A Wing and a Prayer
Disclaimer: Nightwing and other characters belong to DC. Try to sue me and I'll set my big brothers on you.
I see you swinging across the city. My city. Why are you here? You don't belong in Blüdhaven, this isn't your city. Crime here is dealt with by me, Nightwing, the ex-boy wonder. Why didn't you let me know you'd be here? I like to know what's going on in the 'haven, and you being here isn't a particularly small thing. I want to know why you're here.
Nightwing drops from his position on top of Rabe memorial, and follows the figure he sees. His muscles move smoothly under the black Kevlar, his whole body working in perfect co-ordination. As his quarry heads toward the docks, he stays in pursuit, out of sight.
Where are you going? What do you know about something that's going on in my city? Why didn't you tell me? There's no place for an angel in Blüdhaven, not even an angel of vengeance. The people here don't need you as protector. I'm here for that. Fly away home, angel.
The pair reach the docks, the first still unaware of his follower. A ship is anchored at the pier. It is unusually busy for this time of night; crew scurry across the deck, stacking crates and talking in hushed tones. One lights a cigarette, and the brief glow illuminates his face for an instant, a spot of light in an otherwise black night. Pausing only for a moment, the angel leaps high and flies down to the deck. His dark red cloak flows behind him, caught and twisted by the breeze. He engages in a violent dance with the crew. It ends with them all laid out on deck, and the angel standing above them.
I see your fists pounding them, and I remember them pounding me. Your large hands folded into hammers, shielded behind armour, bruising flesh and splintering bone. I remember. Do you? You thought you could be Batman, but you didn't even come close. You were, as always, Azrael. The avenging angel. And, at that time, raving lunatic. I still have the memories of what you did to me. The pain still returns, if only in my dreams. In my nightmares. Azrael.
Azrael moves silently to the pile of crates. He searches them methodically; he knows exactly what he is looking for. He is absorbed in his task, and fails to notice a crew member creeping up from inside. A man who was below deck during Azrael's initial attack, and so escaped it. A faint light glints off the earring in his ear, the gold tooth in his mouth, the gun in his hand. Ever so silently, he cocks the trigger.
I have to stop the gunman. Even though it is Azrael, he isn't going to die on my watch. I fly through the air, soaring as I have all my life. The wind sweeps back my hair and sings through my veins. I feel alive, adrenaline rushes through me. I'm diving towards the gunman, somersaulting through the air. Azrael's back is turned, and the finger squeezes slowly on the trigger. No!!
The gunman turns. He hears the rushing sound of someone falling through the air clearly over the night's silence. In a split second, a shot is fired.
The shot roars in my ears, loud and harsh. But Azrael hasn't fallen. Why? Where did the bullet go? I realise, even as I hit the deck. I feel the pain in my side, the blood seeping, warm and wet, down my body. I'm lying on my back, staring up at the sky. I see the stars, tiny spots of light, vanish as the angel leaps over me. An angel of mercy.?
Azrael downs the man with a single blow, full of fury. The power behind it sends the man sprawling backwards, the gun flying out of his hand and over the rail, to land with a dull splash into the dark sea. The angel bends down to the prone figure at his feet. The blood spreads out like a fan, matching Azrael's cloak for colour.
My eyes open again, and I see the face of the angel. Azrael is gone, he is Jean Paul Valley. Concern is evident on his face. Concern for me? After what happened before? Maybe he has changed. Maybe I have. He's pressing something against the wound. I can hear him talking into his communicator, but it sounds so far away. I feel so tired. I just want to.
"Open your eyes, little bird," Jean Paul pleads, "stay with me. Don't die." His hand pushes bandages from his utility belt against the bullet wound. The other hand pulls at his cloak, yanking it off. He places it about the body he kneels by. "Come on, mon cher," he continues, tears silently falling, "you've got to open your eyes. You've got to live."
I can hear his voice, with its French accent. He's drawing me back, and my eyes blink open, albeit unwillingly. Not looking at him straight away, I'm glancing down by my side, and I see the object he came to the 'haven for. It's a silver cross, inlaid with rubies. I guess that it's of some religious significance to Jean Paul, and that's why he didn't want me involved. Typical. I'd laugh if I wasn't in such pain. Looking up at him, I see the trails of tears on his cheeks. He'd been crying for me? Maybe he does care.
Jean Paul notices with relief that Dick's eyes are open. He lifts him from the deck with care. "I will get you to the doctor, mon ami," he whispers, "you will be safe then." He takes off into the night bearing his precious burden.
The purr of the car engine vibrates in my ears. We're doing at least eighty down the highway to Gotham. I'm slumped on the front passenger seat, Jean Paul's cloak still round me, blood dripping from my side. I notice that Jean Paul has slung the cross in the car too. It catches the light from each streetlight and flashes it back. He's managed to bring it as well as me. Heh. Glad to know he's not getting too softhearted. We'll reach Gotham soon, and Leslie'll patch me up, tell me that it's bed rest for a fortnight, and I'll be back on the streets tomorrow night. Just like normal. Nothing'll have changed. Nothing except. Well, maybe me and Jean Paul. Maybe we can be friends, of a sort. Maybe it'll just go back to normal. But 'til then, I'll lie here wrapped in his cloak, with his steady presence beside me, keeping me holding on. Just now, I feel safe.
Disclaimer: Nightwing and other characters belong to DC. Try to sue me and I'll set my big brothers on you.
I see you swinging across the city. My city. Why are you here? You don't belong in Blüdhaven, this isn't your city. Crime here is dealt with by me, Nightwing, the ex-boy wonder. Why didn't you let me know you'd be here? I like to know what's going on in the 'haven, and you being here isn't a particularly small thing. I want to know why you're here.
Nightwing drops from his position on top of Rabe memorial, and follows the figure he sees. His muscles move smoothly under the black Kevlar, his whole body working in perfect co-ordination. As his quarry heads toward the docks, he stays in pursuit, out of sight.
Where are you going? What do you know about something that's going on in my city? Why didn't you tell me? There's no place for an angel in Blüdhaven, not even an angel of vengeance. The people here don't need you as protector. I'm here for that. Fly away home, angel.
The pair reach the docks, the first still unaware of his follower. A ship is anchored at the pier. It is unusually busy for this time of night; crew scurry across the deck, stacking crates and talking in hushed tones. One lights a cigarette, and the brief glow illuminates his face for an instant, a spot of light in an otherwise black night. Pausing only for a moment, the angel leaps high and flies down to the deck. His dark red cloak flows behind him, caught and twisted by the breeze. He engages in a violent dance with the crew. It ends with them all laid out on deck, and the angel standing above them.
I see your fists pounding them, and I remember them pounding me. Your large hands folded into hammers, shielded behind armour, bruising flesh and splintering bone. I remember. Do you? You thought you could be Batman, but you didn't even come close. You were, as always, Azrael. The avenging angel. And, at that time, raving lunatic. I still have the memories of what you did to me. The pain still returns, if only in my dreams. In my nightmares. Azrael.
Azrael moves silently to the pile of crates. He searches them methodically; he knows exactly what he is looking for. He is absorbed in his task, and fails to notice a crew member creeping up from inside. A man who was below deck during Azrael's initial attack, and so escaped it. A faint light glints off the earring in his ear, the gold tooth in his mouth, the gun in his hand. Ever so silently, he cocks the trigger.
I have to stop the gunman. Even though it is Azrael, he isn't going to die on my watch. I fly through the air, soaring as I have all my life. The wind sweeps back my hair and sings through my veins. I feel alive, adrenaline rushes through me. I'm diving towards the gunman, somersaulting through the air. Azrael's back is turned, and the finger squeezes slowly on the trigger. No!!
The gunman turns. He hears the rushing sound of someone falling through the air clearly over the night's silence. In a split second, a shot is fired.
The shot roars in my ears, loud and harsh. But Azrael hasn't fallen. Why? Where did the bullet go? I realise, even as I hit the deck. I feel the pain in my side, the blood seeping, warm and wet, down my body. I'm lying on my back, staring up at the sky. I see the stars, tiny spots of light, vanish as the angel leaps over me. An angel of mercy.?
Azrael downs the man with a single blow, full of fury. The power behind it sends the man sprawling backwards, the gun flying out of his hand and over the rail, to land with a dull splash into the dark sea. The angel bends down to the prone figure at his feet. The blood spreads out like a fan, matching Azrael's cloak for colour.
My eyes open again, and I see the face of the angel. Azrael is gone, he is Jean Paul Valley. Concern is evident on his face. Concern for me? After what happened before? Maybe he has changed. Maybe I have. He's pressing something against the wound. I can hear him talking into his communicator, but it sounds so far away. I feel so tired. I just want to.
"Open your eyes, little bird," Jean Paul pleads, "stay with me. Don't die." His hand pushes bandages from his utility belt against the bullet wound. The other hand pulls at his cloak, yanking it off. He places it about the body he kneels by. "Come on, mon cher," he continues, tears silently falling, "you've got to open your eyes. You've got to live."
I can hear his voice, with its French accent. He's drawing me back, and my eyes blink open, albeit unwillingly. Not looking at him straight away, I'm glancing down by my side, and I see the object he came to the 'haven for. It's a silver cross, inlaid with rubies. I guess that it's of some religious significance to Jean Paul, and that's why he didn't want me involved. Typical. I'd laugh if I wasn't in such pain. Looking up at him, I see the trails of tears on his cheeks. He'd been crying for me? Maybe he does care.
Jean Paul notices with relief that Dick's eyes are open. He lifts him from the deck with care. "I will get you to the doctor, mon ami," he whispers, "you will be safe then." He takes off into the night bearing his precious burden.
The purr of the car engine vibrates in my ears. We're doing at least eighty down the highway to Gotham. I'm slumped on the front passenger seat, Jean Paul's cloak still round me, blood dripping from my side. I notice that Jean Paul has slung the cross in the car too. It catches the light from each streetlight and flashes it back. He's managed to bring it as well as me. Heh. Glad to know he's not getting too softhearted. We'll reach Gotham soon, and Leslie'll patch me up, tell me that it's bed rest for a fortnight, and I'll be back on the streets tomorrow night. Just like normal. Nothing'll have changed. Nothing except. Well, maybe me and Jean Paul. Maybe we can be friends, of a sort. Maybe it'll just go back to normal. But 'til then, I'll lie here wrapped in his cloak, with his steady presence beside me, keeping me holding on. Just now, I feel safe.