Chapter Text
The glass on the front doors of the Blüdhaven Police Department’s 21st Precinct have been cracked since the riots of ’24. It rattled every time a heavy vehicle rolled down the asphalt, producing a low, rhythmic vibration that Detective Marcus Vance has learned to tune out over a decade of bad shifts. While the detective sat at his metal desk staring at a stack of missing persons reports, he felt that tonight, the rattle was different. It was a heavier, rhythmic thudding that grew louder against the glass until the double doors swung open, cutting through the heavy haze of cheap coffee from the ancient coffee machine in the corner. The bullpen didn’t go quiet all at once. It died in sections.
Detective Dick Grayson walked through the threshold with a loose, bouncing stride that belonged to a performer. He had been gone for fourteen months on an official "extended medical and psychological leave" signed off by the city council and stamped with five different non-disclosure agreements after an unspecified incident in Gotham that the upper brass refused to put on paper. The rumor mill in the BCPD locker rooms had chewed on that absence for a year, but as Grayson stepped into the fluorescent glare of the bullpen, every single theory withered. The circus kid, who had spent four years bringing daylight into a town that usually drowned its honest cops in the marsh, returned.
The donuts came from the bakery on 4th Street, the one with the broken neon sign and the grease-stained counter. They were still hot enough to soften the cardboard box when Grayson slid them onto the edge of the duty sergeant’s desk. "Morning, everyone!" Dick’s voice carried that old, familiar bounce. A bright, melodic ring that had been missing from the floor for a year. "They’ve got the blueberry cake ones today. Don't tell the Captain though! She’ll make us do a fitness evaluation".
Detective Vance looked up from his terminal. For a second, just a fraction of a heartbeat, it felt like the missing year hadn't happened. A small part of his chest relaxed. It was the kinetic default of the precinct’s golden boy. Dick was wearing his faded brown leather jacket, the one with the scuffed left elbow from a foot chase back in ’23. His hair was slightly messy, sticking up at the back like he’d rolled out of bed five minutes before roll call, and he had that lopsided, easy smile fixed onto his face. "Grayson..." Vance said, his hand hesitating over his lukewarm coffee.
From two desks away, Miller stood and reached into the box, pulling out a jelly-filled donut. Vance thanked him silently, because this act served as an icebreaker, dispelling everyone's astonishment from the unexpected arrival. "Good to have you back, Grayson. The place smelled too much like floor wax and despair while you were gone. How’s your head?" "Clear as a bell, Miller! The doctors at Wayne Medical gave me the clear. No lingering fog. Just a lot of boring therapy." "Yeah?" Miller chewed, wiping sugar from his chin. "You do look... bigger, man. Did they have you lifting cars over in Gotham?" Dick chuckled, a soft, self-deprecating sound. He shrugged his shoulders under the faded leather jacket. "Just a lot of swimming, Miller. You know how Bruce is. If you're staying under his roof, you’re either exercising or you’re listening to him talk about the importance of bussiness relationships".
Now that Miller mentioned, Vance noticed that Grayson's shoulders were broader. Don't get him wrong, this isn't necessarily a bad thing, but the boy has previously explained that his physique was very important to him and that his slender build represented that very same thought. Currently, he has such a dense and heavy mass that it seems to have altered his center of gravity.
"You’re early." Vance said, forcing his voice into the easy mocking tone they used, to maintain the casual camaraderie they had shared for four years on the street. "Shift doesn’t start for twelve minutes." Dick smiled, dropping into the squeaking swivel chair at his old desk. He leaned back, putting his boots up on the corner of the metal frame. "I figured I’d get a head start on the paperwork before the phones start ringing."
Before he could find a witty retort, the door to the captain’s office flew open and Captain Amy Rohrbach stepped out. Her hair was pulled back into its usual tight bun and her face was lined with the permanent exhaustion of a clean cop in a filthy town. Her eyes landed on the three, but narrowed on the tall figure in brown. "Grayson..." Rohrbach said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. "In my office. Now!" "On it, Cap!" Dick offered a quick, boyish salute and swung his legs off the desk with a loose, springy motion, catching the floor with the balls of his feet. He gave Vance a quick wink, and headed up the iron stairs with a light, bouncing stride.
Vance blinked. That wasnt off character per say but Dicks's leather shoes made absolutely no sound against the flooring. Not a low thud. Not a scrape of leather. Nothing. A physical impossibility for a six-foot-two man carrying that much dense mass. He took the metal stairs to the second floor two at a time, but his upper body remained perfectly level, as if he was being hoisted by an invisible wire.
As the door to Rohrbach’s office clicked shut, behind him, a collective breath escaped the bullpen. "Damn. He’s really back" Said Detective Miller with a stupid grin on his face, but Vance felt a sudden, cold prickle at the base of his neck. "Wasn't his leave up until next month?" "The Captain signed him back at his request... He looks different doesn't he, Marcus" whispered Miller. "Yeah..."
While Miller kept tracking Dick's figure moving through the frosted glass door at the top of the stairs, he looked at the corner of Dick’s metal desk where his boots had been resting. The industrial steel casing was slightly warped, a small, crescent-shaped indentation pressed into the metal where the heel of Dick's boot had made contact.
"What the hell did they do to him in Gotham...? "
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While in Rohrbach's office...
The Captain sat down and offered him a seat. She studied him for a long, agonizing minute and remember that she has known Dick Grayson since he was a rookie with stars in his eyes and a stupid habit of doing backflips over alley fences to catch purse-snatchers. "The medical board from Wayne Enterprises gave you a clean bill." Her voice low and cautious. "They said you were fit for active duty." "I am, Captain." Dick sat down without hesitation, but Rohrbach immediately noticed his hands. They rested on his thighs. They weren't twitching. They weren't shifting. They were perfectly, artificially still.
Years ago, Dick used to fidget whenever he was nervous. Tap his fingers. Bounce his leg. Adjust his tie. It had always been obvious to anyone paying attention. But Amy Rohrbach had spent enough years as both a captain and a mother to know when someone was trying too hard to look relaxed. So when she looked at his posture and that polite, respectful smile fixed to his face like a stamp on an envelope, she wasn't buying it.
"You look normal, Dick," she said, leaning against the edge of her desk. "But the report mentions long-term physiological alterations." She picked up the medical file. "And I quote: 'The subject's prefrontal cortex has achieved a state of hyper-vigilant operational efficiency. Manual suppression of primitive survival reflexes may cause extreme psychological strain.'" Her eyes lifted to his. "What does that mean in plain English?"
Dick's smile tightened. For a second, Rohrbach felt a strange chill settle in her chest. She had spent years shielding Dick from the worst of the department's politics because she knew he had a good heart. A heart that was becoming increasingly rare in Blüdhaven. Looking at him now, she wasn't entirely sure what shape that heart was in.
Dick let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "That means I have to do twice as many stretches in the morning so I don't spiral, Cap." For a fraction of a second, something flickered behind his eyes. The joke wasn't really a joke. And Rohrbach knew it.
She slowly closed the file. "Dick." His gaze lifted. "If something's wrong, you can talk to me."
The smile immediately returned. "I'm fine, Cap."
"I'm not asking whether you're fine." Her voice softened. "I'm asking whether you're carrying something you shouldn't be carrying alone."
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Silence
Rohrbach folded her arms. "I've known you too long to pretend I can't tell when you're putting on a performance." A tiny muscle jumped in Dick's jaw. "Whatever happened in Gotham stays in Gotham." "That's bullshit and you know it." The words came out sharper than she'd intended.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Rohrbach sighed.
"Dick, listen to me." Her expression softened. "Anything said in this office stays in this office." His eyes narrowed slightly. "I mean it." She pointed at the four walls surrounding them. "No reports. No paperwork. No Internal Affairs."
"That sounds incredibly illegal."
"It probably is." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. She pressed on. "If you need help, you call me."
"Cap—"
"No." Her voice hardened. "I don't care if it's three in the morning."
"Duly noted."
"I don't care if you're halfway across the city."
"Duly noted."
"And I especially don't care if you're out there wearing that ridiculous black spandex suit."
Dick snorted despite himself. "It's Kevlar."
"That's not the point."
For the first time since entering the office, the smile that crossed his face looked genuine. Small. Brief. Real. Rohrbach's chest tightened. "If things get bad, Dick, you call me." His expression flickered. Just for a second. The exhaustion underneath became visible. Then it vanished again. "You have my number." "I do." She held his gaze. "And if I have to break six department policies and three city ordinances to help you, then I'll deal with the paperwork afterward. I will not make the same mistake again." She is referring to the time she removed him from duty because of his nighttime activities. She had been recently promoted to captain and had felt betrayed, but after much reflection, she understood the real reason why he had kept it from her. The truth was that their time working together had been unique, and she realized he truly harbored no ulterior motives. So, after finding a excuse, she reinstated him to the team and assigned him to work with Detective Vance—the same partner he worked with for the next four years prior to his fourteen-month hiatus. To this day, she feels remorse for her actions, believing she failed to give him the same level of care he had always shown her. It was something that clearly affected him, judging by the reports indicating that Nightwing had become more violent than usual.
A long silence followed. Finally, Dick looked away. "Thank you, Amy." Not Captain. Amy. The word caught her completely off guard. She hadn't heard him call her that in years. His smile returned a second later. Brighter. Safer. More familiar. But somehow less convincing. Rohrbach watched him carefully. "Dick." "Yeah?" "Don't make me regret signing your return-to-duty papers." The smile widened. "Wouldn't dream of it." That answer worried her more than anything else.
"I need a cop who follows the book." She said firmly, forcing herself back into the role of Captain. "We have a joint raid with SWAT scheduled for Thursday. The Red Crows have fortified the old grain silos near the northern canal. They've got automatic rifles and light armor. I'm putting you on perimeter overwatch with Vance. No solo entries. No heroics. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly." He didn't ask for details. He didn't complain about being assigned to perimeter duty. He simply stood. Smiled. And walked out. His movements were a flawless imitation of a man without a care in the world. But after the door clicked shut, Rohrbach opened the medical file again. Not because she needed to. She had already read it five times yesterday and once more this morning before calling him into her office. Still, her hands trembled slightly as she stared at the redacted pages.
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"What happened to you, kid?"