AN: In the comics proper, Dick really did beat the Joker to death once. Didn't stick, Bruce resuscitated him. (DAMMIT, BRUCE.) But he tried.

They've gone out of their way to avoid Penguin and co. whilst in uniform (you think they wouldn't be recognized? Think again.), so between that and some tweaks done before they, uh, went for it, they're not recognizable as the Robins anymore. There is a second bit to this, I'll put it up probably on…Monday…but this has to come first for it to have the intended effect.


It's a quarter past four in the morning when the whole household is pulled out of Penguin's study (emergency meeting-Mrs. Cobblepot has taken ill and he'll be leaving at dawn, he just has some instructions for them) by the doorbell.

It's pouring rain (April showers, her foot, it's the May showers you have to watch out for) and this being Gotham, the only explanation is that there's been a murder and that the police are doing their damn jobs. Well. For once. It was probably a rich man, that gets them moving.

Penguin mutters something about mannerless swine and gathers up a sheaf of papers that need his attention regardless of his mother. Olga squares her shoulders and marches to the door, flings it open.

Two minutes later, she returns. The casual observer wouldn't notice a difference, but her bewilderment is obvious if you know where to look-her face is carefully blank, lips thinned, and something. Something is wrong.

She's got Dick and Tim behind her, but it takes Dove a few seconds to recognize them-they're…what is this, Halloween? They've got costumes on, some sort of armor. And capes. And they're both clutching domino masks.

Oh. They…they haven't…Jason's death. They're not well, that's what this is.

At least, that's her first idea. A closer look says the red splashes aren't strategic paint spatters, they're blood, mixing with the rainwater and dropping onto the floor with a steady plik-plik-plik. They're both pale and as blank as Olga and that's worse, somehow, than them dressing up and…

What have you done?

It's telling, how so very wrong they look, that Penguin doesn't even snipe about his carpet. He simply heaves himself up, clutching his desk for support, and just like that he's the oily-yet-charismatic man that could sell ice to an Eskimo.

"What's going on, lads?"

"He won't laugh anymore," Dick says softly and Dove's hair stands on end. Dick doesn't…he has never…that's his voice, it is, it's just… "He won't laugh anymore, he's stopped."

"Dickie," she says, moves towards him with her palms up, "what are you talking about?"

He pulls Tim (he looks so small in that armor he's just a boy they both are what have they done?) against his side. Tim doesn't even protest, just drops his head against his brother's shoulder and looks at the growing puddle of bloody water beneath them.

"He started laughing," Dick says, still in that soft (drugged?) voice, like he's mentally far, far away. "He laughed and he laughed and then he stopped."

Penguin frowns, nose scrunching up. Olga, though, is the first one to confirm.

"The clown?"

Tim nods, heavy and tired (and dear God he looks all of eight years old again…).

"He's at the GCPD. Or." He grins, then, sudden and sharp and no longer eight. That's Penguin's smile, s'what that is, and it's all sorts of wrong on little Tim Drake. "What's left of him."

"Tim-"

"He killed Jay," Tim whispers, arms winding around Dick's ribs with a wet sliiide-squish. "He killed Jay an' he was gonna kill more an' more an' we had to. We had to."

Penguin turns away and rubs his temples, murmurs, "Get someone to prove it. If it's true…"

If it's true, that's a massive hole in the underworld, now. Lotta jobs gone, lotta quarrels going to be cropping up. And that girl-Quinn-she's dangerously obsessive, she won't take this well at all.

"Right away, sir."

He's quiet for a second more, like he's going to say something else, and she waits. The study's silent, save for everyone's breathing and that damned plik-plik-plik.

"God, I hope they did it," he says at last, fervent and trembling. "For Gotham's sake, I hope they really did it."

Somebody had to. Joker is (was?) a mad dog, it would be a kindness to everyone. But…but not them, not…somebody should have done this before they…before Jason…

She makes the call to one of the boss's, erm, police watchdogs, who says he'll call her back in a few minutes. Olga is moving at last, gathering towels and muttering darkly in Russian. Dick and Tim are still.

"All right, boys," she says gently, trying and failing not to think of them as skittish dogs. "All right. Let's just. Let's get you dried off and cleaned up and we'll…we'll worry about this later."

They don't move, not until Olga's meaty hand comes down on Dick's shoulder.

"Come along, мои ангелы."*

That gets them moving, shuffling along like a two-headed beast. The phone rings a minute later.

"Holy shit, it's him."

"You're sure?"

"He's." Tibbs gulps once, twice, three times. "He's still smiling. His fuckin' head's off and he's still smiling."

The floor feels like it falls away and Dove tightens her fingers on the phone, eyes closed.

Oh, my God, they did it.

"Thank you, Constable," she says faintly, hangs up and whispers, "He's dead, sir." Penguin doesn't answer. "The. The J-" She can't say it. Her throat feels swollen shut because he's dead, his head's off but he's dead and they… "The clown."

"I thought as much." He closes his briefcase with a horrible snap! "They were always reliable informants."

But they…

She is not going to be sick. She has seen and heard of far, far worse.

But they're only children, aren't they? Just last week Tim was complaining of growing pains, wasn't he?

No, she's not going to be sick.

She places a call to the carpet man and wanders out to find them.

Olga's got the situation in hand-she's separated them into two boys again, taken their masks and capes, and plunked Tim, armor and all, into the bathtub. The soap suds are running red already. Dick's standing by the door, heavy-shouldered and dead-eyed.

"Dickie?" Up close, in better light, there's so much blood. It's all over him and all over Tim and people don't realize, do they, how much a man bleeds when you…when… "Come on, cheri, let's…let's get this off'a you."

He's bigger than she is, now, but he may as well be twelve again-she's barely put her hands on him when he folds into her arms and ducks his head under hers, whispering, "He's stopped. He's stopped, he's stopped, he won't laugh anymore…"

Yeah. He's stopped. But what a price to pay.

THE END

*Google says 'my angels', but I speak practically no Russian, so if Google is lying or whatever, please tell me.