A/N: I went and saw The Dark Knight Rises the evening I had finished writing the first chapter of this. And you know what it did? Got me ridiculously pumped with energy so I couldn't concentrate on anything – and this was after the movie. Loved it way too much. I blame Blake – kept calling him "Officer Grayson" in my head throughout the whole thing, even though he seems a mix of the first three Robins. His portion of the ending sent me babbling theories, and showing off how much of a comic nerd I can be despite having read very few comics, to anyone who'd listen… But enough about that. Since this was originally meant to be a one-shot, and then TDKR got me too messed up to continue something, the only way I could work was by starting something "new"; basically, just opening up another blank document and continuing with the same story. Whoo. Chapters, for once.
Notes: Jason wasn't originally supposed to be in this. But then I came up with some odd idea that worked better with him in it. This is weird, because as a rule, I generally don't like Jason. So I'm working off what little I know of him – a few scenes from Under the Red Hood and what I read about him elsewhere. My apologies in advance if he comes off a bit out of character as result.
Chapter Two – Middle Child.
And why do we fall Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up.
-Batman Begins
Dick looks like a stranger in familiar clothes and skin.
So very similar, yet so very wrong.
He looks burdened. Tired. Weak. Fragile. Like he'd shatter if they so much as poked him the wrong way.
Nothing like the confident, graceful, lively acrobat that had once run about the manor with high spirits and loud laughter that echoed off everything. Infectious laughter that made an old man smile and calmed a vengeful spirit. Nothing like the boy he'd taken in and trained. The boy he'd raised–
If anything, he looked like the boy Bruce remembered on the night the Flying Grayson's died. Broken and alone.
But thankfully, not conscious and experiencing the sensation of losing his entire world.
Tim had come in several hours ago, his self-proclaimed sibling out cold and in tow. Started rattling off symptoms, problems, and whatever else he thought would be helpful in getting him help. He hadn't explained how he'd found Dick, and Bruce knew he had to busy himself with making sure Dick was stable before he started questioning the current Robin. Except, Tim had returned home as soon as he'd been convinced that Dick was relatively stable, so Bruce was left with questions rather than answers.
No matter. He didn't need to talk in person to get the facts.
Bruce glances at the clock on the corner of the computer screen. It'd been a few hours since Tim left; he'd probably have gotten back and settled. Bruce pages Tim's com-link and waits.
A few minutes later, Tim picks up.
"…Bruce. What's up? Is –"
"Dick's fine." Bruce replies, "His vitals are stable and he's resting. I just want the details you neglected to give earlier."
"Dick's health was more important at the time." Tim sounds a bit wary and defensive.
"I know that. But he's stable now, so I'd prefer to know what happened."
"…Got a call from Dick several hours ago, while I was doing my homework. He was… well, disoriented, for one. Couldn't seem to remember who I was, despite the fact that he called me up on a public pay phone. In fact, he couldn't recall many things about any of us."
"Amnesia?"
"I don't think so. He remembered who I was sometime later, and made a partial connection with you and bats. It seems like if Dick concentrates, he can recall things, but he has trouble forming his thoughts. During the conversation, he mostly gave me one words kind of answers unless I specifically tried to get him to say more."
"He had trouble with that, I presume."
"Yeah, for the most part. A lot of pausing and occasional stuttering."
"Does he know what's wrong?"
"I think he's got an idea… But that's the problem. It's an idea that probably comes from all his training with you, which is retained subconsciously. So he doesn't really understand, he just feels."
"I see."
"And yes, before you ask, he probably is doped up on some drugs. I asked him, though he didn't give much of an answer."
"What did he say?"
"Uncertainly, he replied 'Yes', and then mentioned a 'she'."
"Where did you find him?"
"Atlantic City. I had Oracle trace our call; you might want to tell her we found Dick before she finds out on her own."
"Later. What was he doing?"
"Standing in a phone booth. Collapsed as soon I arrived. That's really about all I know, Bruce."
"…Understood. I'll contact you again if anything happens."
Bruce cuts the connection and leans back in his car, studying his computer as it ran through diagnostics from blood samples he'd taken from his eldest s – …from Dick.
Disorientation, weakness, and high probability of having used or been forced to use drugs. Missing ever since Blockbuster had been found and declared dead at the last known spot Nightwing had been in at Blüdhaven, and the time of death coincides with the time registered on the tracker Batman had placed in a compartment in one of Nightwing's gloves. Since that night, Nightwing's location had shifted to once to a new location, and then hadn't moved since, implying the tracker had either been found and discarded, Nightwing lost one of his gloves in either a fight or drug-induced thoughtlessness, or his entire costume had been stashed in that area. The last theory looks the most likely to Bruce, as Nightwing hadn't been spotted in three weeks, and when Dick finally did turn up, he's in his civilian identity.
That further complicated things, however.
If Dick hadn't mentioned a 'she', Bruce would have to assume Dick had been doing this to himself. Given this and the rest of information Timothy had passed onto him, Bruce was almost certain Dick had been with someone else, someone who was either controlling him through drugs or using them to keep him still until another phase in planning was initiated.
But that wouldn't work… Dick escaped, in a manner of speaking. Whoever he had been with had both not kept a very good eye on him nor had very good security. Or just let him go. Dick was more than capable of escaping practically anything if given the tools, but wasn't likely that Dick had even thought of trying. A flawless escape wasn't something he could pull off unless he was completely focused and remembered all his training.
Dick wasn't wounded much either. A quick check-up shows bruising on the crook of his right arm, most likely from the repeated use of a used needle. And Dick was covered in scars, but they were all healed, faded, and old. Nothing new. Nothing, besides the bruise, implied much of anything. No signs of a fight. So, perhaps someone Dick had known.
Someone who could have been with Dick the night he had confronted Blockbuster.
When Blockbuster had been murdered through the use of a gun.
Bruce had to look at evidence and not like any emotion cloud his judgment. There was evidence and possibilities of some things he'd rather not think of. But he was a detective. He couldn't pick and choose the truth.
There was no doubting that Nightwing had been at that stairwell with Desmond. There was no doubting, that Dick's week up to that point was capable of pushing him off the edge. There was no doubting that Blockbuster was murdered and that Nightwing disappeared after that night.
But…
There was no doubting Dick, either.
Dick Grayson was not a killer.
Bruce was certain of that much. This was not emotion. This was trust. This was fact.
But that didn't change the fact that Roland Desmond died.
Bruce draws up a hypothetical route to trace around in his head.
Dick did not kill Blockbuster. This companion of his does, since that would make more sense than Dick suddenly using a gun when not in police uniform (he had been fired, as Bruce recently found out, which further supports the idea), and the thought that a successful crime lord suddenly committing suicide because he was cornered is highly unlikely. In any case, Dick failed to prevent the death in some way. What would his reaction be? Guilt. Immediate and intense guilt. But only if Dick felt at fault, ruling out the gun accidentally going off.
Bruce knew Dick well enough to know that when he suffers from self-blame and guilt, he shuts down on himself and withdraws from the world. Add the fact that his childhood circus had been attacked and his apartment building destroyed with many causalities confirmed… Dick would be overwhelmed and vulnerable…
There's a cacophony of metal and plastic crashing to the floor. It breaks Bruce from his concentration, and so Batman rises from his chair and crosses the Cave to the medical bay.
Dick hasn't woken, but he has started moving and moaning. The mess on the floor is a testimony to this.
"No…" Dick mutters, accidentally knocking over the small table beside the medical bed. He tosses his head to the side, and rest of his words becoming a mixture or mumbling and gibberish. "…Ngh… Get… antula… off…"
Whatever Dick was speaking of, it hardly sounded pleasant. It reminds Bruce of the days when Dick was a child and would suffer occasional nightmares, tossing and turning whilst pleading with something or someone in his dream, usually to spare the lives of his parents.
Bruce picks up the small table while cleaning up all the knocked over items, and then stands by Dick's side. He hesitates for a long moment, because he can still remember their last argument with absolute clarity, the stinging words he threw at Dick and the equally hurtful things he was called in return, and then places his hand on Dick's shoulder.
Dick continues to mutter for several more minutes, but he does eventually calm down and fall back into a peaceful slumber, breathing steady and sure. Bruce's eyes soften by a fraction, and he indulges himself on a sentimental action by pushing aside that stubborn lock of hair that always seems to fall onto Dick's face. If he were conscious and perfectly fine, Dick would swat away his hand, and the thought gives Bruce an odd sense of amusement.
Back at the bat-computer, a chime cuts through the thick silence.
'BLOOD SAMPLE ANALYSIS COMPLETE'.
A day later, Tim finds himself out on patrol, and wishing he really hadn't gone out at all.
Because when you get a 'surprise' visit (ambush) from the second Robin, from the Red Hood, from the mostly-likely-at-least-partially insane Jason Todd, the evening has a habit of turning painfully sour.
Particularly if Jason manages to stab you with one of his knives.
Currently unwounded, though Jason's initial attack did surprise him, Tim stands at the ready with a smoke bomb primed in one hand, a batarang in the other. The only reason he hasn't moved yet is because Jason has one hand up in an 'I-surrender' gesture, the other holding his helmet, and Tim sincerely hopes that he's not walking into a trap by letting him talk instead of running in the other direction.
"Relax, baby-bird, I'm not here to kill you today." Jason says, exasperated, as though Tim was over-reacting and needed to be calmed. Tim has the distinct feeling that Jason was rolling his eyes behind his mask.
"You'll have to forgive me if I don't believe you."
"Eh," Jason gives a shrug. "This is just a social visit, Timmy."
"Simple 'hello' would have done."
"You would have run."
"And throwing an explosive at me is better?"
"You're still here, aren'tcha?"
Tim feels dangerously close to throwing his batarang into Jason's extremely smug face, and can't see how he could explain to Batman that it accidentally slipped out of his hand and into Jason's nose. His grip tightens on his batarang none the less.
"Get to the point of this 'social call', Jason."
"You're no fun at all."
"…"
"Fine. Heard rumors that the golden-child disappeared from Blüd-freaking-haven." Jason twirls a knife in his right hand. It's obvious to Tim that Jason is trying to appear casual and indifferent, but his topic of choice is suspicious, and Tim narrows his eyes behind his mask. "Then I saw you and Dickie-bird, who looked like hell, riding through the city yesterday."
"And?" Tim snaps.
"Just curious, bat brat. If Nightwing's not in Blüdhaven, that tells criminals it's a safe place to hide out there or do other stupid shit, because while Gotham is a hell-hole, Blüdhaven can be worse because it's got no saving graces and not even a crappy Bat to scare 'em. Scum that thrive there, and multiply if there's nothing there to watch 'em. And when I saw Dickie-bird with you, looking sick and shit, I just wanted to know if he's going to go back and do something about his city any time soon, or if he's going to interfere with my work here. Because if he is, I will stab him if he tries any of his 'brotherly-bonding' bullshit with me."
Tim tries to read in between and lines and thinks he must be crazy if he's seeing some sort of concern there. Jason doesn't 'do' caring. Or, at least, as easily readable as it appears to Tim now. But there's some actual logic behind his words, so Tim thinks it may be slightly sincere on both sides of the explanation he's been presented with.
Jason is waiting for an answer, and doesn't seem in a very patient mood, so Tim rattles off a generic excuse.
"Nightwing's unwell, yes. We're not sure with what yet, but he's not going to be out doing anything in Gotham or Blüdhaven until he's recovered."
"Fan-tucking-fastic. Golden-child slipped up enough to get poisoned?" Jason grouses. "Freaking hell. He's supposed to be better than that."
"I don't see why that should bother you."
"Because – I told you, Blüdhaven! That shitty place freaking breeds asshole criminals."
"It's not your city, so why should you concern yourself?" Tim shoots back. "Nightwing will be back, but he's no meta with super healing capabilities. He's going to need a little time to heal, so I suggest you just get over it, Jason."
Jason makes the beginning of some retort, but Tim throws down a smoke pellet and is gone before Jason even finishes his sentence. He lowers the arm he'd instinctively thrown up the moment Tim had engulfed the rooftop with smoke, and frowns.
"… Simple 'goodbye' would have done."
When Dick wakes up, he wakes up to a pounding headache and a room that seems awfully familiar. It may be the large, old poster depicting a circus that's hanging off the wall, or the line of pictures in frames full of people and smiling faces that line the dresser, but there's a palpable, reassuring feeling of safety and warmth that this room gives.
But the world is still swimming around, a pool of colors that go outside of the lines and leak into other structures, still not very clear or stable. Whatever stability being in this room gives, it has to battle with the pains of being… whatever was wrong with him, for supremacy. Currently, the urge to puke was winning.
"Damnit!"
Well, that was new. A room that cursed. Or…
Dick, with much effort, sits up and turns his head to where he heard the voice. He's rewarded with the sight of a teenage, maybe young-adult guy that just snuck in using the window, but accidentally fumbled and knocked over a vase that had been on display nearby. It's dark, since the lights haven't be turned on, but if Dick squints and turns his head a little, he thinks there's something familiar about this sudden intruder too. Of course, it may just be the room, because right now Dick feels like anything shoved in front of his face will feel familiar and – when did the world start spinning again?
"Shit." The guy with a weird red helmet on says. "I remember this vase. Alfred liked this vase. Shit. Uh. Dickie-bird, my favorite big brother! Take the fall for this for me. Alfred will go easy on you because you're sick, and you're the favorite child anyways."
Dick blinks, and tries to use that thing in his skull to its full potential. It doesn't get him very far, since 'full potential' seems to be the equivalent to two dead batteries right now. In fact, the effort makes him feel nauseous, so Dick lies back down in an attempt to quell the dizziness.
"…Damn, Dick, you must be seriously sick if you're not chattering on like the sugar-high idiot you usually are. You're not on your death-bed, are you? Because if you are, the baby-bird lied to me."
Brash, loud, and every other word that tumbled out of his mouth was a curse.
Dick thinks of someone with red hair and an arsenal of arrows… Arsenal…?
"…Dickie-bird, I know I've told you to shut up many times, but seriously, you're silence is getting on my nerves. Say something!"
Dick lets a look of irritation (or something very close to it) cross his face. Speaking was something that needed effort. Effort gave the side effect of feeling nauseous. Feeling nauseous was a lot like falling off the trapeze – not fun.
…Trapeze? What would he know about a trapeze?
The 'Flying Graysons' poster on his wall seems to stick out more.
The masked intruder stomps on over to the bed where Dick lies, and takes off his helmet. Black hair and a domino mask are revealed. To Dick, wearing a mask underneath a helmet seemed silly, and he felt the oddest urge to point that out. But he was distracted by the still-masked-man's appearance. Hair wasn't red. So not the arrow-guy he randomly thought of… So then…
"…Dick?"
"…Who…"
"What? Speak up."
Dick tries, really tries, to put some focus and energy behind his words. His throat feels sand paper and speaking is now both work for his sluggish brain and hurt throat.
"Who... Are... You?"
There's silence. Mystery-kid seems at a loss for words. Dick kind of actually wants to know, though, so he forces himself to make eye contact – or, at least, the equivalent of it by staring at where the eyes should be, covered by the mask.
"…The replacement told me you were sick. Not stuck with amnesia."
Amnesia. Noun. Lack or loss of memories. (That's also not an answer to his question…)
Dick frowns. No. That didn't seem right. He… he had memories. He had Tim. He remembered Tim. Bats. The rush of adrenaline when falling deliberately off buildings, running across rooftops, swinging from skyscrapers. Tim's phone number. The loss of everything, because when they fell, when they died, so did his world. A pretty girl with red hair, green eyes, and a bullet through her spine…
"He's not, Jason."
When Jason decided to break through Dick's window for an impromptu checking up (because the current Robin was withholding info, Jason knew that much, and he wanted to see really what was up), he hadn't planned on staying long enough for the Bat to come and say 'hi'. He wasn't stupid; Bruce probably knew Jason was at Wayne Manor the moment he'd stepped foot on the perimeter. He just didn't think Bruce would actually confront him unless he threatened Dick with anything. Which he wouldn't, because honestly, Jason didn't kick the crap out of sickly people. No fun, no challenge, and he gave people an honest chance to fight back. That much he guaranteed.
Talking to his 'adoptive father' was not something guaranteed. In fact, it was out right avoided and hated. Heart to heart moments made him gag. And he was far from even considering forgiving Bruce for any of their numerous problems that neither of them even dare touch.
But he was curious… Curiosity was dangerous, but the knowledge was usually worth the risk. Jason wants to know what the hell is going on. And there's really only one way to know. By using traditional methods.
Asking.
"Then what is he?" Jason sneers, twirling the knife he'd pulled out when Bruce snuck up on them. This twirling thing he's been doing is getting to be a bad habit, he thinks, and forces his hands to remain still.
Bruce's eyes lock in on him.
"Sick."
"I got that much. The hell is wrong with him, then?"
"What does it matter to you, Jason?"
"This again? Seriously, do I have to give a reason every time I ask how someone is doing? Or is it suspicion? You guys are afraid I'll kill the golden child if I find he's off his game, right? Well, I would have done it already if that's what I wanted –"
"We don't know."
Bruce was admitting to not knowing something, with so little prodding. The world was clearly going to end soon. Jason was thrown for a loop, and then shakes off the shock.
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"We know he's been drugged." Bruce explains, glancing over at Dick, who's staring at the pictures on his dresser and blinking a lot. "The compound has been steadily injected into his blood for what I estimate the past three weeks, probably frequently given the amount we found. It seems to cause Dick pain, dizziness, and foremost, the inability to access the hippocampus in his temporal lobe; it's a bit like a dam. It locks away his memories, but every once and a while a leak occurs and Dick's able to recall something."
"Well, it's that just great." Jason snaps. "And lemme guess. You have no idea how to cure it either, do you? How long 'till this crap wears off on its own?"
"I don't know."
"How in the hell did he get poisoned with this stuff anyway?"
"Frequently injected with a syringe."
"I got that much. By who? You can't expect me to believe the golden-child would ever willingly use drugs."
"I don't know who exactly did this –"
"…spider." Dick mumbles, flicking his finger at something. The two other occupants in the room ignore him.
"Do you know anything?" Jason snarls.
"I told you what I know. Dick's memories are intact, but locked away. So far, he's remembered Tim."
Tim? That was it? None of the Titans, the Justice League, Bruce, even himself? Just the replacement bird? That bothers Jason, for some reason.
"That's it?"
"We haven't tried having anyone else interact with him. Mainly because this is the first time he's been awake since Tim found him."
"Found him? Found him where?"
"…Tim says he found Dick in Atlantic City. That's where he called him from."
"The hell was he – never mind. Pointless question. You don't know why either, do you." Jason feels a headache coming on. He knows real detective work involves a lot more work than what TV shows people, but with Batman, it's usually a lot more conclusive and not so full of holes. And a lot faster…
"Why do you care, Jason?"
"Why is it any of your business, old man? Besides, I don't. Like I told bat-brat, this is just work related."
Bruce seems to want to say something, probably anything to his once adopted child, but Jason wants nothing of it. He diverts all the attention onto Dick, which is usually successful in getting Bruce distracted.
Jason moves to Dick's bed, while Dick watches him almost warily.
"So," Jason begins, "How're you feeling, Dickie-bird?"
"…Sick." Dick replies, bluntly, after an awkwardly long pause.
"That's just going to be your generic description for this entire thing, isn't it? Okay. New question. Why were you in Atlantic City? You kinda live in Blüdhaven, in case you've forgotten. Oh wait."
Bruce shoots Jason a warning look. The younger man soundly ignores it, or at least, pretends to as he lets a smirk form on his face.
"…At…lantic?"
"Yeah. Why were you there?"
"…I dunno."
"The hell? How can you be in another city and not know why?"
"Jason," Bruce cuts in, a hard edge to his voice. "Don't push it."
"Stuff it, old man."
"She…" Dick coughs for moment. "She wanted… to be there…"
"She?"
"…Tara…"
"Terra?"
"…spider… killed…"
"Spider?" Jason frowns. "Please tell me you're stupid 'no-kill' rule is restricted to people and that you're not freaking out because you killed a bug."
"No!" Dick becomes agitated, and his hands are starting to shake. "She… I… I didn't… should have… Blockbuster… No!"
"Dick," Bruce is using the quiet, soothing voice he uses whenever he decides to act all fatherly and warm. Jason remembers it from his earliest days at the Manor, and with some more thought, recalls this is the first time he's heard it in a while as well. Apparently the same could be said for Dick, because he seems to calm down slowly as though it's a new experience. "Dick. It's alright."
"It's… my f-fault! I… let her…"
"Dick, calm down. It's okay. Who is 'she'? Who were you with?"
Dick mumbles something into his pillow.
"A little louder, Dick." Bruce is straining to hear every syllable that comes out of the golden child's mouth. It's a little of the Batman peeking out, the caped crusader of justice that wants to very badly to find whoever did this to the ex-circus brat that Bruce has raised and loved (the dreaded L-word, Jason thinks sardonically), and beat them to a bloody pulp.
Dick closes his eyes, and Jason is almost ready to declare the conversation a waste of time and then leave the room very quickly to chase down some other leads and get far away from the man who represents a lot of things Jason doesn't want to think about, when Dick whispers a name that fills the room with an even thicker tension.
"Tarantula…"
Because now the Batman has a name to hunt down.
To be continued.