A Burning Encounter

Dick spent the first few days of his Griffin-imposed self-isolation completely asleep.

He'd managed to sleep through the rest of that day, an entire night, and the majority of the following afternoon.

Upon waking, he felt simultaneously amazing and like he'd just gotten taken out by a bullet train.

Groggily, he'd managed to drag himself out of bed and do some basic human things. Like eating. And peeing. And stretching that persistent kink out of his neck by doing handstands against his living room wall until all the blood rushed to his head.

Perhaps that last one wasn't quite so basic, but at least the stiff sensation in his joints was finally gone.

Then Dick had changed the bandages on his leg and arm, poked at the stitches as if the action would somehow make them heal faster, and promptly passed out on the couch.

Evidently, he was a lot more tired than he'd thought and his body was now aggressively punishing him for it.

Day three (or two? He was already losing track), he did some light training, stared forlornly at a stack of case files propping up the wobbly leg of his coffee table, and passed out on his bed.

Day four (three?) Dick cleaned his kitchen counter for the first time since he'd moved in, unsubscribed from a Gotham news site, had three beers and a suspicious looking ham sandwich, then renewed his subscription to said Gotham news site.

Alcohol made his willpower crumble and he really should stop buying it.

He did a considerably more intense fitness regiment—while still buzzing from the beers—and pleasantly noticed that his leg no longer felt like hell.

The regiment didn't tear any stitches either, so that was a plus.

Then, for the first time in an extremely long while, he'd actually done his nightly routine and fallen asleep before midnight.

It was a miracle. A sign of divine influence. Peace on Earth and all that jazz.

That is, until he started dreaming.

He was standing on a windswept roof, the smog above accompanied by the faint scent of rotting eggs cluing him in to the location of his surroundings.

Gotham. He was in Gotham, standing on top of the national bank in his Nightwing suit.

He'd technically never been to Gotham as Nightwing, but he was also technically asleep, so...dream logic.

Warm wind ruffled his hair as he scuffed the bank roof with a re-enforced toe. As far as his dreams went, this was shaping up to be one of the relatively tamer ones.

"You killed me."

The voice was young. Hoarse, like they'd been screaming.

He turned, heart sinking into his stomach when he realized who it was.

A young girl stood behind him, flames licking up the skirt of her tiny dress, skin red and blistered. "You killed me," She said again. There was a flickering orange ring in her gaze, like she was staring into a wildfire.

All the sudden, Dick knew who the girl was; someone he'd failed to save. A long list of many.

Too many.

He'd never learned her name, didn't know if any of her family had survived. Didn't even know if she was a real person or just a crude persona conjured up by his tired mind.

He blinked smoke out of his eyes—where was the smoke coming from? Was there a fire?—and suddenly she was in front of him, a burning hot hand clamped to his forearm.

"You killed me." Her voice was barely a whisper, but it filled every corner of his skull, echoed in his head until it was all he could hear. You killed me you killed me you killed me you killed me you killed—

Oh, he thought rather belatedly, this isn't a dream.

It was a nightmare.

Then she was burning, sparking. The city scape was on fire and there were colours among the roiling tongues of flame. A canary yellow speedster; the green skin of a Martian; a glimpse of a quiver; Atlantean tattoos; and the red-black symbol of Kryptonian hope. The fire was so hot it was cold, flaring. Ashes.

And as he watched them burn, Dick burned from the inside too.

He jolted awake, sucking in a massive breath as his lungs stuttered to keep up.

Fumbling in the dark, he finally found the pull string of the lamp on his bedside table—which wasn't really a table, just an overturned plastic crate—and light flooded the room.

Dick pushed the blanket off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring how they still couldn't quite reach the floor.

He yanked the sleeve of his shirt back, feeling the phantom print of the nightmare girl on his skin. There was nothing but a raised burn scar, one he couldn't even remember getting.

Sighing, he ran a hand down his tired face and looked at his clock. A disgusting 3:02 AM blinked balefully back at him.

With a grunt, he fell back onto the mattress, still rubbing at the skin of his arm. He wondered if that girl was real. If he really had failed to save her. Everything was burning—

He growled, pushing up to his feet and hopping off the bed, staring at the wrinkled sheets like they'd personally offended him. A shapeless form hanging over the bedframe caught his eye, resembling spilt ink in the semi-darkness.

His suit. The same one that'd just been on fire in his dream.

With one more glance at his forearm, as if to reassure himself there really was nothing there, he snatched up his costume and stalked out of the bedroom.

No more trying to sleep. No more stupid night terrors. No more burning Young Justice or fiery little girls.

It looked like Nightwing would be making an appearance tonight after all.

He stood outside the hospital, his suit snuggly disguised under a pair of civilian clothes; a loose, high collared white tee and tan cargo pants. Both would (hopefully) help with the lie he was about to try and pull off.

Running over his cover story one more time, he ambled up the hospital steps and threw the door open, the sound attracting the attention of a late-night receptionist.

She blinked at him blearily from behind a pair of thick, rhinestone glasses. If her career as a night shift paper-pusher didn't work out, the woman would make a great librarian.

She certainly had the looks for it.

Dick hurried froward, smoothing the front of his shirt as if self-conscious about it. He wasn't, but the character he was trying to play could be.

"Oh—" Dick squinted at the woman's name tag, "—Jane! I just managed to get out of the house. The children, you see, they wouldn't sleep." He rested his elbows on the counter, slumping effectively against it.

The receptionist—Jane—blinked, looking him up and down. "…The…children?"

He shot her a funny look, like he couldn't tell if she was being serious or not. "My kids, Jane! I was just telling you about them the other day." While she was still staring at him, utterly confused, his hand snaked towards the back of her monitor. "Don't tell me you've already forgotten."

Clearly, she had no idea what he was talking about. The woman was a midnight receptionist at a public Bludhaven hospital; there was no way she'd remember some random man rambling about his family.

Which is exactly what Dick had been banking on.

He widened his eyes, pressing one hand against his chest as the other slipped a small, magnetized device to the monitor's back. "You forgot, didn't you. Of course, why would you remember little old—"

"No," The woman said, falling into his trap hook, line, and sinker. Dick really should have gone into the arts. He would've made a fantastic actor. "I-I do remember you. Erm, Kevin, right?"

He beamed at her, ignoring the obviously made-up name. Although there was no way she could know his real one, given that he'd never talked to her before. "Henry, actually, but you were close."

Jane let out a relieved breath, like she'd just dodged a bullet. "How are your children, Henry?"

Dick affected a tired grimace, easy to accomplish with his current mental state. With a quick switch of a button, the device he'd attached to her monitor blinked once before going dark.

Infiltration successful. He almost pressed his com system to tell Bruce, but then he remembered he didn't have a com system. Or a Bruce.

"Fine, fine, Jane," He lied through his teeth. "My oldest is a pain, but what else is new?"

She smiled politely, looking utterly uninterested in their conversation. "And you're eldest's name is…?"

Dick blanked, floundering mentally for a name. Any name. "Jason."

He felt his skin pale as soon as he said it, hands going slack at his sides. He hadn't thought…thought about that name in a long time. Not since he and Bruce's big blowout.

It felt odd saying it here, to some random woman who didn't appreciate the significance of it.

"Right, Jason." The woman said, still smiling. Obviously she couldn't hear Dick's broiling thoughts. "I remember now. Why are you visiting again, Henry?"

He clamped a hand over the scar on his arm, feeling the Nightwing suit shift beneath his shirt. Pulling himself together was tricky, but he'd done it before.

"My, er, wife." He finally said, hand still clenched. "Yes, my wife's on the second floor but, silly me, I seem to have forgotten the room number."

Dick gave her The Look that'd had Alfred sneaking him extra cookies as a child. She stared at him like was the second coming, so evidently The Look hadn't lost any of its charm.

"Wha—what's her name, Henry?" She clicked something on her monitor's screen, her throat bobbing as she swallowed.

"Let me see," He murmured, leaning even further into her personal space. "I'll be able to find it sooner than you."

She obliged, tilting the screen around so he could see it and turning an interesting shade of pink. Dick quickly scanned the second-floor plan, knowing they wouldn't have put Sniper on the first floor.

Less chance of the hitman making a break for it. On the second floor, if he tried to jump out a window, the only thing making a break would be his legs.

Flashing through meaningless numbers and names with calculated precision, he found it: the hospital's only registered John Doe. Still staring, he quietly filed the room number away and stepped back, fixing Jane with a large smile.

"Excuse me, sir? Henry?" She was arching a brow at him, "Did you find her?"

"Hmm?" He passed his gaze back to the screen again, fixating on the first female name he saw. "Oh, yes, it's Mrs. Abigail. Right there. Room 312. That's definitely my wife."

Jane scrunched her nose at him. "Abigail? She's sixty-three years old. And on life support."

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand that was his cue to go.

"Our love knows not the bounds of age!" Dick called over his shoulder, already turning away. Before he disappeared around the corner, he gave the woman one last wave and said a quick, "Thanks, I owe you one!"

She didn't call after him, so Dick assumed he was in the clear.

He allowed himself three seconds of satisfaction before scanning the hallway corners for a camera. Spotting one, he ducked into its blind spot and booted up his holo glove.

The bug he'd planted on Jane's computer had already cracked the hospital's flimsy security system, displaying laughing little Robins in a clear sign of victory.

He really ought to change them now that he was Nightwing. If someone saw a smirking cartoon Robin on the new vigilante's screen, it might leave them with some uncomfortable questions.

For some reason, though, Dick kept finding new reasons to keep them.

Grinning to himself in the darkness, with a few quick taps of a button he had the camera's feeding themselves a constant loop. If anyone reviewed the footage of tonight, all they'd see were empty halls and flickering shadows.

With that finished, he ducked into the nearest janitor's closet and shucked off his shirt and pants, exposing the sleek black suit beneath. Fixing his domino mask in place, he ruffled his hair until it was nothing like the gelled look he had at work, then slipped back into the hallway.

This was either a very good or absolutely terrible idea, but, either way, nothing short of a hurricane would stop him now.

The elevator. The elevator was definitely stopping him.

Or it was at least slowing him down. He'd stood outside the metallic silver doors for nine minutes before they finally rolled open, revealing a stout elderly woman wearing a patient's smock.

They stared at each other for a moment, her grip tightening on the oxygen pole beside her, before Dick remembered he was supposed to be stepping inside.

"Evening ma'am," He said, taking up a position at the far end of the elevator. He leaned over, pressing the second-floor button with a gloved finger and trying to ignore the feel of her staring at him. "I, uh, lost a bet."

"Some bet," She murmured, eyeing him a little too appreciatively.

Dick stepped out as soon as the elevator dinged open, overly aware of the way her gaze followed him. What was it about him that had old woman practically salivating in his presence?

He ducked around a corner, keeping a watchful eye on the passing room numbers before finally finding the one he was looking for.

His leg twinged slightly as he bent to pick the lock, but the stitches held fine. It was just his healing skin stretched a little too far.

There were those three satisfying clicks and he felt the door give, sliding soundlessly inward. Stalking over the threshold, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness within, blinking until he could make out the room's various shapes.

A figure sat hunched over next to the hospital bed, their slim form almost indiscernible in the gloom. Dick stepped around them, eyeing the patient lying prone on the bed.

Ida rested among the pillows, the white fabric washing out her skin. The witnesses' chest rose and fell in time with that of her Martian bodyguard's, the heart monitor beside them beeping along rhythmically.

Gently, he smoothed a strand of dusty hair her out of Ida's face, committing her uninjured state to memory.

The recollection of the burning girl in his dream had his hand snapping back, but this was one person he had managed to save. At least one person who was still alive because of him.

When he'd seen Ida's name on the receptionist's monitor, he hadn't been able to resist the pull of visiting her room. Making sure she was okay.

And maybe some selfish part of him had wanted reassurance that his role as a vigilante had meaning, but was that really so bad?

Miss Martian shifted, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like "Conner?" and Dick decided it was time to go. He could always visit Ida later, when he wasn't dressed as the Justice League's most-wanted vigilante.

Giving the witness one last once over, he melted into the darkness. The click of a door being the only sign of his exit.

He did not see Miss Martian sit up, suddenly looking extremely wakeful. Almost like she'd been faking her slumber.

He did not see her press a finger to her temple, eyes flaring toxic green. Her voice filled the stillness, "Guys? He's here."

Sniper's room was significantly darker, the curtains around his bed shuttered and the blinds drawn. Dick had been suspecting a tad bit more confrontation, so he was rather surprised to find the room otherwise empty.

And, with M'gann asleep in the other room, there wouldn't be any invisible Martians lurking around this time.

Absently wondering if he should play good-vigilante or bad-vigilante, Dick pulled back the curtain and sidled up to the hospital cot.

Sniper, now without his mask, looked quite a bit younger than he had when Dick knee-capped him. Twin casts stuck out from under the blanket, their lumpiness causing the man to lay awkwardly sprawled on his back.

Paired with the gleaming metal cuffs shackling him to the bed, to say the man looked uncomfortable would be a gross understatement. Despite that, he was sound asleep.

Though he wouldn't be for much longer if Dick had anything to do with it.

"Alright man," He snapped his fingers next to the hitman's ears. "Wakey-wakey. Time to face the consequences of your actions."

Sniper snorted once, twice, then continued sleeping.

"Now that's just rude." Dick snapped his fingers one more time before giving up and jabbing them into the man's knee.

The hitman reared up, groaning in pain and confusion as the heart monitor beside his bed went berserk. "Wh-what? Who—"

Then Sniper finally caught sight of the figure looming over him and went still, recognition flaring in his bloodshot eyes. "Oh, shi—"

"Ah, ah, ah," Dick waggled a gloved finger at the man. "There're children present."

Sniper frowned, glancing carefully around the darkened room as if fully expecting a vigilante child to fly out at him. When no infants attacked, he turned his searching gaze on Dick. "Where?"

"I was referring to your own state of emotional maturity, actually," He answered pleasantly, watching as the quip flew over the man's head.

Either they'd hopped Sniper up on enough drugs to make the man's brain fly the coop or the hitman was naturally this stupid.

Sniper moved his knee in an attempt to hop off the hospital bed and no doubt make a daring escape, but let loose a barrage of curses as his cast shifted.

So…naturally stupid it was.

"Do you know who I am?" Dick asked curiously, watching as the man flopped pathetically back onto the cot. He tried to keep his tone conversational; relaxed.

They were technically on a tight schedule (who knew what the team was planning? Or when they'd storm in with metaphorical guns-a-blazing?), but Sniper didn't need to know that.

"'Course I know who you are," The man's face twitched venomously, the expression rather offset by the drugged-up haze in his eyes. "You're Batman's little bitc—"

"Remember the children," Dick tsked, though his tone was significantly less friendly. "And who said I was working with Batman?"

Sniper glanced around, like he'd find the answer written on the nearby walls. "People talk, and he told me. Told me everything. He said…said I was supposed to draw you out, wait for you to show up." He grimaced suddenly, rubbing his sweat-slicked forehead. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. Is it hot in here?"

"That'd be the morphine." The vigilante flicked one the of the bags suspended overhead. "They'll probably keep you full of the stuff with injuries like that."

"Mo-rph-ine," Sniper giggled. "I like morphine."

Dick grimaced. "That makes one of us. Now, who is 'he'? I'm really not in the mood to play the pronoun game tonight."

"And I'm really not supposed to tell you that." The man's grin stretched to unhealthy proportions. "He just said to wait at the warehouse for you to arrive. I was supposed to kill the kids and wait at the warehouse."

"The kids?" Dick sobered at the memory of the 'Gang' lying broken on the floor, soaking in rusted puddles of their own blood. Just a few more people he hadn't been able to save. "Why'd you have to kill them?"

"Venom," Sniper's voice was deadly serious. "They're making a different Venom. Wasn't perfect then, but it probably is now. They were looking for one more ingredient. That's why I had to kill your partner. It was very important I go for your partner. Venom."

"There is no more Venom serum." From what Batman—and, by extension, Robin—had learned, the Venom stint had been handled by the junior Justice League.

Not handled very well, per se, but handled all the same.

It'd been nasty stuff, turning people into monsters and augmenting their bodies. For this mysterious 'he' to be using it again, experimenting with it even, meant he had some pretty serious villain connections.

Dick ran through a quick mental list of nefarious organizations, knocking them off as he went. None of them fit. None of them would do things this way; operate with such targeted obscurity.

"And your employer, the man in charge. Who is he?"

Sniper squinted one eye at him, grinning like he'd just given away some kind of clue. "If I told-told you that, I 'd be dead."

Dick smiled a very unpleasant smile. "Sniper, Sniper, Sniper. Do you fancy your arms?" He let his masked eyes linger the man's bulked forearm. "Or how about your fingers? Toes? Any taksies?"

The actual thought of maiming the hitman—even though Sniper was obviously not a good person—still made bile coat his teeth.

But the hitman obviously didn't know that, judging by the way his nostrils flared, his drugged face slowly morphing into an expression of horrified surprise.

"N-no," The man whispered, wrapping his arm around himself. "Please."

Dick deflated, letting the bad guy act drop. "Good, because I really didn't want to have to hurt you."

Anymore than I already have, he added silently, eyeing the man's wrapped knees.

"But for this to work," He continued, forcefully pulling his gaze away. "You need to talk to me. Got it?"

Sniper didn't even pretend to think about it. "Of course. I just-I really can't tell you who my employer is. It's against the code, you know?"

Dick, fortunately, wasn't overly familiar with mercenary code, but he nodded anyway. He was honestly surprised Sniper was being this compliant, though the man's cooperation was likely due to the drugs pumping through his system.

"I understand," He patted Sniper's arm automatically as he silently reorganized his thoughts.

Every question mattered in times like this, and, going by Sniper's increasingly dazed expression, Dick didn't have much time left. "So your orders were to wait at the warehouse, kill the Venom kids, kill my partner, but leave me. Why?"

"Because he likes you," Sniper whispered. "He knows everything about you, pinned it all on a wall. Ribbons connecting red ribbons. He says it's your favourite colour. Knows who you are, though he wouldn't tell me."

It was difficult not to appear unsettled, especially when Dick was feeling incredibly unsettled about everything in those last couple sentences.

Someone had figured out his secret identity, had a wall filled with his personal information. A Gotham native villain didn't make sense, then. None of them, to his knowledge, knew he even still operating. They thought he'd gone into retirement after…Jason.

"Whoever hired you is obsessed with me. Duly noted," He murmured, trying to push past the chill seizing him at his core.

Sniper nodded, looking increasingly more out of it with every passing second.

"And you think they completed the Venom?" Dick asked, eyeing the man carefully for any signs of deceit.

Again, a bleary nod.

"That can't be good," The vigilante said into the darkness. "And you're not going to tell me anything else? Nothing?"

Sniper lifted a trembling hand, covering his right eye and laughing like he'd just mimed the world's funniest joke.

"Thanks for that," Dick adjusted his belt even though he knew it wasn't in need of adjusting. "Now, you're just going to go back to sleep and let the morphine make this all seem like a bad dream. Nighty-night, Snipe."

"Night night," The supposedly dangerous mercenary mumbled back, his eyes already slipping closed.

Dick would have to figure out what do about some random villain knowing his identity later. Right now, his mind was a jumbling mess of conspiracies, none of which were making any particular sense.

Biting his lip, he fired up his holo glove and pulled up the hospital security system again. After unlooping the cameras and erasing his presence from the mainframe, he crossed the room on padded feet and pushed open the window.

He offered Sniper's sleeping form a lazy salute and leapt, a rush of air welcoming him as he fell, stomach plummeting while his centre of gravity shifted.

The whine of his grappling hook broke the night's stillness, its metal end digging into the hospital trough and yanking him upward.

His leg ached dully as he landed, his mostly healed arm throbbing in time with that ache. Gun injuries, even just grazes, did not heal half as quickly as Hollywood would have their audience believe. Dick had learned that lesson the hard way.

But the familiar rush of falling had made everything worth it.

He was weightless, then clambering over the roof's edge, hopping to his feet as he rubbed at the pain in his thigh.

Silence, just the night wind, then—

The back of his neck prickled, every high-strung nerve in his body whispering turn around! There was a swish, like fabric snapping in the wind, and Dick's breath caught in his throat as his ears perked.

He spun soundlessly on his heel, sliding his escrima sticks into his hand as he assumed a ready position. Half-expecting to find the junior Justice League's arrogant speedster or meddling Martian, he almost toppled over in surprise when he came face-to-face with something far, far worse.

Dark black suit; billowing cape; a familiar horned cowl. The figure was wreathed in shadows, almost like the night was clinging to him, but Dick knew exactly who it was.

"Batman," He breathed out, feeling his heart shudder in his chest as his fingers began to tremble. Or perhaps it was his whole body, shaking like a leaf under the force of that lethal glare.

He was here. Batman was here. Bruce was here, in Bludhaven. In Dick's last remaining safe haven.

He felt the raised scar on his arm, registered the pain in his thigh. For once, he wished this was all just another nightmare.

More than anything, Dick wished he could wake up.

And, as his cheek flared with a phantom bruise and the world seemed to shift around him; as the small part of himself that'd slowly begun to heal died all over again, Dick felt the final threads of his composure

snap.

(A/N): *dodges the random objects you're probably chucking at me* I apologize for the cliffhanger! This chapter was just already so frackin long (and late!) so I couldn't wait any longer! # ##$%^

That, and I like to watch y'all suffer 😎

*dodges a chair* (kidding, kidding, please don't kill me)

Thank you all for your lovely reviews! Every time I feel the urge to throw this fic into the abyss and never look back, I read over all your kind words and smile like an idiot 3

~ASL