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Dick kicks his legs against the wall beneath him, inhaling deep and holding the air in his chest before he releases it. He rocks a little on the wall he’s perched on.
Silence wraps the Gotham night, the crawling of the nightlife suspiciously absent. The lack of activity only awakens his own nerves, which skate up his spine whenever he feels it begin to slump with the gentle release of relaxation. Something is wrong, but Babs is ferrying only the odd order to the hivemind of their vigilante family, and if there had even been a whiff of something bigger she’d have tracked it like a bloodhound to a foxhole.
It still feels… wrong. Stilted. Different, and not a refreshing time.
“Hey, O?” Dick murmurs, watching the odd person hurry along the pavement below, late-shifts letting out and people headed home.
After a beat, Babs responds with, “Yeah, Wing?”
“Tonight seems…” Dick purses his lips, not daring to say quiet out loud and jinx them all. B insists the superstition is just that, a superstition, but it's one he’s picked up from his Robin days around cops and has dogged at his heels ever since.
“Yeah, it does. There’s been no word from Croc, or Nygma, and all the other rogues are safely locked in Arkham,” Babs mutters, sighing harshly. “Maybe you guys’ll be able to get an early night.”
“I think B would become a rogue himself just to stop that from happening,” Dick snarks, because he can’t remember the last time the man got more than the bare minimum hours of sleep. Of course, the man is not stupid enough to go out when sleep-deprived — all of them have tried that when they were newer and all of them regretted it in their own ways — but he definitely pushes it sometimes.
Now that he thinks about it, Dick wonders what Jason’s been up to tonight. He hasn’t heard from his brother in a few days, but sometimes that happens when they’re wrapped up in cases. Maybe he has something on the backburner Dick can help out with tonight?
“Hey, Babs, heard from Hood recently?” Dick asks, and Babs lets out a negative hum.
“No, but Red had a question for him about a case and was going to circle around and speak with him. Want to join him?”
Interlocking his fingers, Dick stretches his arms above him, letting an appreciative straining noise out at the feeling. “Yeah, I’ll sweep around and then cut through his area, meet up with them a bit later.” Tim and Jason’s relationship is surprisingly strong, for one that started drenched in so much blood. Still, it brings a warm flame of comfort to Dick to see his brothers getting along. Especially since Tim and Damian are still a bit of a… work in progress.
“Sounds good, Nightwing. Spoiler, Black Bat, I’m getting a fight–” Dick lets Babs move channels, her systems automatically filtering her out and into Steph and Cass’ earpieces. Instead, he shakes out his arms, reaching over and pulling his back into a twist, hearing the dull crack and feeling the shift of his spine as it realigns.
Grinning, Dick pulls out his grappling hook from its hook on his utility belt, aiming it for the next roof over and pulling the release, sending the cord soaring ahead.
Once it is taut, he leans forward, falling off the edge of the building and into the arms of gravity.
Swooping low, Dick lets the momentum swing him up and forward, waiting until the perfect moment before moving his anchor forward. With the quiet night, he allows himself to fall into the familiar rhythm of grappling, flipping and twisting as he flies.
As he travels the streets of Upper East Side, circling around in search of any action, he hears someone enter the main channel.
“Hey, uh, we might have a problem,” Tim says, voice nervous and pitched high. Dick doesn’t move his grappling hook to the next vantage point, instead swinging himself up the side of the building and onto the roof.
“Red Robin, report,” Babs demands, and Dick holds in his breath as he strains to hear.
“I met up with the coordinates Hood’s mask tracker gave, and he’s not here!” Tim exclaims, and Dick feels the buzzing energy in his limbs solidify into a weight in his gut. Then, Tim adds, “All that is here is his cracked helmet, and signs of a struggle. There’s— There’s blood. A lot of it,” Tim adds, and Dick curses loudly.
“Okay, Red, I’m sending Nightwing to your location. Do not engage with anyone until he arrives. If they were able to subdue Hood while on patrol, they’re a threat,” Babs states, voice calm and professional. She then lists the address, a street on the edge of The Bowery that’s currently evacuated as decontamination efforts from Ivy’s latest tantrum are still being carried out.
“On my way,” Dick relays, as he turns and takes off in the right direction.
“Yeah, yeah I’ll just– I’ll collect some samples. See if I can access the video footage from the helmet,” Tim sighs, voice weighted with fatigue, and Dick can’t help but agree with the sentiment. He’d take the nervous anticipation over this any day.
Making it in record time, Dick pauses on a building across the street from the alleyway Tim reported, crouching on the edge as he examines the shadows below.
Tim is the only figure there, curled around the soft glow of his phone and likely rifling through footage, so Dick lowers himself to the pavement and darts across the street. Upon his approach, Tim glances up and gives a wave, before turning back to his task. The bent and cracked helmet is connected with a cord, but Dick winces at just how out of shape the armour is.
“Any luck?” Dick asks, and Tim shakes his head.
“It hasn’t been backed up to the cave in a while, so there is a lot to go through, especially on a smaller screen.” The vigilante gives an annoyed grumble, pressing something on the device.
Dick frowns, “I thought Jason was hooked up to the cave computer.”
“He is. He and B had a fight, and so he’s been avoiding the cave,” Tim explains, and Dick can’t help the sigh that escapes him at the words. “Mhm. Same as usual, too.”
That old chestnut. Dick doesn’t get why they can’t just not talk about it. He isn’t naive enough to hope the two actually talk out their differences, but he does wish that they could just let sleeping dogs lie.
“Alright, well, if someone stupid got the drop on him, he will never live it down,” Dick declares, rubbing his hands together at the thought. Tim rolls his eyes, even as his own mouth pulls up into a sharp grin. “Just like the Joker knock-off who shot you two months ago!”
Smile falling immediately, Tim turns to glare through his mask at that remark. “His partner thought he was being attacked. I wasn’t expecting to be shot at by a civilian.”
“Ah, but Tim, it’s Gotham. You should know this, but you didn’t, and so I reserve bullying rights.” Tim opens his mouth to protest, but Dick throws out a hand to pause him in order to add, “Or I could tell B that and you have to sit through another ‘securing the scene’ lecture!”
Tim shuts up, going back to the phone with an annoyed air. Dick tries to not radiate too much smugness.
“Found the right one,” Tim scoffs, and Dick circles around to watch over his brother’s shoulder. He scrubs along the bottom of the screen, fast-forwarding the footage until it reaches the end of the recording.
“Hello~!” Jason sing-songs, the click of his guns’ safety ringing in the quiet alley. Three faces glance up in shock at him, and he cackles. “Would you imagine my surprise when I got back from a visit out of town and found some fuckers selling to kids in my territory? I’ve even been told this isn’t a new occurrence.”
“Fuck! Quick, call–” One of them urges the shortest one, who fumbles for their pockets only to throw themselves to the floor at the echoing bang of a shot.
Humming, the camera tilts as Jason rolls his shoulders. “Not a cop, shitbags. You don’t get a phone call,” Jason comments. The men cower under the shadow his brother casts, outlined by the streetlights.
“These guys aren’t ring-leaders. They’re little fish,” Dick comments, and Tim makes a noise of agreement. In the video, Jason seems to recognise this himself.
“Tell me who you lot work for and you won’t need a lung transplant,” Jason growls, and presses a gun to the temple of the smaller of the three, who’s already scared shitless by the earlier warning shot.
“Don’t you fucking dare, Lee–” The leader of the trio breaks off in a pained scream as Jason shoots him in the knee, clutching at the bleeding wound out in the side-view camera.
“Don’t worry about them, worry about me,” Jason says to the man beneath him, lowering the other gun as the other stays trained on his head. “Who. Do. You. Work. For?” The head of the gun is nudged against the man’s temple with each word, and he lets out a whimper before opening his quivering jaw.
“J-Jones—” The man mutters, but before another syllable can be uttered there is a growl that heightens into a shout and a shadow moves over where Jason is crouched. Reacting quickly, Jason twists, sweeping out with his armoured boot.
The boot collides, but does nothing as the figure bores down on him. “Shit,” Jason hisses, bringing a gun around to shoot in the chest of the figure.
Pinging, the bullet bounces harmlessly off the body as a hand reaches forward to grip around Jason’s helmet. Flexing the grip, two of the cameras short-circuit as there’s the crack of the shell splintering. Jason cries out, but then he’s wrenched as the attacker throws him against the wall of the alley by his head.
“Enhanced strength, possibly speed? Definitely either super durability or insanely protective body armour,” Tim murmurs, as they squint at the screen.
“Stealth, too. It isn’t easy to sneak up on any of us,” Dick adds, Tim nodding along.
There’s a hiss, and the locks on Jason’s helmet disengage. Out of one of the working cameras, his body goes flying across the alley, rolling on the concrete with a trail of blood. It takes far too long for Jason to get his elbows up beneath him, and he looks back to the assailant with blood running down onto the domino stuck to his face.
“I should’a kept the fuckin’ bombs,” Jason snarls, twisting and getting to his feet. He crouches, reaching into the pockets that run down his calves, and pulling out the short dual-swords he stores there.
A dark chuckle rings out through the space, and the meta drops the helmet. The view is obscured, but Jason shakes his head, clearly disorientated.
“I’m outside your weight-class, Hood,” laughs the meta, but he steps into frame and raises his fists regardless. “I’m not easy pickings like those three.”
“Oh, great, I was just wondering if today would get interesting,” Jason snarks, grinning feral as he pounces forward, swords ready to stab.
The two collide, rolling out of frame.
Tim fast-forwards through the rest of the footage, and there’s the sounds of a fight, but no more visual cues. After a few minutes, there's a roar of pain — the meta, thankfully — and then thundering footsteps that slowly retreat from the sensitivity of the mask. Two hours later, Tim swings into view, locating the helmet and calling into Babs.
“It’s been two hours,” Dick says slowly. Much too long.
“Dammit!” Tim hisses, tugging out the cord and shoving his phone back in his pocket. “What’s a meta doing in fucking Gotham?”
Wincing, Dick moves back, holding his hand to his earpiece. “Got all that, O?”
“Yeah. Looking for any CCTV footage nearby,” Babs answers, going silent once more as she searches.
“He’d go somewhere to even the playing field,” Tim comments, and Dick nods.
“But he was already in his home turf, without any civilians around at risk of getting injured,” Dick points out. Sighing, Tim glances around the alleyway, examining the area again. He makes a considering noise, stalking and bending over something.
“He left his guns. Oh, there’s more blood.”
“Tim, I really do not want to see more of Jason’s blood–”
“No, moron, it’s probably the meta’s blood. It shouted on the video,” Tim corrects, opening a pocket and pulling out a small plastic bag. Removing the device inside, he clicks the button on the side and sets it on the legs that unfurl from its base. “Jason might have gotten a lucky shot in.”
Figures, his brother is too spiteful to go down without a fight. They all are, really. Gotham blood and all that. “Alright. So the bullet did nothing, but the blades must have. Somehow.”
“Yep, meta-gene detected,” Tim calls, and Dick moves to the mouth of the alley. A largely unknown opponent, impervious to bullets but clearly having some weakness, is what his brother was up against. He drew blood, meaning he could have ruled out any kind of alien or supernatural creature, so he likely would have concluded the attacker was a meta.
So where is the nearest upper-hand?
“I’ve got a report of a body caught on a wharf in the harbour. Nightwing, can you call it in? You’re closest,” Babs interrupts his musings. Dick shakes off the immediate urge to refuse, to stay and work until he finds Jason, but he knows that panicking will do nothing.
“On it. Red, let me know if you find anything,” He calls over his shoulder, hearing an agreement from Tim.
It’s only a few streets down, the wharf, and when Dick leaps across the wooden boards of the old relic, he soon locates the body.
They’re big. Human, still, but built like one of the body-builders who dedicate their lives to the activity. They’re tangled up in the ladder, what once would have been used by kids to jump into the water before it became too polluted to do so, and face-up.
When he approaches, he acknowledges that in order to get it out, they’re going to need reinforcements. Still, he needs to check for signs of life.
Cogs turn in the back of his head as he looks for any sign of foul-play, and he notes how torn the clothing is but the lack of blood beneath the fabric. Some kind of fight, the tears are too deliberate, going for critical points to incapacitate, then–
Oh fuck. It's the meta.
“Oracle! I found the meta Jay was fighting!” Dick yelps over the comm-line, hand to his ear as he uses his other to locate the pulse-point on the man. It’s weak and thready, but there. “Get some medics, and something to lift him out of the water.”
“Out
of the water?”
Babs asks, a little incredulous.
“Yeah,” He sighs. Meta found, but no sign of Jason, in the
water.
“Hey, O, any footage of this guy falling into the river? Probably with Hood?”
“Shit,” Babs curses, and Dick agrees with the sentiment. “Dispatch on their way.”
Dick purses his lips at the figure beneath him. Typically, he’d pull the person out of the water, but…
“Okay, I have something. They fell off Narrows’ west bridge. I’ll loop the others in properly,” Babs relays, and Dick makes the decision. The guy will be fine. Probably.
Turning away, Dick sprints the length of the wharf, back onto dry land and up the nearest building. He follows them west, slowing when he notices Tim’s own form leaping across the buildings, the two falling into step as they close the distance to the bridge.
“Hey, Spoiler and Black Bat are on our way, ETA 15 minutes,” Cass says, going silent after as the two make their way up from the Upper West Side. Tim stops on the rooftop they land on, and Dick scrambles into a roll to stop with him.
“We should go closer to the water,” Tim mutters, subdued, and Dick nods. Grimly, the two slip down to the street below, walking the edge of the pavement.
Once they reach the bridge, Dick shakes his head, quietly explaining, “I’ll go on the other side. Meet at the East Bridge.”
Wrapping his grappling line on the towering arches of the bridge, he pulls the retraction, allowing himself to be flung up into the air. He doesn’t bother with his more laid-back swinging, not relishing the feeling and instead focusing on getting across in as short a time as possible.
On the other side, he looks up at Tim, a small figure at the distance between them, and they slowly move the length of the river’s edge, the current lazily moving out with the tide.
Nothing. Only black waves and the gentle glistening of reflected city lights. For what feels like hours, he slowly moves along the shoreline, pushing down the urge to race ahead in order to be carefully methodical and not miss anything.
He hates this. Despises it with each fibre of his being.
Steph and Cass arrive, carrying diving gear, and fall into step with them. Steph swings across and joins Tim, while Cass melts out of the shadows and accompanies Dick.
It’s a while more of tense silence before there’s a reluctant, “I’ve got something. I’m going in,” from Tim over the comms. Dick pauses, squinting across the expanse as if he could see exactly what Tim is in the limited light.
Making out the two figures on the opposite shoreline, he sees Steph help Tim into the gear. He then lowers himself into the river, and dives down.
Breath held, Dick waits. Waits.
Tim resurfaces, grabs at something, and tugs it back with him as he returns to the purple sheen of Spoiler. Barely is Dick able to wait for his brother to be heaved up onto the concrete of the sidewalk before demanding, “What? What is it?”
“It’s his jacket,” Steph says. Dick lets out a mournful note, a hand going up to his mouth, and he only faintly registers the warm palm of Cass on his shoulder.
“Could he have been cognizant enough to take it off in the water? To stop himself from being bogged down by the weight?” Cass asks, and Dick feels his lungs inflate with hope.
“I’d imagine that’s what happened,” Tim agrees, “It’s fitted to him, it wouldn’t come off in the water that easily.”
Dick sighs in relief, sharing a small smile with Cass, before he turns his attention back to the water. It’s laughably little in the way of confirming Jason is still alive, but it is something. It's the chance his brother got out.
“There’s water, up ahead,” Cass states, pointing to the pavement ahead of them. Dick jogs to where she pointed, and sure enough there is a puddle of water smoothing into the cracks of the sidewalk. Swirls of a darker liquid entangle with the water, and Dick swipes a gloved finger in the puddle and holds it up to the light.
“Blood,” Dick passes on to Cass, who nods. “We might have something, keep looking with Black Bat, I’ll follow it up.” He hopes to whatever the fuck is out there that it is his brother’s, but he refuses to take chances with Jason’s life.
In the dark of the Gotham night, it takes a while for him to determine where whoever was injured stepped next, but the small gleans of light illuminate the drops of water eventually.
It’s headed further inland. Quietly, Dick follows the broken trail, following it around the bend of a street and into a darkened alley.
Ultimately, it’s the gasping that sets him on edge. He pulls an escrima stick from his back, pressing the button and sending crackling electricity running down to the tip. In the dim light it casts, he slowly moves deeper into the gap between the buildings, heart in his throat.
Tucked far away in the dark corner of the dead-end, there’s a figure. Curled up, arms locked around knees, that horrible hollow gasping coming from their mouth. Dick takes a chance, and he asks a quiet, “Jason?” into the silence. The man jerks, and moves his arms to reveal the sheen of his brother’s green eyes.
“I’ve got him. Condition unclear,” Dick murmurs into his earpiece, before putting the escrima stick back on his back. “Hey, Jay,” He soothes, holding his hands out in front of him. Jason just shakes, eyes unfocused after that moment of clarity.
“Jason?” Dick tries, stepping closer. Curling up further in the corner he’s wedged within, a strained whine breaks out through the area. Another step forward, and he closes his eyes.
Seeing his brother, all explosive and dramatic and false bravado, cowering away like this sends the broken shards of his heart into his lungs, but Dick needs to get closer to assess properly. Shuffling closer receives no outward reaction this time, and so he rapidly closes the distance and crouches just outside of Jason’s reach.
“Little wing,” Dick croons, a tone that hasn’t been used since Jason came back. It’s filled with the warm comfort of late nights, of train surfing bathed in golden light, of the weight of Jason falling into Dick’s arms after a trick gone wrong.
That gets a reaction. Jason jerks his head up, snapping onto Dick with such precision that Dick winces. Thick globs of tears run down his brother’s exposed cheeks, and distantly Dick wonders when Jason lost his domino. If anyone saw his bare face. Then he shoves those questions into a box to unpack later. His brother is still hyperventilating, shaking, and clearly not fully present.
“Whatever happened, Jay, it’s over,” Dick says softly. “You’re in Gotham, an alley in Upper East End, you were just patrolling.”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—” Jason whispers, his gloves digging into his arms. “I told him, I told him—” Jason breaks off in a sob, and Dick wants to just hug his brother, but his behaviour and the increased glow in his eyes mean that he’d just get more upset at anything constricting him.
“Who? What did you tell him?” Dick asks, trying to pinpoint where Jason thinks he is, who he thinks he’s talking to or about.
“I told him not to bury me again!” Jason snaps, and Dick freezes. “Never again. I’m not crawling out again,” He continues into mutters, barely intelligible over the shock Dick has roaring through his ears.
Not right now. He can’t fall apart right now, when Jason is like this. “Jay, little wing, c’mon, look at me,” Dick pleads, relieved when Jason’s sluggish gaze moves over to him. “Good. Great. Jason, you’re not dead. You haven’t died,” again, the bitter thought torments Dick, but he simply ignores that particular word.
“Don’t lie to me!” Jason growls. “Felt it, felt it, I don’t want to go back in–”
Is– Is Jason afraid he’ll be put back in his grave? The time between Jason’s revival and his reappearance is spotty at best, all of their family has taken a crack at trying to track his movements, but other than the knowledge that the League of Assassins was involved, there isn’t much. Dick had been content to wait for his brother to open up, if he ever did, but right now he wishes he had pried so that he could know how to even begin to navigate this.
Tim had thought that even Jason didn’t know how he came back, but the words his brother had said earlier, about crawling out of his own grave–
Nausea slams into his throat, but Dick swallows it down. Later, later.
“Jay, come on, look around you. Assess the situation, you’re in a different place,” Dick tries, and Jason gasps, choking and uncurling and vomiting up grimey water onto the concrete. “Okay, Jason, it’s okay. I’m going to touch you now, alright?”
Taking the chance, Dick moves closer, gently placing a hand on the curve of his shoulder blades, feeling the muscles coil and tense under the contact. “It’s me! It’s Dick!” Dick reminds him, and Jason relaxes minutely. Dick sees the blooming bruise at the edge of his hairline, already viciously dark, and winces in sympathy. That’s a trip to the Cave.
Rubbing at his back, Dick begins to ramble, keeping up the tirade of whatever crosses his mind as Jason gags and coughs up more water. Not even Dick is sure what comes out of his mouth, he just grabs hold of any odd thought that flits across his mind which is not even remotely related to what is happening in front of him. Jumping from topic to topic, taking stock of Jason as much as the limited light and compromised position will allow, Dick waits.
After an empty, croaking dry heave, Jason shakes his head, letting out a pained noise at the movement. He looks back at Dick, pupils irregular and unfocused, concussion evident.
“Dick?” He rasps, and Dick stops mid-word and gives his brother his full attention.
“Yes, Jason?”
“Fuck,” Jason sighs, and he slumps forward. Dick catches him, pulls them away from the sick still on the ground, and lays Jason on his back, supporting his head with a palm between his forelegs and his brother’s scalp.
“Jason! Jason! Hey, come on, open your eyes. Look at me, you can do it,” Dick says, patting Jason’s cheek. It takes a few tries, but he eventually is rewarded with a groan and Jason’s eyes fluttering open.
“Dick?” Jason mumbles, scrunching his eyes up and squinting at him.
“You and I are gonna have a chat about keeping very fucking relevant information secret,” Dick says cheerily, patting his brother a few times. Jason makes a confused noise, but Dick just scratches at his scalp before lifting his hand to his earpiece. “Hey, O.”
“Dick,” Babs returns, voice carefully calm, and Dick belatedly realises she’d have seen and heard everything.
“I know, Babs.”
“Did you?”
“Not before this, no,” Dick clarifies. He does not want to face Babs' wrath on this. “Can we get a medical evac?”
“Directing the Batmobile to you now,” Babs answers. “Be sure to let him know that conversation will include me.”
Dick squeezes his brother closer, relieved that they can joke and aren’t having to fish his body out of the water, and grins wickedly.