficult than it should be. He should have let the poor man rest already. Still, he was dying. Well, everyone was, but he was currently dying faster than the rest. Maybe he could afford to be an inconvenience.
"I fought very hard to be here," Richard said. He sat on the roof, watching the Blüdhaven city lights flickering and dancing. Maybe it was the wetness of his eyes or the treasure of the “last times,” but the city lights shone especially beautiful tonight.
"I'm sorry." It sounded like he meant it. Richard smiled.
"Thank you, Dylan. I hope you have a good life."
"I'm so sorry we are losing you, Richard," the man repeated. Dick asked for the man’s full name. He could have arranged a job where this man didn't drain his soul away, but Dylan kindly declined. Dick would have to leave a note for Barbara to hack into the HR of Death-Cast. Hopefully, it would be more feasible than trying to get into ‘End Day’ deaths, which had proved to be unattainable even to Batman.
He could feel a knot in his throat, threatening to break into sobs. He didn't want to sob in front of this man.
"Goodbye, Dylan."
The connection cut. His earpiece switched immediately to the comms line, Barbara’s voice replacing Dylan's. She was talking about some gang fights somewhere; Jason said he was near. Everything sounded so normal, so ordinary. He could almost pretend the last five minutes hadn't happened.
But they had, and he needed to get home. Breathing heavily, Dick could feel his ears ringing. He paced on the rooftop and felt his heart leap up to his throat as soon as he reached an edge. He could fall; he didn't want to fall. He didn't want to die.
“Take a breath,” he said, trying to speak to himself as he would speak to a civilian. “It's gonna be okay.”
The way back to the apartment was a blur, the memory lost to the fog of shock. All that remained was the physical sensation of a knot tightening in his stomach with every glance downward and a heart racing against each misstep across the gaps between roofs. Distant police sirens sounded like muffled screams, distorted as if heard from underwater. A lingering instinct whispered that he should follow, that he should help, but he couldn't, not today, not ever. God, he almost slipped again.
There was no recollection of climbing the wall, only the eventual arrival at the back Juliet balcony. The railing creaked under his weight. He was inside fast. All his lights were off. The darkness and quiet of the apartment were only broken by the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. It didn't feel like the same place he had left a couple of hours ago.
Barbara spoke on his comm: "Nightwing? You are back in your apartment earlier than usual. Is everything alright?"
The lies came smoothly even now
“Yeah, just cut it early today. I'm tired.”
It wasn't even a second before another voice joined: “Slacker!” Jason taunted. Nobody commented on it. Dick felt his lips briefly quirk up.
“Copied. Rest, N!" The line went silent again. Barbara probably took him off the channel; he could have rejoined by just speaking again, but he had nothing to say for now.
The apartment looked huge right now. Cutting it early usually meant he would get more sleep, yet the mere thought of it sounded like a waste of his time. He turned on the light, mindful not to slip on his way to the switch. Instinct led him to the fridge to grab the leftovers of yesterday's dinner. It was meant to be enough for three days, so he reheated the whole pot. Mindlessly, the Nightwing suit was shed and tossed aside, replaced by a plain shirt and a pair of flannel pants.
His mind miraculously managed to drift to irrelevant topics as he washed dishes, feeling his chest lighter than it had felt in the last couple of hours.
He ate the whole pot, and could feel doom starting to climb back up from the brief respite it had given him. Death was something he always expected in his line of work. Back at the murder machine, he had been convinced they had called him, he just had no way of knowing. No one at Spyral could receive calls from Death-Cast and the thought of ‘this is it’ visited his mind like a clock. He had plans, he knew what had to be done, yet it was the certainty and imminence of his death that frightened him. It could be now; he could choke.
Suddenly he wasn't that hungry.
4:13 am
Cardboard boxes were pulled from the closet. On the desk, his will and the bureaucratic papers his family would eventually need sat neatly organized. The Nightwing suit lay folded over the bed; it likely wouldn't fit any of his brothers well enough for field work, but Bruce would want to have it.
That was done, at least. However, a mountain of letters remained, written during various stages of his life whenever the thought of an early demise had crossed his mind. He wasn't sure if he should settle for just sending the current version of those letters or go far back and deliver all of them. They were of no use to him now, and perhaps his younger self had captured feelings he could no longer put into words but still deserved to be heard. His friends would appreciate it. Maybe Barbara needed to read 14-year-old Dick's cringe confession—who knew.
Among the stacks, he also found letters addressed to him from Kory, Donna, and even Tim and Jason. These were carefully added to each person's respective pile so they could have them back. The CDs were there too; they used to be on display in his room at the manor, taken with him once he moved mostly out of spite. Streaming services were far more convenient, unfortunately, so they were never listened to or put on display again. Still, his musical taste hadn't changed that much. Picking the original Broadway cast of Rent, Richard pulled his old CD player from another box. The piano played the first few notes of “Seasons of Love”
"Five-hundred-twenty-five-thousand-six-hundred minutes, How do you measure, measure a year?"
He found pictures too.
"In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee"
“In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.”
Dick stared at himself in the Robin suit, looking to be around 13 years old. Donna was hugging him tightly, his own hand was caught doing bunny ears to Roy, while Wally did the same to him and Garth smiled shyly at the camera.
“In five-hundred-twenty-five-thousand-six-hundred minutes.”
Another photo showed him a bit older. Kory rested her head on his shoulder, her curls brushing his cheek. They were all there—even Raven, who rarely hung out with them back then.
“How do you measure a year in the life?”
He snapped a picture of it and sent it to their shared group chat. Scrolling down deep on his messages, he saw they hardly ever wrote there.
“How about love?"
6:20 am
He woke up sitting on the floor, still surrounded by pictures, his head resting on the bed. His neck was hurting a bit. Dick was not sure when he fell asleep; he certainly hadn't planned on it. Through the window, the first rays of sunshine were beginning to paint the sky sapphire and lavender.
The blissful ignorance of his situation only lasted a couple of seconds. He needed to go and see Bruce, his siblings. After gathering the scattered photos from the floor, Dick placed them in a small cardboard box beside the letters, trusting his family to sort through them and pick their favorites—if they chose to pick at all. A quick glance around the room confirmed there wasn't much more to organize; the rest of his belongings would be claimed on their own terms.
He checked his phone. Kory had replied to the picture with a short “lovelyyyy!". Some just reacted with a heart, and the rest were probably not awake yet. Dick smiled at the screen. He took a breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Words didn't come. He wasn't sure what to say, or if saying anything was the right move to begin with. To be honest, the question of who to tell—or whether to tell anyone at all—was something he had not yet thought about enough. He sighed again. He would get out of his apartment first, and as long as he didn't die on his way out, he would think about it later.
Shower. Should he shower? He normally would have, but yesterday—today, actually—he wasn't out for that long to really bathe himself with Blüdhaven's filthiest smells; besides, he had taken a shower yesterday morning. He could slip in the shower and cut his End Day shorter. He skipped the shower.
Keys in hand and the nicest comfortable clothes he could think of, he was ready to head out. Then his phone rang. He picked up the call before he could fully think about it.
“Hello? Dick?" The voice of his best friend was a breath of fresh air.
“Walls!" Dick beamed. How could he not?
“Hey! How are you doing?”
‘Well, that question has a lot to unpack,’ Dick thought, letting out an “Um…” as he searched for words.
“…Oh crap, I realized you probably were asleep, right? Sorry, man. I can call later.” Wally never let silence linger too long.
A sharp breath escaped Dick as his free hand ran through his hair, mussing it absentmindedly. “No, no. It’s fine. I wasn’t asleep.”
“Oh, well—where did you even find that picture?” There was a smile tucked into his words. Dick didn’t even need to see him to know it was there.
Dick replied, offering a half-truth without missing a beat: “... Tidying up, you know?"
“Pff, I’d have to tear my whole house apart to find the pictures I kept. But look at Raven! I didn’t think we had a shot of her back then.”
“Right?” Dick chuckled, scrolling to zoom in on Raven’s face. “It was after Trigon. She always seemed so gloomy before that.”
“She always had a flair for the dramatic,” Wally laughed. Then his tone softened, dropping fast: “Have you talked to them recently?”
“Hmm… with you, Donna… Gar sends me videos sometimes. Victor’s swamped, and every time I speak to Kory she’s in the middle of something new.”
“We should catch up soon; each time we are all in the same room it usually also means something is on fire somewhere.”
Soon.
“Yeah.” Dick looked down at his keys, fidgeting by spinning them by the keyring. “We should.”
Something in his voice must have shifted because Wally went quiet for half a second.
"Hey." His tone changed. Softer. "You okay?"
Dick opened his mouth but the words didn't come easy, and they usually did. He gripped his keys until the metal bit into his palm. He could have said yes. He had been saying yes his whole life, to people far harder to fool than Wally. He could have said ‘yeah, just tired, I gotta go’ and Wally would have let him because Dick had always been good at sounding fine.
He took a deep breath and something inside of him screamed, "Tell him, tell him, tell him!”
He stared at his keys.
"Wally."
"Yeah?"
The pause was two seconds long. For Wally West, it might as well have been a year.
"What's wrong?" Wally insisted, his voice sharpening.
Dick closed his eyes and fought to be able to say it out loud for the first time.
"Death-Cast—I– I got the call earlier.”
The line went quiet. Wally West did not go quiet.
"Wally—"
"I'm on my way—"
"No." The word was firm. Dick was briefly amused by how quickly his tone shifted to that of the leader of the Titans. "No, Wally, listen to me. I'm going to see everyone today. I need it to feel normal for as long as I can make it feel normal. I need you to let me do this my way."
"That is genuinely the most insane thing you've ever asked me to do."
"I know."
"And Dick, I've been there for some truly insane things—"
"Wally."
"You want me to just— sit here?—I"
"Please."
Another silence. Or almost silence. For someone who could break the sound barrier without breaking a sweat, Wally’s breathing was fast, heavy, rattling through the phone.
"Okay," Wally said. "Okay. Your way."
Dick exhaled slowly. "Thank you."
"I'm not— this isn't me being okay with this, I want that on record. I should be there—"
"Noted."
"I'm furious actually—"
"I know.” Dick could almost laugh. “I'm happy you called, Walls. I wouldn't have told you otherwise. You are my best friend and—”
"Dick. We don't have to say goodbye yet. I won't go there, unless you want me to, but you can still call me. You have to call me later,” he stressed.
Dick looked out the window. The sky was fully light now, the lavender gone, replaced by blue stained with orange brushes.
“Promise you'll call me later,” Wally insisted.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'll call you.”
He was uncertain how much "later" remained; either way, he would try to comply with his friend.
“Love you"
“I love you too."
Sensing that Wally wouldn't be the one to end the call, Dick took the initiative. “I need to go now."
“Text me when you get there," Wally added. Unable to commit to further promises, Dick offered only a vague, affirming sound before hanging up.
This was the last time he would ever be in his apartment.
7:15 am
He was on a bus on his way to Gotham. Driving had been the original plan, as travel times were much shorter when behind the wheel—especially since reaching the manor would still require a cab ride after the bus. But getting in the car felt like getting into a coffin. His mind supplied him with pictures of the most gruesome scenes that could happen behind that wheel. After losing ten minutes shaking in his seat, he decided to take the bus.
The bus was packed, which made him feel far safer than going on his own. The chance of all of these people being Deckers was low, and the chance of only him dying in a potential accident… was supposed to be low as well, but some Deckers defied the odds by having really unusual and unprovable deaths. It was better not to think about it.
The people around him carried briefcases and backpacks. They absent-mindedly scrolled through their phones or listened to music. There was a man snoring in the seat directly in front. Life went on around him, uncaring of his situation. The buildings of the city passed through the window, getting smaller and smaller as the smog in the sky became thinner. In some minutes it would start to get thick again as they approached Gotham.
With the journey ahead, there was time to assess every option. He was heading to the manor; he was going to see his family; he was going to tell…—he didn't know. While death was no stranger to his family, this was the first time someone had actually received the call. Jason’s had arrived too late, as Bruce was already unburying him from the debris, and Damian hadn't received one at all, reinforcing the theory that his death that day wasn't meant to be final.
To his fortune or misfortune, Richard knew Bruce well; given the chance, his father would try to outsmart Death itself. But that wasn't possible and Dick didn't want to die with Bruce fighting—and making him fight—a hopeless quest. Tim and Damian took after Bruce and there was no way on earth they would just accept it. Dick understood; if the roles were reversed he'd do the same. It was a natural response for them; Bruce had trained them to live. But you can't fight the invisible omen of your death, and fighting the herald that brings you the news won't change a thing.
He could tell Jason. Sure, Jason hadn't experienced the impending doom that comes with knowing your breaths are counted—or maybe he did. When he saw the timer get closer to zero, Dick briefly wondered if Jason somehow knew then…—but Jason had died. Maybe he was more capable of accepting the finality of it and taking this chance for what it was.
Cassandra. He couldn't hide it from Cass, but also didn't need to tell her, which made things easier on him. She would respect his choice as well. Cass wouldn't try to fix it. Cassandra and Jason it was. They would be the ones to know.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass as the Gotham skyline broke through the horizon. He should get off at the next stop and hail a cab to Bristol. Yet, as he stood, a heavy weight dropped in his stomach.
“It's going to happen at the manor.”
Bruce's entire crusade, the very existence of Batman, was born from the trauma of watching the people he loved die right in front of him, unable to do anything to stop it. The helplessness and utter despair Bruce felt that day was a fundamental aspect of the broken man he was now. And now, what was he doing? He was walking straight into his childhood home to drop a ticking time bomb. It would be like recreating Crime Alley all over again, and Dick refused to be the executioner of his own father. He could not do that to him.
Very few lucky Deckers just faded away peacefully in a hospital bed surrounded by weeping loved ones. No, the ones like him were hit by cars, they choked, they were caught in crossfires, or suffered sudden, massive aneurysms. The universe was incredibly creative, and incredibly cruel, when it came to killing its young.
The next stop was getting near. He could stay on the bus, ride till the end of the line and then go somewhere neutral, somewhere public where the collateral psychological damage would fall on the shoulders of strangers that did not know him and didn't care about him. And he hated the fact that despite every rational thought telling him the sensible choice, the merciful choice for those he cared about would be to follow the primal instinct of dying in a corner, away from those he loved; he wanted his dad, he wanted his family. Even if it meant…
Yeah, even if.
The plan held.
The bus came to a stop and he was out in the gloomy bus station on the outskirts of Gotham. It was lonely there; people who could afford a house in Bristol could afford a car and wouldn't risk taking the bus for fear of getting mugged. There was a cab parked a little bit further down the street, the driver resting his weight on the vehicle as he smoked, hunched with tedium.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over his messages. The chat with Wally was at the top; there was a bright number two next to his name.
Hey, have you got there already?
Dick?
It had been 20 minutes since the last text; Dick felt a pang of guilt.
I’m fine. Just got to Bristol.
Dick stared at the man. On any other day, Richard Grayson would have walked up, flashed a blinding, effortless smile, asked the driver about his shift, and left an overly generous tip. He was good at that. But the daunting possibility of dying alone in the back of a sedan staring at the neck of a man he didn't know made it difficult to be his usual self. Besides, the destination frightened him almost as much as the ride.
Walking alone through the long driveway and opening the heavy, creaking doors of the manor was a haunting prospect. Entering his childhood home meant staring at his siblings while carrying the heavy knowledge that he wouldn't be there the next time they needed him. Before the thought could fully form, Richard was dialing Jason’s number; in a world of uncertainty, the one thing he knew was that he didn't want to be alone.
The line rang, and with each unanswered tone Dick was resigning himself to the cab ride, until a gravelly groan answered.
“What?" His voice was rough like sandpaper. You didn't need to be the greatest detective to know Jason was probably sleeping. Dick couldn't bring himself to feel guilty about waking him up.
"Good morning to you too, Jay. How are you doing?” the edge of a smile actually touched his voice.
"Ugh, Dickhead." A heavy sigh echoed through the speaker, muffled by what was likely a pillow. “I understand you went to sleep early yesterday, but some of us actually worked and I climbed into my bed at 6 a.m. So if the city isn't like…” Jason's voice got more slurred in the next sentence “…sinking? …or something.”
"It's not sinking.”
"Then I'm hanging—"
"I'm at the bus stop in Bristol."
"…Why are you in Bristol?" Jason's voice shifted. The sleepiness was gone. "Why are you at a bus stop in Bristol at—" a pause, he was probably checking his phone "—eight in the morning?"
"I needed a ride."
"To the manor?"
"Yeah."
"Dick." The alertness sharpened. "Bruce is at the manor. Tim and Damian are at the manor. You have legs to walk 30 minutes—"
"Jay." The single word sounded pathetic, pleading enough to make Jason stop his ranting.
Dick stared at the cab driver down the street. Maybe he should have just taken the cab and spared Jason a couple more hours of sleep. But the cigarette smoke curled up into the grey Gotham morning; the faint smell reached him where he sat, smelling exactly like the ones Jason used to smoke. It had been a while since he’d seen him smoke, but the scent was a sharp reminder of why he had called.
"I just—" his voice came out smaller than he intended. "I don't want to go in alone."
Silence followed on the other end until the muffled sound of shifting fabric broke through.
"…Give me ten minutes," Jason said finally. His voice had lost every edge. He seemed to understand something was wrong.
The line went dead.
Dick was once again alone at the bus stop. The man with the cab got in and departed after receiving a call. There were few cars going by and thankfully none had pulled out a gun and shot him without reason; he felt dumb for fearing that might happen. Barely ten minutes after he called Jason, he heard the roaring of the motorcycle stopping by the bus stop. His brother was in all black and Dick bitterly thought it was fitting.
“Who did you fight?” Jason asked as soon as he laid eyes on Dick.
“No one.”
“You look like you lost,” Jason scoffed as he descended from his bike.
Dick laughed.
"You are not holding a wound,” Jason observed, his eyes scanning the area around Dick, “nor bleeding…”
Dick could see his brother's eyes analyzing every bit of information just like Bruce when he was on the field. The traces of being raised by the same man always made him feel an intense, warm wave of fondness for all his brothers.
“So… What's going on?”
Dick didn't answer. He really hadn't thought about how he would tell Jason. Dick knew he couldn't bring himself to hide his nervousness right now. Jason noticed.
“Did you kill someone or something like that?" Jason threw his first guess.
“No, no, it's not like that,” Dick corrected him. Jason gave an exasperated sigh.
“My goodness, Dickster, I didn't wake up so early for a social meeting so you better tell me what's wrong already. Where's your car? Why did you take the bus? Why are you—”
Jason was interrupted by Dick abruptly depositing his phone in Jason's hand. Jason raised an eyebrow, confused, before realizing the screen was on the call log. He barely eyed it —“What do you…”— but his eyes caught a flicker of the words before he could process them. He looked at the screen again. Jason's heart was beating fast, up to his throat.
Death–Cast. 2:51 am. 00:05:13.
A car passed; it was totally speeding. They didn't pay attention to it. The hum of the tires against the pavement was the only sound as Jason stared at Dick, scanning him with a deep furrowed brow. Then he looked back at the screen again. Jason handed back the phone. Dick put it back into his pocket.
“You shouldn't have taken the bus,” Dick could hear the stray anger starting to come out in his words.
“The car felt dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous! How— God— how am I going to get you to the manor on this shit?” Jason pointed at his bike. For some reason, in Dick's eyes, it looked safer than the cab.
“Jay! Please, can we make this normal—”
“No. Don't you dare ‘Jay’ me right now. You got the call almost 6 hours ago and you kept it to yourself alone in your apartment. You are such a hypocrite!" Jason took a step forward, towering over him, his fists balled at his sides. Jason's blue eyes looked almost teal as the green stained them.
“I talked to Wally.” Dick was too used to Jason's antics to be fazed by this display. That didn't mean he was fine with being the cause of it.
“Oh, so you called the speedster but not us?" Jason was not really mad at him. Dick knew it, but Jason's scowl and the glare in his eyes did make him feel upset.
“He called me!” Dick matched Jason's tone. Jason had no right to question who he called and who he told.
Jason and Dick locked eyes. Now they were both mad. Normally Jason would have continued yelling, taunting the other’s anger before storming out to not be seen for a month. But it didn't happen. Jason stopped yelling and looked straight at Dick. Jason screwed up his face with more anguish than Dick had ever seen him display. He closed his eyes and breathed, clearly trying to put himself together.
“You should have called us, you —Of course —that’s why you went home earlier.” Dick said nothing.
Jason stumbled and sat on the bench of the bus stop, head in his hands as he leaned forward. Dick sat by his side and hesitantly placed a hand on Jason's back and rubbed circles. Jason couldn't hold a mocking, weak laugh.
“Pretty sure this is not how the roles are supposed to play.”
“You’re my little brother and I’m comforting you. I think that’s how it’s always supposed to be” It wasn’t a lie. This is the part he was always meant to play ever since Jason showed up in his life, even if it took him long way to long te realize
Letting out a sigh Jason straightened slowly. Eyes lost on the road that led to the manor. Dick kept his hand on his back.
“Bruce could—”
“No” Some degree of denial was expected, Richard wasn’t surprised
"There 's people! Ra’s must have gotten the call at some point, Constantine must know a way to—”
“There’s none”
“You don't know that! We can fix it, Dick!" Dick could have sworn the younger man's voice sounded exactly as it had years ago, back when he was a stubborn child who had once mistakenly believed Robin was a blessing.
“And make me spend today in a bunker or a summoning circle?” Dick interrupted, resigned and tired, lacking any of his usual fight “I just want to go home. Please”
There’s nothing more to say. Jason’s mouth snapped shut. His posture deflated in surrender. Taking his gaze away from the empty road, Jason looked back at him.
“Are you afraid?”
‘No’ would be the brave answer, yet the way Dick's heart raced at the question…
“I...Yeah, I guess I am” There was no point in pretending.
“It doesn’t hurt”
“Oh” Dick said softly. “…Thank you”
Jason gave a stiff nod, and exhaled while dragging a hand over his face as if wiping away whatever trace of vulnerability had slipped out. He pushed himself off the bench, the leather of his jacket creaking sharply in the morning breeze, and went to grab the spare black helmet. He held it out waiting for Dick to take it.
“So, what do you want me to do?” Jason asked as if it was simple, just like they would ask each other while planning for a mission.
Dick took the helmet and raised an eyebrow questioning in an attempt to avoid answering. It was an Alfred Pennyworth trademarked gesture and if Jason noticed he didn't react to it.
“What do you need, Dick?” The younger stressed the obvious question as he put his helmet on
Dick stood there holding the helmet. It was the same question Dylan asked in the early morning. Nonetheless his mind was clearer now.
“We are going to lie to them. It's a normal Sunday morning. We are there grab breakfast and spend time together”
“They are not going to buy it. They're gonna know something is wrong. He's Batman, Dick”
“Well they won't have much time to figure it out, right?”
“What about Cass?”
“She won't tell”
“Bruce is going to beat the shit out of me when he finds out I knew and played along” an observation more than a complaint.
"I know," Dick could see it and flinched at the thought of Jason's face covered in bruises with the shape of Batman’s gauntlet. "And I'm sorry to put that on you, Jay"
The last sentence couldn't be anything but hypocrisy considering what he was about to ask.
"When… it happens" Dick swallowed hard, forcing the words out. This was wrong "I need you to manage the fallout. Don't let them see it happen. And whatever you do, don't let Bruce see my body.”
Images of bloody puddles flooded his mind. His body in the middle, his own eyes empty and open just as he had seen in so many corpses. Corpses. Corpses. Corp—
“He doesn't need to hold another one," Dick pushed himself to continue. The words coming out as if they were tearing him up from inside "I can't do that to him again. I can't do it to Tim, Cass or Damian either” Jason shouldn't be exempt from that list. Dick knew it. It was not fair to ask him this but no one could do it if not him.
“I need you to be the one to handle it. Lock them out of the room. Do whatever it takes.”
Jason had his helmet on already and stood stoic looking at the road that led away from the manor, deep into the city. Dick wouldn't blame him if he decided to run. Jason's voice was flat as he answered.
“Yeah. Yes, I can do that… I'll handle it”
Jason stepped over the bike, swinging the handlebars. Dick finally put his helmet on and climbed behind him holding onto the back of the passenger seat.
8:50 am
Alfred's absence was louder whenever the creaking of the door wasn't followed by a pair of footsteps that rushed to greet you and made sure you knew you were at home. Maybe that's why Jason decided to take a detour and get to the manor through the cave.
The engine of the motorcycle resounded in the cave for a second after they both descended.
The cave was usually really peaceful early in the morning. The bats —both humans and winged— slept soundly, and the cave echoed the rush of the waterfall, every drop of water falling from the stalactites in the ceiling and every footstep they took.
“I highly doubt they are awake, you know? Yesterday's patrol was long. Do you want to go up or…?”
Jason, forced to speak in the face of Richard out of character quietness, turned to his brother to see him not paying attention to him.
Dick looked around the cave in awe with the same childlike wonder he had almost 20 years ago. His eyes stopped at a colony of 6 bats hanging tightly in a corner.
“You know I always wondered how the hell we didn't caught rabies" says Jason as his eyes rested on the same place
“Bruce gave us shots” Dick answered absently
“He didn't give me one"
“He did. He does, actually. Every few years when the antibodies come short on a test ”
Jason turned his head slowly to stare at him “How…? When?”
Dick shrugged “We get hurt often enough for him to slip it when we need a patch up”
“I never consented to that!” Jason balked “I’m sure that's a violation on my human rights!”
Dick snorted. It started as a tiny, breathless sound, but the sheer absurdity of Red Hood talking about human rights violations by vaccines, administered by their father. A laugh broke out of him, an authentic, chest laugh that echoed off in the tall ceilings of the cave.
Jason tried to hold his angry scowl a bit longer, but not even pressing his lips as tightly as he could was able to hold his laugh for long and ended up joining Dick.
“What's so funny?" A younger voice, just past puberty came from the stairs. Damian had big eye bags and anyone who knew him would catch that his furrowed brow was deeper than usual
It was a second in which Dick struggled to come up with an answer, but Damian didn't need long to catch the slight tremble of his lips and his eyes getting shiner. Damian had started to tilt his head slightly.
“Pfff! You look like a run over raccoon” Jason mocked, saving Dick from being interrogated this soon.
Damian's posture straightened as he let out a dismissive tut. The analytical tilt of his head vanished, replaced by a defensive stand. His glare snapped away from Dick and locked entirely onto Jason.
“Had you not displayed such incompetence yesterday we might have been able to return sooner and father wouldn't have spent an hour lecturing Drake and me”
Richard didn't understand what they were talking about, and found that he didn't care. It wasn't important. Very few things are once you gain perspective.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Dick raised his guard back up to start his final performance
“Why are you here so early then?” Asked the older one, drawing attention back to him.
“I didn't go to sleep. It would have been a waste of time, being so early in the morning already. I'm good with no sleeping and even if I wasn't…” He stopped and seemed to get bitter at whatever was crossing his mind as he spoke, giving a deep breath before resuming “Even if I wasn't, my father had benched me for the week so I'll have plenty of time to make up for it”
“Are you hurt?” Dick ask to which the younger one pointed with his head as if Richard had just made an argument on his part
“I also agree that would be the only plausible reason to bench me for a week. Father doesn't seem to think the same”
Damian's eyes rested on Dick and crossed his arms, the brief distraction of his own grievances fading as his detective instincts kicked back in. His sharp gaze darted between the two of them.
“But now, why are you here so early?” Damian fired back the same question Richard made
“Oh, so I need an appointment now?”
The boy held his gaze expecting for the actual explanation
“My bike broke. I didn't have anything on me so I called Jason to take a look at it. He said he could find stuff to fix it here. Plus, I wanted breakfast, so here we are”
It was truly amazing how easy he could come up with lies. Damian seemed to think of it for a second before accepting the explanation
“I can put together something for you and for Todd if he behaves”
“I don't want your food" Jason was quick to retort
“There’s no need Damian. I can put something together. Even more so I already have something in mind”
His brother looked sceptical. Dick knew how to cook and he would call himself fairly competent at it. The idea for today's breakfast was fairly simple too. Damian gave a nod and headed towards the stairs. Dick followed with Jason close behind like a shadow.
High enough to have a good sight of the cave Dick stooped to look back one last time. Five bats still hung in the corner.