Reviews: I don't think I said it last chapter, but thanks so much for all the reviews and encouragement! If you ask a question I've been replying with a pm but otherwise I don't want to clutter anyone's inbox. :) Seriously though, you guys are amazing! (Also, all suggestions and ideas have been added to my list of things to write!)
Warnings: Description of Jason's injuries post-death and canonical terror attack (chemical weapons), graphic description of the effects of chemical weapons on the human body, mercy killings, dead animals
(Jay-sus, this is a rough one guys, I'm so sorry. I really didn't intend for it to be like this….)
Order of Chapters: The Doors We Open (Ch 9), How We Were (Ch 2 and 3), What We Say (Ch 5 and 7), When We Were (Ch 1), The Friends We Make (Ch 8 and 10), The Things We Forgive (Ch 11 and 12), Question Words (Ch 4), The Stories We Tell (Ch 6)
Chapter 12: The Things We Forgive (Part 2)
The last two years had been the most difficult of his life. Of course, those he spent with the Talons were awful, but at the time he had had nothing to compare them to and in hindsight he could easily dismiss the horrors he had endured as less than the daily agony he now dealt with.
See, the thing was Dick was supposed to look out for the younger ones. That was his job, the only job he had that was worth anything (because being a sometimes bartender was fun and all, but it didn't really matter). He stayed up later than any of the others, checking and rechecking the manor's defenses, training in new disciplines, trying desperately to read books about human motivations to be a better hero, better brother. In some ways he was successful; the manor had never been breached and he could more easily recognize the desires of those they hunted down. But, in other ways, in more important ways, he failed. He still couldn't believe that Jason had so easily slipped past him that night. Bruce told him it wasn't his fault, that he had had a terrible cold (to be truthful at that point it was actually edging towards pneumonia, but no one talked about that), and that there was nothing he could have done. Dick knew differently. He knew with every fiber of his being that if he had just stayed awake a little longer, if he had just refused the dose of Nyquil from Alfred, then Jason wouldn't have been able to slip out of the manor and he wouldn't have been alone in his death.
This knowledge ate at him for nearly two years. He knew that Tim and Cass understood why he was suddenly so very overprotective of them and he appreciated that they did not protest. It helped some to be able to protect them on patrol and feel like he was doing something to maintain his family, fractured and stained as it was.
Bruce seemed to think that Dick needed to talk about things. He reminded Dick that they had always talked about things that were bothering him in the past. Dick couldn't bring himself to admit his failings out loud though and his relationship with Bruce suffered for it. Eventually things got so bad that Dick fled the city. He saw how their tense silences and tense looks were affecting Cass and Tim and knew that the only way to solve it was to not be there. They were both competent, more than competent heroes, and maybe they would get better without him hovering over them all that damn time. Or, at least that's what he told himself.
So, he moved to Blüdhaven where no one cared about the strange young man who never spoke. His apartment building was above a dingy little bar with a help wanted sign. He initially signed on as a dishwasher and, one night when the second bartender called in sick, eventually moved up to the front. It turns out people like barmen who don't try to talk to them and just nod along with their tales of woe. He quickly became the most popular guy in the joint. It was kind of nice to be liked by people who knew nothing about him. Sometimes their smiles and thanks could even dull the terrible, ragged edge of his grief. Sometimes.
It wasn't great, it wasn't the glorious existence he had Jason had dreamed about so naively, but it was his life and Dick accepted that. Plus, Blüdhaven needed him. There was a cold satisfaction in slowly watching the city clean itself up. Even this far down the river the bad guys had heard of Nightwing and when he showed up a lot of them immediately decided that getting the hell outta dodge might be the best plan.
Some weekends Bruce would send Cass or Tim to him for what he called training but what they all knew was a sanity check. Dick didn't mind, he loved his younger siblings with all his broken heart and soul and while he didn't feel right living in the Manor anymore, didn't felt like he deserved Alfred's warm meals or the comfort of the plush chairs in the library, he was still their older brother.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Dick managed to go back to Gotham without the laughing ghost of Robin following him every step of the way. At first he would only pop in when one of his cases crossed city lines. Eventually he stopped by the penthouse to visit Alfred in the afternoon before Bruce threw his yearly charity event. He loitered around the Clocktower and kissed Barbara's nose when she was frustrated with a case. She would smile at him and tell him how much easier it would be to do dinner (the and other things was heavily implied) if he were in town more often. He simply shook his head. Stolen kisses were one thing, but if he allowed himself the happiness and comfort of home he would mess up again and someone would-
He couldn't handle another failure. So, he stayed away and watched them all from afar. It was for the best.
Then came the case at the docks with the android and Batman and they fought. Bruce was constantly trying to get Dick to come home and Dick just couldn't. They parted, frustrated with one another's stubbornness. As was his habit, Dick stayed behind to make sure Batman left the area unmolested before going his own way.
Then, his world rocked on its axis.
Jason.
His first younger brother, the one who held a special place in his heart, the only one besides Bruce prepared to deal with everything that was him, stood in front of him. He was taller and broader, bigger than Dick now and wasn't that a strange thought? He almost giggled. Jason had always said he would be taller.
Jason was saying something, but all Dick could focus on was the blood red of the helmet in his hands. Blood and a crowbar and oh god Jason had been so limp, like a marionette with the strings set ablaze. He couldn't do this, couldn't handle the hallucination any longer. It was bad enough when it had been Robin following him around but this? This was just cruel; to see what Jason might have been had Dick been good enough to-
"Wing Ding?" That broke through the haze. No one in their right mind called Dick that (save perhaps Roy but no one had argued that Roy was sane in a long time) and the hallucination had never done it before.
"Dick?" the apparition whispered and it suddenly dawned on Dick that this was all real. Jason was alive. He flinched at the thought, how long had he been among the living? Did he blame Dick for his death, was that why he had never come back before now?
"Dick?" Jason was obviously becoming desperate for him to react. He moved closer and Dick could not help but back up. He was broken, dirty, Jason was too good, and oh god he had been dead. Dick had felt the cold flesh, the rigidity of dark bruises where his blood had pooled as his heart tried futilely to just… keep… beating.
"No," Dick managed to croak, "You cried. I-" Whatever he wanted to say wasn't important so Dick stopped. He couldn't do this, not now. He fled.
After that things were a bit of a blur. He made it back to the cave somehow and tried to tell Bruce what had happened, but the words wouldn't come and his hands were shaking too badly to be useful. Bruce kept trying to get him to go upstairs, having something warm to drink, but Dick hadn't been back to the manor in nearly a year and he did not intend to start now.
Finally, he managed to force the words from his throat and when Bruce didn't believe he used his hands.
Then, message delivered he escaped. Gotham was too small, too tight and he needed the relative openness of Blüdhaven's more modest skyline. Maybe he would finally take Clancy up on that offer from a free drink. Or not, alcohol and claws did not a good combination make.
The next few days passed in a haze. He went to work (the early shift), made more money in tips than he had any right to given that he offered no advice was amazingly strict about cutting the drunk ones off, and patrolled as if nothing life changing had occurred. As if every waking moment he wasn't going over his memory of Jason's face on the rooftop.
He thought he recognized careful hope when he had first appeared and maybe despair when he turned to leave, but really it was hard to tell behind a domino mask and who was Dick to say that after two years in the ground Jason would even still have the same facial expressions. The inability to know what Jason was thinking tormented him. He had always known before. Always, immediately. He had been able to navigate the minefield of Jason's issues when they took Tim and Cass in and could remember nights spent in the young boy's room rocking him through another nightmare about his mom. But, he supposed he was out of practice. Without Jason Dick had to been the emotional rock for the others and he hadn't been able to. He had run.
The fourth night after the world changed irrevocably Dick found himself climbing the tallest building in Blüdhaven for the sheer exertion of it. Crime had been slow since he came back from Gotham, a frustrating phenomenon because what he really needed was to sink his claws into someone to work though his own complicated emotions. The next best thing was to exhaust himself and since there were no bad guys to be found he was climbing up Wayfield Tower the hard way. The methodical action was as good as any breathing exercise for eliciting meditation and he felt calm than he had in a while.
Left arm up. He missed his brother.
Right leg up. He missed his bedroom.
Push. Alfred. Bruce.
Right arm up. Timmy and Cass and movie nights.
Left leg up. The tall tree where he and Jason would hide and talk after a rough patrol.
Push. Jason.
Thoughts swirled through his mind, never really coalescing into anything save the burning desire to go home for the first time in two years.
He reached the top of the building and paused. The view was amazing from up here. Wind whipped his hair around his head and he leaned into it. Flying was still the best thing in the world. It made him feel simultaneously close to the parents he couldn't quite remember, the father he was currently at odds with, and the younger siblings he had failed.
His claws clicked against the casing of his grapnel gun. From up here he would be able to fall for 13.4 seconds before he needed to fire. Not the glorious 27.8 of Gotham's highest building, but still pretty good.
Nightwing was about to leap when he saw it. A plane.
The thing was, planes didn't really fly over Blüdhaven; the closest airport was on the other side of Gotham and most pilots refused to fly through the smog from the refinery just outside of Blüdhaven proper.
A sick feeling filled him but there was nothing he could do save watch as a bright green figure appeared at the side of the plane. It hesitated for a short moment and then it was falling towards the city below him.
After that everything was a blur. Chemo (he was amazed he remembered the name from deep within a file on the Bat-computer) fell without hesitation, without remorse. A green plume of death flared first upward and then out in a terrible wave. He could hear the screams from his perch and for the first time in a long time Nightwing had no idea what to do. This wasn't something he could fight with claws and stubbornness.
The green splashed and rose against the building he had just climbed, approached ever closer. Nightwing shot his grapnel to the top of the radio tower just behind him and ascended another thirty feet. Green lapped at the edge of the building and he thought maybe it wasn't enough, maybe this is how he would die.
Then it receded. Not much but enough for him to breathe a little easier.
Wails reached his ears. Sobbing from below as the people of the city he had come to love despite its flaws died in agony. Nightwing closed his eyes, trying to ignore their pleas, but he just didn't have it in him.
He reached into the compartments on the side of his left boot. Hopefully he still had- Yes! His respirator. It wouldn't hold for long, not in that toxic environment. But, maybe, just maybe he could save a few of the doomed people. If not, maybe he could at least given them a quick end.
He placed the respirator in his mouth. All the lights were green. Good, that was a solid ten hours of clean breathing.
Nightwing stood tall on the edge of his city, took one last breath of clear air and leapt from the building.
Things below were so much worse than he could have imagined. Already the streets were littered with bodies. Some were already gone from the world but others lingered in the green haze, hacking and coughing up bits of their lungs, their eyes wide with pain and fear. Those who seemed less damaged Nightwing helped. He ripped pieces from their clothing and fashioned makeshift masks. He helped them to their feet and sent them in groups away from the center of the city where Chemo had struck. Most wouldn't make it, that he knew for sure, but some would. The young and strong would survive with only minimal scarring if they made it out of the deadly haze.
Some, he knew were beyond saving. Soon his claws dripped red and tears pooled under his mask.
Eventually he left the streets and started hunting through the buildings for survivors. The nicer, newer buildings' air conditioner filters might have delayed the effects of the poison for long enough for him to help the people within.
But, instead of survivors he found people who had succumbed in their sleep. Deep breaths and peaceful dreams and they were gone. He supposed it was better than the people on the street.
He threw up for the first time that night in the lace trimmed wastebasket under a little girl's desk. She was curled in her bed, stuffed bear held tightly to her still chest, and a slight grimace on her face. Her chest was still.
The tears could no longer be contained by his mask.
When he reached the third building on the block Dick noticed that his skin was starting to feel strange. He checked the filters on his respirator. Four of five green lights still going strong. The last was a deep, warning red. It should have lasted another hour before failing but Dick supposed that the toxic air was straining the device past its limits. He mentally revised his estimate of safe breathing from ten hours to six at most.
Faint, inhuman cries reached his ears. Dick cocked his head to the side, attempting to pinpoint the noise. There, the alley to his left.
It turned out to be a small puppy who had crawled away from the bodies of its newborn littermates and hid in its mother's thick fur. It cried pathetically as its tiny chest heaved. Dick scooped it up without hesitation and placed it in the front of his uniform. The spandex would filter the air and hopefully save the little creature's life.
He spared a moment to close the mother dog's eyes. She was a pretty thing with soft dark fur, powerful haunches, and no tail. He silently vowed to ensure at least one of her brood would live to see the dawn.
After that time seemed to pass both impossibly fast and so terribly slowly. He found more people and gave out masks he had raided from the kitchen of a single father of two.
Some of them still had the breath to thank him, others stared blankly, the burns from the chemicals already showing on their skin and Dick knew that they wouldn't make it out. He told himself that he could only save so many and kept going.
His skin began itching just as the third light changed from green to red. He ignored it and handed out the last of the masks to a group who had managed to climb high enough to avoid the initial wave. They stared at him in awe as he entered the room.
"Thank you so much," one, a tall man with glittering blue eyes, sobbed. "We thought no one was coming."
For the first time Dick realized that there were no emergency sirens. In fact, as those who had been caught in the blast perished a terrible stillness was falling over the city.
Already his head hurt too badly to even contemplate attempting to speak in a way that the man would understand so he simply nodded and pat him on the shoulder. He took a few moments to use some milk from the fridge (they were in an employee lounge of some sort, he realized) to feed the puppy. One of the survivors cooed at the little thing and said;
"Oh, what a cute little girl!"
He really looked at it for the first time and realized it was a girl. He wished he had looked to see if the mother had been wearing a collar. The pup had her coloration.
Dick smiled at the survivor and nodded. Though he knew it would be best to leave the tiny animal with this group, safe as they were high above the danger zone, he placed the pup back against his chest and continued his search.
Three hours later the last green light was flickering and Dick could feel the places that had itched the most slowly tearing open. He had not found anyone alive for the last forty-five minutes.
Worse, he no longer had the presence of mind to remember which way was out. Everything was fuzzy and awful.
He collapsed to his knees on the thirtieth floor of a building filled with the remains of people he had been unable to save.
He wanted Bruce more than anything in the world. He wished he had actually hugged Jason, ruffled his hair like he used to do.
Oh well, it was too late for regrets now. He fell onto his side before another thought had a chance to form.
The last light was red.
A/N: Sorry for the second cliffhanger in a row! I wanted to give Dick his own chapter before really delving into the meat of the Blüdhaven issue. Expect plenty of good Bruce-Jason interaction (i.e. arguing) in the next chapter. That one will be posted in two days (or sooner if I can't wait any longer!)
Also, I will be posting something purely fluffy after this arc. I think everyone will appreciate that. Perhaps the story of Clark's name? Idk, but I do know it'll be adorable and happy and have as little angst as I can manage.
