Hello! I am still deep in the middle of NaNoWriMo, so I shall be brief. I love you guys, it's Friday, have another chapter, and I hope you like it!
Just classic warnings for this chapter. You know, reference to abuse, brainwashing, etc. Nothing special.
The door closes with a thud, and the heavy click of a serious lock. It looks imposing even to me, and fuck I can pick or disable just about every lock that exists. I have no idea what the locking mechanism is on that thing, but considering that this is Ra's' equivalent of a panic room I'd bet it's way more than meets the eye. It's probably designed to keep out pretty much the whole Crime Syndicate. Locks, magic, kryptonite and lead, all that good stuff.
This is insane.
I'm standing in Ra's al Ghul's panic room in a pair of sleeping pants and a black t-shirt. I'm barefoot, my hair is still a little damp from the shower I had not fifteen minutes ago, and I don't have a weapon. Mostly it's that last one that's making me freak out a bit. Yeah, panic room, but nothing is totally invulnerable and I'd really like to have a knife of some kind even if it wouldn't do me any good anyway.
I turn, slowly, looking over the rest of the room. Grayson's already crossed over to the computer banks across the room — which are faintly whirring, and full of all kinds of buttons, and screens, and lights that are probably keyed to some kind of security system but hell if I know what it is — and is half bent over a selection of screens. I follow him over, standing at his shoulder and trying to ignore the low, sick feeling in my gut.
Of all the bad timing, this is just a fucking nightmare. The Owl coming here, now. Getting dragged out of that room with Grayson to hide off in a corner until he's gone…
I don't know where we stand, I don't know how our conversation was going to end. Grayson… Fuck. I don't know what happened. He just fell apart; for a few seconds in there I was pretty sure he'd just straight out had a mental break on me. He's pulled himself back together — he's back to blank — but there's something in the set of his shoulders that isn't right, something that feels defensive and that hurts.
I should know better. After the things I've done, fuck, I should be glad he hasn't… I don't know.
I set my teeth, watching his back for a moment before stepping closer and looking down past him, to what he's looking at. It doesn't matter. My cards are on the table; now he knows. There's nothing I can do but wait for him to decide what he's going to do about it. I can deal with it, right? I've taken so much already, Grayson's cold mask shouldn't mean a damn thing to me.
He's studying a selection of screens that look like security feeds — very high quality, just as good as the Owl's — of various parts of Ra's' manor. There are a fair amount of moving figures on them, it looks like Ra's' whole league has pretty much risen out of the ground, and they're all rushing somewhere. Busy, preparing. I scan them until I find Talia — her mouth moving in silent shouts, ordering a dozen or so uniformed ninjas — and then again until I find Ra's. He's the only still one of all of them, sitting calmly in one of the chairs by the fireplace in his study. He's just waiting.
Grayson reaches forward, tapping that particular screen, and the wall in front of us — what I thought was black metal — clicks on to that camera feed. I can hear the faint crackle of the fire; the sound is good. Grayson steps back, into me, and he jerks and snaps his head around like he's ready to gut me.
I take a quick step away at his reaction, instinct and training taking over for a moment and sinking me into a wider stance; ready to fight. His eyes meet mine, and after a moment of silence he shakes his head and straightens up, looking away. My stomach contracts like the dismissal is a blow, that ache in my chest turning into a knife for just a moment. I thought…
I really thought I had something.
"Dick…" I don't have anything more than that. I want, and it hurts, and I don't know how the hell to say that in any way that will make any kind of sense. I thought Grayson would understand. I didn't think that he'd shut off like this, not after the last couple of months. Fuck, I could sit there with him and just touch, or just lay there, and we'd talk. It was easy, and it was simple, and it felt better than anything in my life has in years. Ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, and suddenly it's like we're strangers again.
Grayson looks up at me — and there's something wrong about that, that I'm taller than he is — his gaze studying, judging. I can't keep it, and my hands clench without my permission as I drop my gaze to the floor. What did I do? I have to have done something, right? Why else would Grayson be looking at me like that, like I'm some new thing that he has to figure out? I did something.
The silence burns, heavy like the weight of someone on top of me and screaming with all the memories I can't dig out of my conscious. "Say anything," I ask, and it's so close to begging that I can't force away the shudder that drags itself up my spine. Never beg, never. "Or if you're going to hit me just do it." I'd let him. If I offended him, if I managed to hurt Grayson somehow, then I deserve it. He saved my life, he got me away from the Owl, so I don't care what he does to me. I'd let him do whatever he wanted to. I'd take it.
Just (please, god) don't let him shut me out. I'll take whatever pain he wants to deal out so long as he stays. It's sick, and unhealthy, and I know this is pretty much the foundation of every abusive relationship ever, but Grayson is the only person who knows the things that the Owl did to me. I can't lose that, I… I can't. Who else could understand what it was like? What he did to me, and what I did to survive it? How could I ever tell anyone else those things? God, why did I ever tell Grayson?
"Do you really think that?" Grayson asks, something in his voice that I don't recognize. "That I'd hurt you?"
I cautiously raise my gaze, up to meet the slightly narrowed eyes of the only other person as screwed up as me. "Yes?" It comes out as more of a question than a statement. I don't know. I have no idea what Grayson is capable of, or what he might do to me. Grayson's jaw clenches down, and I can see the bunch of muscle under his shirt, the tiny tells of an incoming blow. I flick my eyes shut, turn my head a bit on instinct to minimize the impact.
I feel the rush of air against my cheek — fast movement, close — and then fingers are grabbing the hair at the base of my skull and yanking. It doesn't really hurt, not with my kind of tolerance for pain, but it bares my throat for a moment and that startles me into conditioned fear.
I jerk against the hold and almost lash out before Grayson snaps, with the cold anger I've always dreaded hearing from him, "Jason." I swallow and look down to meet his gaze. His jaw is working like he's chewing his words, and I can see the stiff tension in his shoulders, in the muscles of his neck. "I. Am. Not. Bruce," he states. Slowly, clearly, defining each word on its own.
If my mind was working, if I could just fucking think…
"I don't understand," is all I manage, in a thick tone that is some mixture of whatever the fuck it is that I'm feeling. Grayson's fingers flex in my hair, like he's thinking about wrapping them around my throat, and I have to force down the urge to step back, pull away, pull out of range. "Whatever I did I didn't mean it," I pacify, swallowing back an apology for something that I wasn't even aware of doing. "I—"
His other hand snaps forward, and even though it's the wrong angle I still flinch, expecting it to land as a punch. His fingers grab a handful of my shirt, at the collar, giving a single, sharp pull to demand my attention. "Jason, stop. You didn't do anything, I promise." I swallow, taking some kind of comfort in the gentler tone his voice has calmed down to. "I—" He pauses, closing his eyes for a moment. "I don't know how to say the things I want to," he admits, "but this was me, Jason, and I'm not—" His fingers contract, clenching down. "I'm not Bruce, and I will never hurt you for any reason but self-defense. Never."
I shiver, feeling the truth in Grayson's words on more than a conscious level. "What happened?" I ask, passing over all of this. All this bullshit. "You… Christ, Dick, what happened?"
He gives a huff of breath that sounds like a sigh, easing his grip back up and letting go of my hair. "I don't know who you think I am, Jason, but even if the way you think of things is right, I'm not worth the effort of trying to fix. I'm a long ways past broken, and you shouldn't trust me. No one should."
"You just said you'd never hurt me," I counter, as the hand clenched in my shirt releases it and smoothes the fabric back into place instead, fingers brushing warm against my skin. "If that's true then what's the reason I shouldn't? And that doesn't answer my question. You fell apart, what the hell was that?"
Grayson gives a slight shake of his head, holding my gaze. "You. Of everyone out there you know the most about what I'm capable of, you know how dangerous I am and the kind of things I can do to a person. And I know how hard it would be for me to put that kind of trust in anyone, especially someone like me. No guarantee, no promise, no anything, how could you possibly put that much faith in me? When I'm…" He swallows, gaze dipping for a moment to the floor. His face is still blank, but his words and voice are something else entirely. "Broken," he finishes, softly.
"What the fuck does it matter?" I answer instantly, reaching up to touch his left side, feeling the muscle underneath the thin shirt. He lets me. "Can't we just be who we are?" I turn my head to brush the hand he has on my collar with my jaw, closing my eyes for a second. "Who the hell gets to decide if we need fixing?" I demand, meeting his gaze again and curling my fingers into his shirt. "We're not tools, Dick, and fuck the rest of the world. There's a lot of shades of grey between broken and whole."
What the hell is this black and white mentality? You're not just 'broken' or 'fine.' I'm not as far as Grayson was pushed, and I didn't break the way he did, but that doesn't mean that I'm alright. I am fucked, I am screwed all to hell, but I don't need to be fixed. I'm not some machine that needs a damn tune up. People are so much more complicated than that, and damn the world there is nothing wrong with the way I am. I don't like it, but that doesn't make me intrinsically wrong, and it doesn't mean that someone can take a hammer to me like a bent sheet of metal until I'm flattened out again.
"We don't need the world's approval," I nearly snarl, "and they're never going to give it anyway. The rest of them can go to hell."
Grayson's chest rises against my hand, and then drops as he speaks. "Why me?" he asks plainly, something pained in his voice.
"You know," I answer after a moment. A shudder shakes my shoulders, and Grayson's hands tighten for a moment. "You get what it was like to… Under the Owl. I don't have to tell you that, Dick. I, fuck, can you really imagine anyone accepting me if they knew what I'd done? If I told them any of it?"
And that's not even getting into that I'd have to tell them. I don't think I could stomach reliving all of it by having to tell it to someone else, and I definitely couldn't do it while they sat there and watched me. While they cringed and judged, hating me a little more with everything they found out that I'd done. No, to hell with that. My past can stay right where it is.
"Everyone else pretends, but you're," the words catch in my throat, and I have to swallow before I can finish the sentence. "You're the only one who actually knows, Dick. I don't kn—"
The sound of shattering glass is like a gunshot in the mostly silent room, and both Grayson and I whirl towards it in reactions that look almost exactly the same. My gaze snaps to the wall, to the screen, and my throat goes tight in sharp fear. I step back, out of my ready stance and poised to flee, until I manage to clench my teeth and drag anger forwards to dull the fear. He's not even here, there is no damn way I'm going to hide in a corner.
The Owl is crouched down in Ra's' study, among the shattered remains of one of the floor-to-ceiling arched windows with his metal-coated cape spread around himself. He straightens up, the large white eyes of his mask turning to Ra's as he unfolds. Ra's stands, not visibly bothered in the slightest. His right hand slips low to retrieve a long, thin sword that gleams in the light from the fire.
Ra's circles around the couch, the tip of his blade held down, until he's standing across from the Owl. There's a poised tightness to both of them that feels like they're both just a hair's breadth away from violence, and there are several long moments of silence before either even moves. The Owl glances briefly around the room.
"Ra's." That fucking voice.
My breath comes shallowly, the quality of the camera and whatever audio capturing devices are in there making it feel like this is a window to the other room. Like the Owl is one step and one smash of a gauntleted fist away from breaking in here. The thought freaks me the hell out, even though I know it is damn well not true. We're behind concrete, and metal, and a fair bit of mountain, not to mention whatever defenses Ra's has around this place.
"Shadow," Ra's answer smoothly, flicking the sword to one side — but not raising it — in what looks like a cross between a salute and something really dismissive. That name confused the hell out of me for a while; until I just asked Ra's what he meant.
All his 'faults' aside, Ra's respects the Owl's skills, intelligence, and the amount of power he's gained. Plus, he knows that the Owl is secretly Bruce Wayne. Ra's calls him Gotham's King of Shadows, to others, and just plain Shadow to his face. It's respect.
"Is that the way you want to start this, Ra's?" the Owl asks, voice low, deep, and rough enough to make me shudder even through the screens, to make my chin raise in a gesture of defiance so branded into me that I don't think I'll ever shake it. "By using that title?" He doesn't step away from his spot, still partially in the darkness but with the moonlight shining through to glint off the broken glass on the floor and paint him in varying shadows.
Why would he do that, anyway? The Owl could walk up to the front door anytime he felt like it, he doesn't have to force his way in. He chose to make an entrance. To start things off by placing himself and Ra's on different levels. Aggressor and defender; starting with things that are obvious, violent gestures.
"You have already shattered my window, Shadow. I think you started this meeting with that nature, don't you agree?" The Owl doesn't answer, and Ra's continues after a moment. "Besides, the fact that you do not enjoy my title for you does not mean anything to me. It is what I have chosen to call you, regardless. What is your business with me, Shadow?"
I can see the Owl's jaw clench down, lips curling into a faint sneer at what he interprets as mockery. I honestly don't know if he knows Ra's' full name for him, or if he doesn't like the whole thing as a title either.
"You have some things that belong to me." There's no question in The Owl's voice, only fact. He knows we're here. My breath catches, and I watch the mask turn as the Owl scans the room before returning to look at Ra's again. "I would like them returned," he says, voice like shards of fucking ice.
"Your desires don't mean anything to me, Shadow. Didn't we establish that fact of our personal dealings a long time ago?" Ra's' voice is as smooth as it always is, but it's also hard, unyielding.
The Owl's head turns again, to the right and unerringly directly into the camera. His sneer slips to a tiny smirk, and it's like he's looking right at me, like he can see me through the screen. He couldn't, right? No way.
I take a step back and then someone is touching me, and I jerk. For one heart stopping, terrifying moment I think that somehow the Owl has phased through every material between us to get to me, and I spin. Either to fight, to do whatever I can to hurt him, or maybe just to collapse to my knees and cower, to beg for his forgiveness even though I know how much he hates that.
It's just Grayson. Grayson's impossibly bright blue eyes and ear-length black hair, and his hand gentle on my shoulder and somehow not withdrawn even though I jerked. Not confining, not demanding, just there. He looks at me for a moment, and then steps forward and for some reason I can't understand his arms are around my shoulders and his body is pressed to mine. It's not quite comfortable — full of awkward angles and I'm too tall for this to work how I think it's supposed to — but it's something, and this is Dick. He's all lean muscle and gracefully long limbs, so different from the Owl that even the hand sliding over the nape of my neck (suggesting that I lower it, not forcing it down, and I let it) isn't enough to scare me.
"Both of them are mine, Ra's." I flinch, sharply, at the rumble of the Owl's voice behind me, and Grayson's hold gets a little tighter. "You will give them back, or I will tear your bases apart stone by stone until I find them." The threat isn't a bluff, and it's viciously cold in a way that not even Grayson can mimic. Patterns beaten into me draw my shoulders in and tuck my head against my only real ally's shoulder. Minimize the open area, don't let him at your head.
"I have you, Jason," Grayson says softly, his voice a direct contrast to the Owl's rougher one. "I have you." I choke in a breath, reaching desperately for the pain and fury that got me through this the first time, but it keeps slipping through my fingers.
"Are you certain you want to start that kind of a war, Shadow?" Ra's asks, in the darkest voice I've ever heard him use. I swallow, closing my eyes for a second and making myself remember that this Ra's is not the one who's training me. This isn't the side of him that touches my shoulder with the gentlest of fingers when I need a moment to breathe, or who looks at me with this glint of pride in his eyes whenever I pull off a more difficult move. This is Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head, the fucking centuries old man who can stand up to the Owl in single combat. He's dangerous, and deadly, and the Owl is his enemy.
"I don't start battles I can't win," the Owl answers, and I can hear the crunch of glass so he must be moving, but god I can't turn around. It is fucked up, but the cage of Grayson's arms is somehow better than facing the man on that screen. It's something that feels safer, that feels like a corner to hide in instead of something trapping me in.
"Which is why you shouldn't start this one." Ra's' counter is sharp, direct. "You have your connections, Shadow, and I have mine. This will be a war the likes of which you've never seen, and over what? Two boys? What threat are they to you?"
There's silence, and then the Owl makes a sound that I've never heard, one that cuts down to my heart and fucking stabs.
He laughs.
"Threat? Amusing. I want the two of them dead for choosing to betray me, to feel their hearts stop under my hands, but that is simply a desire. Sooner or later I will catch them, and what I did to my street rat," my heart skips a beat, "Jason, will pale in comparison to the agony he will suffer before I allow him to die."
I can barely breathe through the fear, and I clench my hands in the fabric covering Grayson's sides. I can feel myself trembling, and for the life of me I can't stop. Now I know, right? Now I know what happens if I end up back in the Owl's hands. He'll break me for real this time, he won't let me walk out with just scars and bruises. He'll take me apart until there's nothing left, torture me until he decides it's enough. Days, weeks, months? God, years?
"Speaking of dying," the Owl continues, and there's a nasty, cruel note to his voice, "how is Richard?"
What?
Grayson goes very, very still against me, muscles locking for a long few moments before they ease. I blink, raising my head off his shoulder to look at him. He's staring past me, at the screen, but his eyes flick to mine when my head is fully raised. There's nothing in his expression to give me any clue what he's thinking, or what the Owl is talking about.
"Dick?" I ask, but the Owl continues before he has a chance to answer.
"Still alive, by my timeline, but he's certainly not any use to you, Ra's. At this point the damage should be enough to have forced him to cease any kind of strenuous physical exercise, in addition to causing fairly regular attacks. You would never have allowed him to use one of your Lazarus Pits, Ra's, so what's it like watching him die while knowing you could save him?"
"Die?" I echo, staring at Grayson.
"Jason, I—"
"The risks outweigh the benefits," Ra's says behind me, "the decision was made."
I pull out of Grayson's arms, taking a step back. "Dick, what are they talking about?" I ask, and he glances behind me. No. No. Tell me it's not. Tell me he's not. Something, anything other than this nasty suspicion settling into my chest.
Grayson watches me for a second, and that suspicion settles into fact before he even speaks. "My fight with Bruce," he starts, and I can hear Ra's' voice overlapping his but I have no idea what the hero is saying, "and whatever he sprayed me with. The damage was too severe."
"You're dying," I finish, and the words sink into my chest like bullets.
"Yes," he confirms. "There's nothing I can do about it."
No. "And you, you didn't think to fucking mention this?" Everything feels too sharp, too clear, and god why didn't I notice? Grayson has dark circles under his eyes, and everything but the way he acts screams exhaustion. All those times he wasn't around, was that for real or was that him recovering from— "Attacks? What the hell is going on?"
"It's lung damage," Grayson explains softly, way too steadily to be someone talking about how they're dying. "There are periods, triggered by various things, where it's difficult to breathe. I wanted you to settle in before I told you."
A bark of laughter tears itself out of my throat, the kind of laughter that the Jokester is made of. When you laugh because the world is just so fucked up, so cruel, that how could you not? Settle in? Yeah right. Settle in to what? Ra's, Talia? This is a means to an end, a pit stop, not a permanent thing. I never considered this to be something that would last forever; I've had enough of working for people.
Grayson is dying. He's fucking dying. "How long?" I ask absently, raising a hand to pull through my hair and not even caring that it's still damp. It's been what, twenty minutes, a half an hour? How did everything fall apart so fast?
"Seven months," he answers, and something in me freezes and stutters to a halt. "But that was a guessed time, and a time for death not, incapacitation." The way he says it is clipped, a little bit more like someone's tone should be, but still not nearly as… as caring as it should be. Seven months; at most, whispers some part of my mind.
He didn't tell me. It's been over a year since we met, since we ended up on Owlman's most wanted list, and he didn't fucking tell me he was dying.
"How long have you known?" I demand, holding his gaze.
"A little under five months." Before we left. Before the—
Son of a bitch. "The trip to Metropolis," I fill in. Rage gathers in my stomach, burning and taking over my mind, and my hands clench. "So let me get this straight. You've known you were going to die for five months, and you didn't bother to fucking tell me?!" It's not quite a shout, but it's close. "You let me spend all this time thinking everything was fine, that we were just going to finish up here and go off to some other part of the world, or go after the Owl?! What the hell, Dick?!"
It's a dangerous anger, one fueled by pain, and fear, that begs for violence as a distraction. It's a type I'm very familiar with, but usually not this strongly, and never with this stabbing twist behind it.
("You shouldn't trust me," my mind throws at me like a dagger, Grayson's voice bouncing inside my skull.)
"And now what?" I snarl, letting the anger take control of my voice. "You want me to what, stay here? Go after the Owl on my own? What the hell are you leaving me with, Dick?!"
Grayson weathers my words, not showing anything I can use to figure out a reaction. I hate that he can shut himself off from me so effectively, though I guess now I shouldn't be fucking surprised by it. I imagine it probably takes a lot of fucking control to hide dying from someone while you let them lean on you and count you as a… a friend.
"Your best chance is joining a team," Grayson says, and my jaw clenches down tight enough that I have to spit my words through gritted teeth.
"That'd be suicide for them and me, Dick, and that's assuming anyone would take a fucking ex-Talon hunted by the Owl. It doesn't matter how useful I am and you damn well know it, there's not a team out there that would take me or could survive it."
The Owl is scary to begin with, but add in his full concentration, and all his resources, and he's a fucking monster. If it wasn't for the damn pride factor, most of his heroes would have been dead a long time ago. But me being on a team, fighting him or anyone else, that would be way more damaging to his reputation than calling in favors to get everyone who knows who I am killed before dragging me off.
"I didn't—"
"Shut the fuck up!" I shout, then jerk back as soon as I realize I've said it. My lower back hits the edge of the computers, and I close both hands over the metal and plastic, squeezing my eyes shut. "How—" I clench down harder on the computer's edge, prying my eyes open again to look across the four or so feet between me and Grayson. "How am I supposed to trust," the word stings on my tongue like it's made of fucking acid, "anything you've told me, Grayson?" I demand. "If you can sit there and fucking lie to my face about this, what else have you lied to me about?"
"Nothing," Grayson says sharply, instantly.
"Yeah, that's great." I can't help the bitter sarcasm in my voice. "And I'm supposed to take your word on that? We just fucking established you've been lying to me for five months about something damn important, and apparently I couldn't tell the difference even with it staring me in the face! And you want me to just trust that now you're telling the truth?! Go to hell."
I want to leave. I want the hell out of this room and I want to go lock myself somewhere safer, somewhere I can vent the anger and the sick, painful ache somewhere in my stomach. Somewhere I don't have to look at Grayson and I don't have to be reminded every fucking second that everything he's told me might have been a lie. How the fuck do I know what to believe? How do I filter out the truth from the lies when I can't even read him most of the time? How the fuck do I figure out the difference between when he was gone from my training to do something, or when he was having one of these 'attacks' and stayed away so I wouldn't know? So he could keep me in the fucking dark.
This. This is what his earlier breakdown was about. Son of a bitch, son of a bitch. The words run on repeat in my mind as the computer creaks in complaint at my grip. I told him I trusted him, and the fucking bastard has been lying to me all this time and knew he didn't deserve it.
"Were you ever going to tell me?" I demand through my teeth, staring at the floor because if I look at Grayson right now I'm going to do something stupid that's going to end with one or both of us unconscious or bleeding.
"Yes," Grayson says softly, and somehow I manage to hold the computer even tighter, until my fingers ache from the pressure. "Jas—"
"Don't," I snarl, "I don't want to hear anything you have to say."
Silence falls and I stare at the floor between us, blood rushing through my ears. I can't right now. I can't listen to another word out of his mouth, I can't without some kind of violence between us, and… Would I win? If the Owl was right, then Grayson can't do much of anything physical right now — which is why after Metropolis he got defensive, efficient, son of a bitch — and if I let these urges out and went at him, hit him until he was bleeding and let the violence soothe the pain, he probably couldn't stop me.
That's… That's a dangerous thought.
I took out my frustration through violence all the time in Gotham. Gangs were easy targets, and feeling bone snap under my fists and watching blood spray was soothing, it felt good to be in control of someone else like that. Until I came back to myself, and remembered that what I was hitting was a person, not just a target.
I can't let myself do that again, no matter how much Grayson might deserve it. Even if he can't stop me. If I let myself back into that mindless kind of violence, I don't know if I could ever drag myself back out of it. I don't know if I could stop before I broke something important, or damaged something that couldn't be healed. I could kill him. (And he's already dying so what's the fucking point in that?)
But I want to.
I want to hurt him until he knows what this feels like, what it's like to think you can trust someone and then just have them rip it out from under you. I trusted him. God, I'm such a fucking idiot. You'd think after the Owl, after all the bullshit I went through in Crime Alley even before him, I'd know not to trust. Not anyone, not at all. Everyone lies, everyone in the world is a selfish asshole, and no one is worth letting my walls down for. Not ever.
I don't know how long we stand there, as I try not to hurt him and the silence burns around us with unsaid words. Eventually, there's a sharp beep, mechanical sounding, and the door to my left slides open with a faint hiss of released air. The computers hum, shutting down behind me, and I drag my gaze off the floor to look up. Ra's stands in the doorway, and for once the hero looks totally solemn. No faint smile, no tiny smirk.
His eyes flick from me to Grayson, one eyebrow arching, and then he gives a soft sigh. "He's gone," Ra's says softly, stepping fully into the panic room, "all my defensive systems agree. I've been prepared for some time now, and it will take him a while to muster enough strength to even attempt a siege on me here. It's safe for now."
I think Grayson nods, the movement at the edge of my peripheral vision seems to be something like that, but I just grit my teeth and lower my eyes again. Ra's knew, and he didn't tell me either, but at least I didn't expect him to be honest with me. Sure, he's a hero and they're usually pretty 'truth and justice before all else,' but Ra's is his own category of hero. He'd lie to me without a second thought if he thought it was for my own good, or it benefited him in some way. I knew that.
I hear footsteps — bare feet against concrete; Grayson — but I don't look up. To hell with him, let the bastard go off and lie to someone else. They fade away, and I sweep my gaze over the floor to make sure before I look up, only finding Ra's' boots and the hem of his robes. It's just us.
"Jason," Ra's greets, when I look up at him. He's studying me, looking at me in that way he passed on to Talia; like he can see straight through me and doesn't need me to let my guard down to know everything. I jerk my head in something like a nod, forcing my hands to relax some as my fingers start to genuinely hurt from being clenched down on the edge of the computer banks so hard. Ra's gives another soft sigh, something in his eyes that I'm too rattled to understand. "Come with me," he orders, turning to sweep out of the room without even a backwards glance.
I stare for a second, but then I stutter into action with one jerky first step and follow. I hate it when Ra's and Talia do this, just leave and expect me to play along and go with them, but I'm still falling for it. There's something commanding about Ra's that would make me feel like an idiot if I just stood there and didn't follow.
His robes billow out behind him as he leads the way out of the corner of the base that this room is squirreled away in. He doesn't turn, doesn't look back, just strides along until we're standing in the middle of one of the training rooms. Then he finally turns to me with one arched eyebrow.
"Shut the door," he commands, and confused but too shaken to really put effort into this, I do it. It clicks shut, and when I turn back Ra's is tossing his robes to one side, off the mats. Underneath he's in a fairly tight fitting suit of black, dark green, and gold, made of comfortable looking fabric that looks reinforced in several places. It's obviously designed as something easier to fight in than the heavy robes that are usually over it.
That's new. I've only seen Ra's without the outer robes when he was in Gotham, and that was only a couple of times.
Ra's' eyes are cool, focused in a way that's honestly pretty damn scary, and I feel myself shifting into a slightly more defensible stance without even really thinking about it. I take one cautious step forward, feeling the floor beneath my feet transition from cool wood to the slight give of the mats. I can't help the way I'm standing, angled to one side to be less of a target, my muscles forced into an ease I don't feel.
"What?" I ask, my tone sharp and wary. Telling, but right now everything I fucking do is telling so who cares?
"We're going to spar," Ra's informs me, and I give a snort.
"Yeah, that's great but I do— holy fuck!" The boot that slices through the air about half an inch away from my face — and only that far because Ra's was a bit away and I have damn good reflexes — immediately snaps me into instinctive combat. I jerk away, but not fast enough for Ra's' second kick to miss me.
It slams into the center of my chest, the short heel digging in, and I get knocked back. I stagger, gasping for air, and feel the wall at my back a moment before Ra's' fingers close over my throat and slam my head back against it. He holds me easily, pushing up to force my neck to curve back and my head to tilt up so I can only see the ceiling. I choke, flailing as my training abandons me for a moment. It clicks back in, and my lips curl in a snarl as I kick out at him, aiming for a knee or if I'm really lucky, the fucker's crotch.
I feel Ra's deflect the blow with his free hand, and his fingers tighten for a moment before he abruptly releases me. I drag air in, stifling the natural coughs that my body wants to give and dropping my head to look at Ra's as he moves away from me. He turns back to me the moment he's at the center of the room, one eyebrow up again in a look that feels completely dismissive.
"What the fuck, Ra's?" I demand, rubbing at the aching spot where he kicked me.
"Again." His voice is as cool as his eyes. Not cold and disgusted like the Owl's, but cool and uninterested. Detached. What the hell?
I push off the wall, approaching him cautiously, and he stands there waiting for me. The moment I'm on the mats he moves, and I shift to the outside and away from the punch aimed at just the right height to hit my throat. I grit my teeth and aim a return strike at his side, but his outstretched arm grabs mine and drags me forward and into a raised knee that kills any hope of air that I had. I drop, clutching at my side as I try and breathe, and I can feel and hear him circle me. There's a change of sound as he strays onto the wood behind me and his heels click more definitively against the harder surface.
"Again," comes the order, and I drag myself up without thinking about it, pushing to my feet. This time I move first, throwing a punch at his head that he slips away from, slamming an elbow into my exposed side as he goes past. I let out a grunt of pain but turn with him, moving with the impact and slipping one foot back to spin, blocking a punch with one arm and lashing out with the other, towards his face. Before I can realize the terrible idea that it is, and pull back, Ra's grabs the wrist of my attacking hand and twists.
I have time for about a single thought of oh fuck, before the twist forces my arm out straight, dragging my shoulder forward and turning my torso down and away. My other arm rises automatically, to give some kind of protection to my torso and face, but the sharp, terrifyingly precise strike to the back of my twisted shoulder blanks out my world with pain for a moment. I give a shout, the pain quickly followed by a tingling numbness as I lose most feeling in that arm.
Ra's' foot snaps into the back of my knee and it crumples, forcing me to the floor where he releases my wrist and shoves me back with that same foot to my ribs. I hit the mat hard, my teeth clenching as pain flares sharp in my shoulder blade, but without relieving the numbness in the rest of my arm.
"Again."
"Fuck you," I gasp up at him, glaring and letting my teeth bare. It's not a good idea to curse at someone who took me apart so easily, but I can't help it. I'm not a punching bag for Ra's to work out whatever the fuck the Owl brought up; I will never be that for anyone, ever again. I shift, getting my other arm under me but having to squeeze my eyes shut for a second at the pain that feels like Ra's drove a fucking knife into my shoulder. What did he do to me?
"This," Ra's says flatly, as I resist the urge to clutch at my shoulder, "is a legitimate reason for anger."
"What are you talking about?" I demand, pulling my legs underneath me and gathering myself back together. My chest aches, a lot worse than my right side does from the elbow and the foot, and I can't fucking move without my shoulder screaming at me. Nothing's broken, there was definitely no crack of bone, so it must be some kind of targeted nerve damage to both be this painful and cut off most feeling in my arm.
"Grayson is dying," Ra's' tone is sharply disappointed, and just that makes me cringe before the words even register, "and you're apparently too absorbed in your own anger, and in your selfish, inflated pain of him not telling you, to recall that. Would you have told him, Jason, if your positions were reversed?"
I draw in a sharp breath, glaring. "Of c—"
"Think before you answer that, Jason," Ra's orders, cutting me off and staring down at me. I snarl, a wordless sound of anger and frustration, but click my mouth shut and look away, across the room.
Of course I would have told Grayson. If it had been me that the Owl crippled instead of him, of fucking course I would have told him that I was dying. I would have done it the second I knew, so he could— So he could leave?
Oh.
If I was dying, if there was nothing that could save me, would I have told Grayson before I was absolutely, completely sure that he wasn't going to cut and run? If there was a chance that telling him could mean that he would have given up and left me alone, would I have had the guts to? I… I don't know. Even though he's a dishonest bastard, Grayson is important, he understands me in a way no one else does and maybe never will. Could I have stomached losing him, or would I have bitten my tongue and suffered it all in silence until there wasn't a choice anymore? Just to stay close, just to keep him for that little bit longer.
But, Grayson doesn't feel that way about me, right? Well, fuck, how would I know? It's not like Grayson shares much about himself, and it's not like I can read him the way he can read me. That's been proved. I have no idea what he thinks of me, not really, and definitely not anymore. I never stopped to think how he thought about me, I was way too concerned with what I was feeling around him.
Fuck, Ra's is right. I'm a selfish dick.
What would I even have done, if Grayson had told me he was dying back in Gotham, while we were with the Jokester? I hadn't figured things out then, I didn't think of him the same way. What would I have done? At that point I was convinced that Grayson was the only real thing standing between me and the Owl, the only thing I had that could protect me. If he'd told me, would that have destroyed me? I definitely would have been freaked out, I might have even tried to see if there was any possible way that I could bargain my way back into the Owl's favor. I can't honestly say that I'm sure I wouldn't have. Was Grayson right not to tell me?
"No," I answer, grudgingly, without looking up at Ra's. "I… probably not."
"Get up, Jason," Ra's demands, still disappointed but not in a pointed way like before. I let my left hand move to cradle my right shoulder, folding my legs to push up to to my feet, my fingers contracting over my arm as pain flares when it gets jostled. I still don't look at Ra's, not wanting to see whatever's in his eyes. "He's dying," Ra's says softly. "If you believe this is easy for him, regardless of what he may pretend, you are wrong. Put your anger aside, Jason, go talk to him." I'm about to protest (I'm not sure if I can talk to Grayson right now without having to either hit something or hide) when Ra's continues, with faint challenge in his voice. "If you see him as anything but a convenient ally, that is."
My eyes snap over to look at Ra's, but words fail me. I don't know how to put into words this sudden refusal of Ra's' challenge, not out loud. Of course Grayson is more than convenient. He saved my life, he got me out from under the Owl, he trained me, he understands me.
…
Fuck.
Ra's' lips curl into a faint smirk, and he nods over at the door to my left. "Go."
I hesitate a second, trying to find some way to figure out how to thank Ra's for… whatever the hell this was. Some kind of violence to ground me, to force me to focus and calm down before shoving me back at the problems eating me. It's not exactly normal, but I can't say that I would have listened to him if he'd just tried to talk to me. Violence makes me listen, pain makes me focus.
Fuck it.
I head for the door, trying to ignore the weight of Ra's' stare on my back. I slip out, pulling the door closed behind me so I'll at least get some warning if Ra's follows me, and head down the corridors towards the barrack rooms section of this base. It's a familiar route now, since I've taken it so many times. It's probably good that I know it without having to think about it, my mind's wandering too much to focus right now.
It's fucking pointless, but I can't help trying to plan out the conversation I'm about to have with Grayson. Of course, nothing I think of sounds like him. Sure, I can plan out a great, perfect thing where he says everything I want him to, but that's not going to happen. Grayson never seems to react the way I think he will. What's the damn point in planning?
It feels like barely any time at all before I'm standing in front of Grayson's door, and I take in one short, sharp breath before reaching forward with my good arm and knocking at the door. I've faced down nastier things, right? I can handle one conversation with another ex-Talon, I can do that.
Shit, it's probably too late to turn and leave.
The door opens, and even to me it's a seriously telling sign that it just opens and Grayson doesn't peer around the side and check who it is before he gives up the advantage of the barrier. He stills, staring at me for a moment, and then his gaze flicks to either side of me, down the corridor in both directions. I bite my tongue, studying his face and the way he's holding himself. He looks half supported by the door, and the fact that he isn't standing quite right — shoulders back and spine perfectly straight, perfect posture — and that his shoulders are drawn just a little inwards is… Fuck, how did I miss this?
"Can I come in?" I ask, wincing at how small my voice sounds. He looks at me for another few moments before nodding, shifting to one side to give me the space to enter. I guess him not slamming the door in my face is something at least. I take the invitation, haltingly stepping inside his room, and he closes the door and locks it. He stays there as I turn towards him, one shoulder against the door and part of his weight leaning against it. He's not meeting my eyes.
"I don't expect you to forgive me," he says quietly, and fuck, he sounds wrecked. There's a definite rasp to his voice that I should have paid attention to, an exhaustion in his tone that's obvious. Maybe he's just not hiding it anymore, maybe I'm not the fucking oblivious idiot I feel like.
Fuck, how bad must this be if it's this obvious? Grayson doesn't just show things like this. For fuck's sake he walked around on a not-quite-healed broken leg for months, and it didn't even show. Anyone could look at him right now and and see that he's fucked up. I should have.
"I'm sorry." It falls out of my mouth before I can think about it, and Grayson's eyes flick up to meet mine. "I should have—" I swallow, fighting back the nerves trying to get me to stop, to just shut my mouth and let this fall apart completely. "You should have told me, yeah, but I should've noticed too. I guess we're both fuck-ups, huh?"
Grayson shakes his head as he swallows. "No, Jason, you're right to be angry—"
"I'm not," I interrupt, my jaw clenching as his words hit something in me that snarls and jerks like a dog, baring teeth at the fucking thought that I have any damn right to be angry with Grayson when he's so bad off. "What does it fucking matter, Dick? You lied to me. Alright, fine. So what? We were Talons, of fucking course we lie. Maybe we shouldn't do it to each other, but neither of us have a fucking clue how this is supposed to work, right? It's not like the Owl left us with any kind of ability to fucking talk to people like normal human beings."
I brace my working hand on my hip for something to hold onto, to steady myself, huffing out a breath and echoing the shake of his head. "I can't read you," I admit, grudgingly, "and that frustrates the hell out of me, but that's not your fault, Dick. I don't think you get me right all the time either, and half the time I don't know why the fuck I feel like I do so I don't know how you could. I don't think I would have told you if I was dying, so how can I expect you to do what I don't know if I could?"
"It's not the same," Grayson tries to insert, but I snarl at him and he closes his mouth again.
"The hell it's not," I snap, glaring at him for a second. "I have no damn right to be angry at you, Dick, and I'm not totally sure I was even angry at you anyway. I…" I swallow past the lump that rises in my throat, shoving past the trained bits of me that try and strangle my next words. "I'm fucking terrified, Dick," I admit. "You're dying, and I'm going to be on my own. What the fuck am I supposed to do then? I'm not one of them." I nod at the door behind him, in some attempt at indicating Ra's, or Talia. "I'm not a hero. I'm a fucked up, murdering, bastard, and everyone knows it. You're the only person who doesn't care, and I'm so fucking afraid of what's going to happen when you're gone. I don't want to be on my own, Dick, I don't know if I can survive it. And fuck, you know me. Anger… Anger lets me not think about how terrified I am, it lets me blank everything out and not have to deal with it. I was afraid, so I got pissed, and you were the closest target. It was a shit thing to do."
Grayson swallows, and I watch his throat work. "You don't have to be afraid, Jason." His voice is soft, but the rasp to it makes it feel weaker, quiet by necessity and not choice. It shakes me, scares me, to think of Grayson being that at the mercy of his own body. "Ra's, Talia, they'll take care of you."
"Sure, by keeping me here forever." I snort, shaking my head again. "I can't do that, Dick, and I'm fucking done with working for other people anyway. I'm never going to put someone else in charge of me ever again." He doesn't answer, and I dip my head for a moment. "I don't like this," I offer, "this thing between us. Can we just go back to how it was before tonight, Dick? Nothing's changed."
His lips flickers in a tiny smile after a moment, and he inclines his head in what looks like an accepting gesture. "I'd like that," he confesses, meeting my eyes again. "This is probably something we should finish discussing, though."
"Can we do it sitting down?" I counter, and he pauses for a moment, but nods. I watch him straighten up, off the door, and I can see the faint tremble in his shoulders as he moves towards the bed. Just a little stiff, a little off, and wrong. I follow him, and the lump in my throat returns as he slips into the bed, taking a seat against the wall. To a normal person it's fine, it looks fine, but to me his movements are careful and I've never seen him like that before. I hesitate a moment before joining him, lying down on my side, facing him.
It doesn't feel like it did earlier, but it's something, god it's something.
"How bad is it?" I ask, when we're settled, and Grayson gives an actual sigh, even if it is tiny.
"Bad." The answer isn't surprising, but it still makes me wince.
"Painful?"
"Somewhat; pain doesn't mean much to me. It's…" He pauses, and I turn my head to look up at him, finding him staring across the room. "The attacks cripple me, I lose almost all ability to breathe or consciously move for their duration, and that makes me very nearly helpless. That's the worst of it, the rest I can deal with."
The thought makes me cringe, and he looks back down at me. Yeah, that would freak me out, too. Being helpless is… bad. Very bad.
"There has to be something we can do," I insist. "It's just physical damage right? That's not so hard to fix with magic, or a healing metahuman."
Grayson shakes his head, giving a small lift of the shoulder nearest me. "I've run through the options, Jason; at least a dozen times. There isn't anything."
"Run me through them." Maybe there's something he missed, or something he doesn't understand like I do, or… something. Any way to keep him alive.
"Jason," Grayson starts, with a faintly resigned tone.
"Just do it," I snap, not letting him finish. I hate that tone on him, hate the way it leaks into his already weakened voice and makes him sound like he's giving up. I'm not letting him do that. No, fuck no. He is not giving up on me if I have anything to say about it, and I damn well do.
He sighs, a real noise this time, and laces his hands together on his lap as he tilts his head back against the wall. His eyes flick closed. "I went to Luthor, that's why I was in Metropolis. He said there was no scientific treatment for my injuries, not any that he knew of, anyway."
As if actual medical professionals are the real healers in our world. Sure, they're a stopgap, and I guess they've got some use, but the real healers are the metahumans, and the magicians. The Owl valued their favors the highest, for the sake of versatility and actual practical usefulness. Ultraman can hit things, but at the end of the day he's not much use for anything but lifting heavy shit and brute force approaches. A magic user, though? Those bastards can do all kinds of things, and most of the time it's damn useful, even if anyone with the right counterspell or enough power could lay them out in no time flat.
Like Zatanna, or Dr. Fate, or any of the other magical criminals I remember seeing on TV before the Owl took me. Those bastards can do some seriously scary shit.
"What about metahumans?" I ask.
"No," Grayson answers instantly. "Most of the world still thinks I'm dead, outside of the higher levels of heroes, and those ones only know me as Talon. You see how Ra's considers me, even though he knows I'm not his enemy anymore. It's more than likely that any hero who found out I was still alive, as well as with another previous Talon, would do their best to kill us both. The villains, criminals, wouldn't be any better. Most of them know better than to risk crossing Bruce, especially in a way so big, and the ones that would risk it wouldn't help us. They'd take both of us apart and throw us up in front of the whole world to prove that Bruce isn't as infallible as he seems."
It stings how true that is. Maybe the Jokester understands us a little, or the heroes he directly talks to, but it's not like the Jokester's exactly a social name. He's big, he's well known, but most of the hero community doesn't keep in direct contact with him. From what I remember, Ra's handles most of the relations between the Gotham heroes and everyone else. He's not directly in Gotham, so it's easier for him to get messages to, or speak with, other heroes without fear of the Owl listening in.
Villains, on the other hand, are a screwed up bunch. The Crime Syndicate is one thing, or the dozens of other smaller teams that are forced to work under one of the major names, but there's no trust in those. It's a forced thing. If the smaller ones could be bigger, take out the heads of their particular organization, they damn well would. It's a biting, clawing, mess of shaky truces and blackmail. The Owl rules most of those groups. Not officially, but everyone knows that Ultraman doesn't actually rule the Crime Syndicate. If the Owl wants something done, Ultraman does it.
You just don't cross a guy, a fucking normal human, who can get a Kryptonian to do what he wants. Who can sleep with the super powered wife of probably the most powerful murderer on the planet and just get away with it free and clear, without a damn thing happening to him.
There are probably only a few people who would cross the Owl to do anything with us, and they wouldn't heal us. They'd torture us, beat us, and drag us in to throw at Owlman's feet. Wouldn't that be a way to prove that the Owl isn't all powerful, that there are some things that are out from under even his control?
But that doesn't mean all our choices are gone.
"All we need is the metahuman," I argue. "Ra's might throw a fit, but we could hold one hostage. You and I know enough to take down just about anyone."
"Maybe," Grayson concedes, "but most metahumans with the capability for healing are kept under extreme guard by the faction that controls them, or have other powers that make them formidable in their own right."
"We were trained to fight metahumans, Dick," I snap, pushing myself up on my good arm and biting back the wince when my other shoulder sends another knife of pain at me. Seriously, what the fuck did Ra's do? "We know how. They rely too heavily on the powers they have, they get cocky and they get arrogant, and none of them ever stop to think that one normal human can take them."
I've taken down a lot of metahumans over the years. It was one of the things the Owl made damn sure I knew how to do, and one of the very few parts of his training that I really liked the outcome of. It makes you feel like a god. The idea that I was just some random, normal teenager who could take out guys who could throw fire from their hands, or run at over the speed of sound, or bend metal and lift cars with their bare hands. I could take them down, and I was just a kid with a couple knives and some basic tools.
Metahumans don't usually consider the idea that we train harder, we push farther, because we have to be able to stand up to them. There's a damn reason everyone is so scared of the Owl.
"Maybe it's kinda risky," I offer, "but we could do it. You know we could."
"I know that the two of us could almost undoubtedly subdue a single metahuman, yes." His voice is a little sharper, and he opens his eyes and looks down at me. "But their team, and the friends they might have? Even after that, we'd have to convince them that healing me was their only option, and threaten them with something bad enough that they wouldn't just attack us again once we let them use powers. That's not an easy thing to do."
"But—"
"And after that?" Grayson cuts me off, and I blink up at him in surprise. "If we do get me healed, then what? Do we kill whatever metahuman we acquire? There's no other way to stop them from telling the entire world that the two of us are alive. Bruce wouldn't rest until we were both dead."
"You're dying anyway," I snap, "at least that way we both have a chance at living. If the Owl publicly hunts us, maybe the heroes will help. That'd be one hell of a recommendation that we're not their enemies anymore. We could play helpless, we could make their stupid morals work for us for once."
"That's not the point," Grayson says with a tiny hint of frustration. "If Bruce hunts us, it's not just him, Jason. If we become public figures, everyone in the world comes after us. Bruce's pawns track us down to try for any kind of favor they can get, everyone else's pawns track us to try and prove that they can do better, or to bargain favors or information out of him in exchange for us. The heroes might try and find us too, but protect us? No, they'd never do that. If they think Bruce wants us dead, then they'll think that we know things they could make use of."
I hold his gaze as he shakes his head.
"And they'd be right, Jason. The information we have would be nearly invaluable to anyone looking to take the fight to the Owl, let alone all the information and secrets we know about everyone else. I don't know how much you remember, but I could name the identity and day job of nearly every hero or villain out there, and for a good number of them I could give detailed plans of their patterns, too. I could tell someone looking to make a name exactly what a metahuman's weakness was, and what the most effective way to take them out would be.
"Can you imagine the lengths a hero might go to, to get the kind of insider information the two of us have? We've been lucky so far. The Jokester didn't care, or didn't ask, and Ra's already knows almost anything we could tell him. He doesn't need us. But the rest of them? It would be like throwing blood in the water in the middle of a dozen sharks, Jason. We'd be lucky to come out at all, let alone in one piece."
"There has to be something we can do," I insist, again. Clinging to the hope that there's something we overlooked. Some ridiculously kind hermit somewhere, or some villain that might heal us just to spite the Owl. Yeah, right. "What about magic items?"
He raises an eyebrow in a look that almost reminds me of Ra's. "Do you know where any handy ones are?" he asks dryly. "Or how to use any of them? It comes back to the same question of needing some other person's help, and the Jokester's group doesn't have a resident magic user, even if one would agree. Ra's already made his stance clear, too. He's not going to help me survive, the world is better off without me in it."
"Fuck him," I snarl, spitting the words without monitoring them first. "There's a lot of people that the world would be better off without; the whole Crime Syndicate and both of us, to start. He doesn't get to pick and choose favorites like this, it's bullshit."
"It's also his choice," Grayson points out, lowering the brow and wincing as he breathes in. I can hear it catch, see the stutter in the rise of his chest before it evens out. It freezes me for a second. "We can't make Ra's do anything, Jason," he says after he's recovered from the moment. "If we could, I would have gotten the location and details of how to use the Lazarus Pits he controls out of him the day we got here. There's nothing either of us can do."
I shove up, twisting to end the movement by slamming my back against the wall in leashed violence as I sit. Probably harder than I should have. "This is fucking bullshit," I hiss out, pressing my shoulder into Grayson's. "This never would have happened if you didn't get me out of there. You could have just gone on with your life."
It all comes down to me, doesn't it? Grayson pulled off the impossible, he escaped the Owl cleanly and had a life before the Jokester called him back in to come by for me. If he'd ignored the call, if I'd never gotten captured or if I'd just had the sense to die in the Owl's training, Grayson would be fine. He'd never have tried to help me, he'd never have gotten back in a fight with the Owl, never would have taken that lungful of poison. He'd be living free, away from the rest of the world and anyone who could hurt him. Not sitting next to me while his body slowly kills him from the inside out.
"Don't go there, Jason," Grayson says, reaching over and taking my left hand in his. It still freaks some part of me out, but more than anything else it just hurts. The thought that this, all of this, is just going to end is painful. I didn't know I could be this attached to a person. "There's no point in trying to fix the past, not unless you know you can change it." He pauses, and my brain clicks into motion for one stunning moment before he sharply inserts, "And we can't, Jason. No." I bite my tongue, but shove the rest of it away and grip his hand back instead.
"Then what?" I ask. "What am I supposed to do, Dick?" My words come out pleading, begging for an answer, and I can't help the shudder that slices down my back like a blade. Nausea rises sharp for a moment before I swallow it down.
"I don't know," he admits. "You're right, a team wouldn't work. Even if you could hide as someone else, take a name other than Jason, or Talon, they'd find out eventually. Or, Bruce would kill them all before they got the chance. A team is too public. At least, any of the regular teams." His eyes narrow just a touch, and his gaze drops to the bed between us.
"What?" I press, when he doesn't speak for a decent handful of seconds (seventeen, precisely, damn my ability to keep time). "You have an idea?"
"Maybe," he allows, and looks back up at me. "Any team that could take you would have to be very good, and not tied to any one city or area. They'd have to move nearly constantly, every two or three weeks at least, and most don't. What about creating a team?"
That's… That's insane. "Creating a team?" I ask incredulously. "With who? Who the hell would commit to a suicidal thing like that?"
He gives a flicker of a smile. "I might have a candidate in mind, to start with. What about Arsenal?"
My mind throws a refusal to the tip of my tongue, and then grinds to a halt. Wait, Arsenal? He…
"Fuck," I mutter, "that could work."
Arsenal — Roy — just got thrown out by Red Archer, right? I remember, Grayson told me that. He had a kid with some hero; Cheshire, I think? There's no way that Red would take him back now, especially not after that circulates out to everyone. The Crime Syndicate, even its added members and not the big leagues like the Owl, or Johnny Quick, aren't big into forgiveness. If someone betrays you, you either kill them or you ruin them. Anything else would be taken as weakness. Even if Red wanted to take Arsenal back after this, he couldn't without losing a mountain of respect and probably starting a mutiny against himself.
And Arsenal, he's on the streets. He's on his own, he's probably pissed at the world — but I don't know him, so I can't really promise that — and looking to wreck some people. He's also an outcast for the masked community. The heroes wouldn't touch him, not with a background like that, and the Crime Syndicate will make sure that none of the criminals touch him either. Red Archer is a personal favorite tool of the Owl's, and the Owl will make sure that no one so much as thinks about taking his disowned sidekick in. No one except insane, suicidal idiots like us, anyway. Man, that must suck for him.
Yeah, he might be interested in making a few friends right now.
"You know him, right?" I ask, and Grayson nods in confirmation. "Do you think he'd be interested? Not exactly a great job."
"He might be. He's certainly by himself, and that's something that Harper was never very good at. He lives off being around people, from what I recall. It never made much sense to me, but he was always very social."
"And he hung around you?" I joke, squeezing his hand for just a moment to try and communicate that I'm just kidding, no offense intended. I add in a small grin, for good measure.
Grayson gives another flicker of a smile. "We were paired together, it wasn't something either of us had a choice in. There's probably very little harm in asking him if he's interested, though it will mean planning a trip to Star City. That may take a while to do properly, even if Ra's agrees to help."
"Let's do it," I press, and Grayson watches me for a second before nodding in assent.
"Alright, I'll work it out." He pauses, and then his fingers contract around mine with just a little bit of pressure. "You'll be alright, Jason. I promise."
For just a second, as I lean into his shoulder and let my head drop to rest on his shoulder and he's warm and solid next to me, I actually believe it. I'm not giving up, there's no way in hell I'm going to stop looking for some way to save Grayson, but if I don't…
We'll cross that bridge later.