Chapter Text
Jason was maybe, perhaps, mildly, sorta, beginning to, perchance, possibly like being at the Cave again. That is to say that he didn’t fucking hate it as much as he did in months prior. Bruce even let him keep his guns on when entering, that helped, though Alfred still had a strict “no weapons upstairs” rule.
Currently, Jason and everyone else in the Cave were in full gear, hunched over the Bat-Computer analyzing the entry and exit wounds of Carolina Johnson, the latest high-profile executive to fall victim to a successful assassination.
Tim was muttering something about “smooth edges” and “professional hit”. Jason knew why he was there, he was the gun guy, but he wasn’t gonna be much help. Close range and long range didn’t share all that many similarities.
He turned away just in time to witness Dick dismount the uneven bars with a perfect double layout. He casually waltzed up to the computer, leaned over Jason’s shoulder, and scrunched his eyebrows, eye narrowing slightly.
“Sniper shot. High caliber, probably a Barrett M95 or a CheyTac M200” Dick said monotonously, breaking the thick layer of concentration. “No burn marks or blackened skin. Shot was definitely from a distance.”
“The entry wound is round, approximately 1 cm in diameter, edges are clean, consistent with a long-distance shot from a high-velocity rifle” Tim provided.
“Yeah, well, knew it was a sniper. Ain’t none of this news.”
Dick shifted, tilting his head. “That shot was from at least four thousand meters. Only three people in the world can make that shot, considering the longest recorded sniper kill was just over thirty-five hundred meters,” he comments. “The shooter would have had to adjust for the wind speed, angle, bullet drop, and the Coriolis effect…” he trailed off, taking the open seat and monitor next to Tim.
“The what?”
“You know, the Coriolis effect. Snipers have to take it in consideration when setting up and taking a shot. In the northern hemisphere bullets are deflected to the right whereas in the southern hemisphere bullets are deflected to the left,” Dick explained. “It affects long distance shots so Jay wouldn’t need to know about it. That, along with the Eötvös effect and the record-breaking distance, had to have been a professional.”
“Sure Dickie. Whatever,” Jason dismissed, although in truth he was intrigued. “I’ll indulge you, Einstein. What’s the Ee-toe-ves effect? Or however you say it.”
Dick kept the same impassive expression, like he was talking about something especially boring Might as well have been discussing taxes or estate sales. He vacated his seat at the computer, standing up, back straight, arms at his sides.
“Eötvös,” Dick repeats syllabically. "Put simply, the Eötvös effect, in the context of long-range shooting, means that the bullet cannot and will not fly straight forever. Just like in archery, the projectile will hit the target lower than aimed.”
He paused, and Jason just stared at him. He was the gun guy. What was Dick going on about? Fucker was practically reading from a textbook.
“It affects projectiles fired from the West more than those fired from the East.” He added, almost as an afterthought. “The Urban environment with high noise pollution, and thick smog would be insurmountable for a novice or even an…” He paused, eyes clouding over.
Jason peered over Replacement’s shoulder, using a rare attempt at compassion toward the Golden Boy to give him a chance to collect himself. But after several dozen seconds Dick didn’t seem to be coming out of it. Tim was too engrossed in his blood spatter analysis or whatever algorithm thing he had running on the crime scene photos to notice.
“Yo, Dickie?”
“Dick!”
Jason called his name three or four times with Tim joining in after a few minutes. “Hey Nightwing!”
Nothing.
As one of the foremost experts on Bats with trauma (lived experience) Jason knew touch was out of the question, no matter how much he wanted to shake his brother, and demand he be alright. The infallible Dick Grayson.
“Robin!” Red Hood shouted, deepening his voice letting the gruffness associated with Batman seep into his voice. Dick shrunk back, trying to make himself smaller while keeping his feet planted firmly in place. His hands curled into fists at his sides, eyes scratched tightly shut.
Jason's eyes glowed dimly. His worry often manifested as anger. He knew that. He was working on it. He carefully forecasted his movements as not to startle the panicky vigilante, turning to Tim.
“The fuck is goin’ on?”
“I don’t know,” Replacement supplied, helpfully. “I’ve never seen him like this. Should we go get Bruce?”
Jason had heard some God-awful ideas in the past, even participated in several, but calling Batman to calm down an obviously traumatized Nightwing may just take the cake. Leave it to Timmy, the Bats biggest admirer to suggest Batman solve the problem.
He hadn’t been there long enough yet, he was still in his Bat worship phase. Who could really blame him? Well, Jason could.
“What kinda bone-headed fuck-” movement to his left severed the sentence before he could finish.
Dick shook his head, rolling his shoulders. “Or even an apprentice,” he finished as if nothing happened. “Our next move should probably be analyzing the sound sensors around the city. A high velocity round like that would have made a sound, silencer or not. It could help us pinpoint the sniper’s nest.”
“Dude, are you okay?”
Dickie offered his signature, award winning smile. “Yeah, Timmy, just zoned out there for a minute.”
Tim did not look convinced. Jason was having none of it. Bad enough he was called in on this damn case he couldn’t help with, bad enough he was in the Cave, bad enough he had to suffer through Tim’s incessant mumblings but now he had to deal with Nightwing’s unresolved shit too.
Leaving would be the smart move. Jason never knew when to fucking quit but he could start now. Turn over a new leaf at this very moment but simply mounting his bike and driving off.
Images of him and Dick before Ethiopia, blurry around the edges, floated through his mind. A soft, warm hand touching his cheek, whispers telling him it wasn’t his fault.
“Sure, N, and I’m the Queen of England.”
The leaves will be there tomorrow.
“Queen Elizabeth II has been dead for over a year now, Jay,” he joked, somehow appearing absolutely fine despite the shit that went down just a few short minutes ago, the shit that was still happening.
“Don’t deflect.”
Steph, who walked in after Dick’s little episode, during his closing statements, decided this was the moment to perform her super special talent, alleviating the tension by changing the subject. “Well, seems we have our very own sniper expert. Wanna tell us where you learned all that, Big Bird? I assume you were waxing poetic long before I came in.”
Waxing poetic was not what Jason would call it. “No, no, no. I wanna know what the hell just happened before anything else.”
His question went completely ignored. Tim conveniently found a renewed interest in the case files displayed on the monitor in front of him. Just like Batman. Ignore the issue in hopes that it resolves itself. Maybe he was being too harsh on the kid and Steph was oblivious to the goings on before her arrival.
His older brother was an amazing liar. Jason had seen him fool seasoned detectives, Gotham Rogues and other heroes alike, but he couldn’t fool him. Jason knew Dick before Nightwing, before Dick had perfected his mask of pleasantries and scenes of the highest production value.
So, when Dick replied with a calm “I had specialized training Batman deemed unnecessary for the rest of you.” Jason knew he was telling the truth, but he also knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth.