A Dire Development
'Follow me' turned out to be a difficult order to obey.
With the Young Justice team sporting various bruises and Dick's accursed limping, they were extremely slow going.
He could tell Addams was getting progressively more annoyed with them, the man's face that familiar mottled violet. Dick was tempted to go at a snail's pace, just to spite him.
He and Addams hadn't exactly started out as enemies, but they also hadn't been friends. Then again, 'friends' weren't exactly something a ward of the great Bruce Wayne could have.
Not real friends, anyhow.
'Richard Grayson' had plenty of people he knew. People he tolerated. A few kids his age who were also forced to attend all the elite's mind-numbing galas, sipping at champagne they weren't legally allowed to drink.
He'd left them behind when he graduated from Gotham Academy, all personal ties with any getting immediately severed.
Not necessarily by choice. But also…yes, completely by choice.
So when Dick had first arrived at the BPD training facility, he had no intention of making friends. That, and he'd just gone through his first true fallout with Bruce. A fallout both of them had known there was no coming back from.
The things that had been shouted at each other across one of Gotham's windswept rooftops, the actions the oldest Wayne had taken…
He fingered his cheek absently as they walked towards the scene of the crime, remembering the weighted bruise that had rested on his skin for weeks afterwards. It'd been finger shaped and stung more than any blow he'd ever received.
There was just no coming back from that. Not in Dick's books.
Needless to say, the soon-to-be-detective hadn't been in the best headspace when he'd showed up for his first day of training. It hadn't helped that the rest of his fellow trainees were already halfway through their semester, having already bonded over their horrible coaches and sketchy cafeteria food.
Training had honestly been a blur to Dick, as things tended to be when there was no one around to pull him out of his head.
Usually that task would be delegated—when Bruce was busy (which he often was)—to Alfred, who would call upon the late-night magic of milk, cookies, and good conversation.
But there'd been no British butler in his then-newfound apartment, only some peeling paint and a saggy bottomed couch.
So Dick and his one-track mind had thrown themselves into his newfound career, working his way to the top of his class, to the top of the academy; not caring enough to sugar-coat his rapid ascension.
And then he'd graduated, arriving one overcast Bludhaven morning to Commissioner Griffin's precinct. She'd immediately yanked him out of his hazy thoughts and put him to work, earning his loyalty and respect in the process.
His rise to the top certainly hadn't earned him any friends, and, at the time, Dick hadn't even thought he wanted them. But, as he allowed Artemis to carry him down the darkened hall….the team pressing up against them on either side….
He thought, perhaps, he might've.
Addams was only the first example of many who believed he'd paid his way to the top, and Dick refused to stoop low enough to correct him.
The detective had learned from experience that denying rumours didn't put them down. Interacting only inflamed the media, gave them the ammunition they needed to carry the story even further.
Finally, their raggedy group turned around the final corner, the pain in his leg faded to a dull ache as he took in the abrupt change of the bar room around them.
The bodies had (fortunately) been covered, but their rotten stench still mixed with the already putrid scent of the filth around them. It also looked like most of the blood had been mopped up, but the warped boards were still sticky under their feet.
To his right, someone let out a hoarse sob.
He turned, fast as his stiff neck would allow, just in time to see Ida double over and add the contents of her stomach to the deplorable floor.
"Oh, gross," Addams muttered, diverting his gaze away as if the sight of dead bodies bothered him less than vomit. "Somebody! Somebody come clean this up!"
Dick was tempted to throttle him. If he hadn't been entirely relying on Artemis for bodily support, he might've ended his 'no killing' streak right then and there.
An annoyed looking, nondescript woman with the word forensics stamped across her windbreaker wandered over, fixing their entire assembly with a detached stare. "Yes, sir?"
Addams heaved a sigh, as if this interaction alone was the greatest inconvenience of his life—a life Dick was getting all the more ready to cut short. "Call an ambulance, will you? Turns out our witness will be in need of one."
The forensics woman grumbled but pulled out a phone, holding it to her ear and murmuring a series of commands into it.
"Well," Addams clapped his hands together. "This was a flaming disaster. Same time next week?"
Dick dodged the other man's sarcasm entirely. "Where's the other witness? The one who ran?"
Addams eyes narrowed to near slits. "That, my dear detective, is absolutely not your problem. The only reason your little precinct even got involved is because this one, He pointed a crooked finger at Ida, "wouldn't talk unless her sugar daddy was around."
To his surprise, the team of ragged heroes let out various protests at this, but Addams ignored them entirely.
"Since she's now on her way to the hospital, I suggest you and your costumed friends turn yourselves around and march right back out that door."
Dick didn't care if the man dragged his name through the mud; it was nothing he hadn't heard before.
But when he saw Ida flinch at the words 'sugar daddy', her head of white hair lowering in shame, the final threads of his already very thin patience snapped.
"No, you listen to me, we're not leaving until Ida is safe on an ambulance. Or just safe away from you, we're not too picky." He felt his age-old Robin smile slipping onto his face: cold, glittering, and achingly familiar. His voice lowered until it was nothing but a whisper, "And if you so much as look at her ever again, I will personally inform the higher ups about your absolute negligence today and pull in every favour I am owed to get you fired. Do you understand?"
Addams just blinked his watery eyes, mouth forming a simple 'o' shape. It made the man look—if possible—even stupider.
Dick disentangled himself from Artemis and took a single step forward on his good leg, ignoring the blood dripping from his other one.
The action probably looked more wobbly than threatening, but he summoned up the best glare in his arsenal and zeroed in on Addams.
Histone crackled like ice when he spoke, an effect he usually reserved only for the scourge of Gotham's alleys. "Do you understand?"
He imagined it would be somewhat amusing for a passerby to see him, a regrettably small bleeding midget, facing down a six-foot-manchild.
Addams, however, did not look at all amused. In fact, he barely managed to close his mouth fully before nodding and bolting away.
Soon as he was out of sight, Dick turned his attention to the issue at hand; the fact that was he was no longer leaning on Artemis.
He scrubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes. In his steadily on-setting delirium, he temporarily forgot his Grayson persona was supposed to be bland as flax bread. Oops.
But before he could even think, words were spilling past his lips, "That proves it. There's clearly no way to mail a person straight to hell, otherwise Addams would already be there." Then he squinted speculatively down at the floor as it seemed to rush up to meet him. "I think I'm going to fall."
There was a flash, followed by a buffet of lightning-laced wind, then KF was heaving Dick upwards again.
The speedster slung an arm around the detective's waist, fixing him with an ear-to-ear smile, "Looked like you could use a hand there, buddy." The ginger's eyes were glittering with undisguised amusement behind his goggles.
"Eat screws and die." Dick snapped back, internally cussing out his weak, lily-livered leg.
Of course the one time he got seriously hurt on the job, these idiots were around to witness it.
(He pointedly ignored all the other times he'd gotten injured while working: nicked just below the ribs; a twisted ankle as he vaulted over a fence; yesterday, when he'd been grazed by a bullet.)
Time really flew when you were having fun and experiencing insurmountable pain.
"Aw, did little Grayson skip his medication? Is he having a little tantrum?" Artemis' voice was oddly light, borderline teasing.
Teasing.
Whatwas happening?
He glared at her from under KF's blindingly yellow shoulder. "I hate you."
This lack of mouth-to-mouth filter would really be the death of him.
Wally laughed beside him, as if there'd been something funny about Dick's proclamation. "Sure you do."
There it was; the sound of a camel's back breaking horrifically under the weight of that final straw.
Wasn't that the expression? He blinked once, wondering if his vision was flickering or if it was just the bar's seedy lighting. Then a bulb blew out above them, and he thought perhaps it was a mixture of both.
Dick was seconds away from tearing the speedster apart, when a sharp inhale caused him to pause. Steadying himself, he pulled up onto his tiptoes (a factoid he would take to his stone-cold grave) and peered around KF.
It was Ida. The woman was trembling, dust-covered arms wrapped round her torso as if she were trying to manually keep herself together.
Straightening as much as his injured leg would allow, he quickly followed her line of sight to….
Addams had wandered over to a group of cops, all standing around a handcuffed man kneeling on the floor, one of the officer's guns pressed to the back of his head.
Dick narrowed his eyes, glancing between Ida, the man, and back again.
There didn't appear to be any immediate threat. The stark terror in her eyes seemed unwarranted, something off about how the woman was slowly listing to the side.
The junior Justice League seemed to catch on to the detective's sudden silence, their banter cutting off as they joined him in studying Ida.
It looked like their witnesses' knees were seconds away from buckling, her entire body trembling and swaying. She let out a whimper, fingers digging into her arms.
Something was definitely not right. Sure, seeing a group of officers pointing a gun at someone's head was likely terrifying, but it usually wouldn't warrant such a strong reaction.
"What?" Dick asked slowly, withholding a frustrating curse at not being able to go to her. He tried to keep his voice soft, hoping that would be enough. "What's wrong?"
M'gann surprised him by doing what he couldn't. She sidled up to the woman's side, slipping a hesitant arm around her waist.
"Are you hurting?" The Martian asked softly, taking the majority of Ida's weight. "Is there anything we can do?"
Ida's fingers trembled as she stretched one out toward the group of officers, all of whom were towering over the downed man.
Her eyes were too wide for her gaunt face. "T-that's—that's him." The previously dulce tone dropped to a mere whisper. "He's right there."
M'gann glanced over her shoulder, shooting her teammates a confused look.
Beside the detective, Wally shrugged, face pulled into a concerned grimace beneath his cowl.
But the dots were quickly connecting themselves behind Dick's eyes, the final pieces of this strange puzzle sliding into place.
"Miss Martian." He barely recognized his own voice. "Take her outside. Take her outside now."
The green hero blinked at him, taken aback by the severity of his tone. "What?"
Dick motioned to the door, then down at Ida's crumpling form, hoping a physical action would help the Martian understand. "Get her outside."
"Do it," Kaldur's voice was steady as always, apparently carrying just the authoritative note M'gann needed to hear. "Do as he says."
Though she still appeared confused, the hero nodded and gently led their witness towards the door, muttering soft words of encouragement in her ear as they went.
Dick wanted nothing more than to push himself out of Wally's grasp and follow. To help Ida as best he could.
The woman had obviously reacted strongly to the man on the floor—and Dick knew from personal experience how hard it could be facing the broker of one's traumatic experience.
It was infuriating, knowing exactly what should be done to comfort her and not being able to do it.
If he'd ever had a therapist, he was certain they'd have diagnosed him with some minor control issues by now. Probably stemming from uncontrollable childhood loss and tragedy and etc etc etc.
It wasn't that Dick thought therapists were silly, or that diagnosing your problems was a waste of time. More so that he, specifically, could never engage in something that open. Something that would put all his identities at risk.
What would he say? I'm a controversial vigilante that's been operating since I was nine years old, beating up bad guys in back alleys and carrying the weight of my insurmountable daddy issues on my caped shoulders.
He had the sneaking suspicion such a story would outweigh any patient confidentiality clauses.
So therapy remained a no-go.
Dick blinked back into reality, realizing that he'd just completely disconnected from the situation at hand. One in which Wally was escorting him towards the group of officers, moving at a slow but steady pace.
The zoning out was likely due to the combined blood loss and pain finally catching up to him. Though the impalement wasn't too bad, and definitely not enough to kill him.
In fact, it hadn't even hit anywhere near his femoral artery.
Things were looking up.
The one side of his brain still functioning pondered this revelation calculatedly, wondering how long he could keep pushing without passing out. The other half just wanted to lie down and pretend to be dead.
What a wonderfully functional human being he was.
Addams had the gall to glare at him when they approached, his watery grey eyes looking ever so grey and….…watery.
Maybe the blood loss was affecting him more than he'd thought.
"Where's your witness?" The man barked, the sound sending thrills of pain lancing through Dick's cranium.
He was tempted to shush Addams, but couldn't find the energy within himself to do it.
"Where's your witness?" KF shot back, eyeing Addams with open contempt.
The pale man merely raised a hairy eyebrow in response. "Right here," He pointed down at the restrained man on the floor, who was glaring up them with brilliant yellow eyes and vertical pupils.
Dick felt like those last few details were important, put couldn't quite put his finger on why.
"Oh." The speedster muttered, unaware of the detective's ongoing internal crisis. "Cool."
Dick looked at where Addams was still gesturing to, mentally willing the cobwebs from the corner of his mind.
Ah. This wasn't good at all.
He recognized the man in front of him, had apprehended the villain on multiple occasions while operating as Robin.
Copperhead. A mutant type and renowned assassin, one who had a reputation for morphing into a snake-like humanoid and quite literally tearing his victims apart.
His mind might be moving a little slower than usual, but it could still connect the remaining problem before him.
That wasn't a witness; that was their killer.
Shoot.
Then his brain suddenly quit functioning properly altogether, an extremely sobering thought slowly working its way into his numbed consciousness.
The case from yesterday, in which multiple characters involved in narcotics dealing were slaughtered, all by a low paying and criminally tied hitman. A hitman that tried to leave no witnesses in their wake. There was a parallel starting to form.
He pressed a finger to his temple, trying to alleviate the pressure in his battered head.
The two cases were nigh on identical, down to the last detail; both hitmen had waited after their killings, waited for…for what?
What was it both Sniper (and now Copperhead) had been waiting for?
His tired mind couldn't find the final puzzle piece, but the rest of the narrative was finally starting to make sense.
The two cases were connected.
He sighed, rubbing a plaster covered hand over his tired eyes. Could things ever just be easy for him? Could he ever just work a simple homicide case?
"Care to share with the rest of the class, Grayson?" Artemis' voice snapped him out of his spiralling, her tone less frigid than ever before. She was looking down at him, eyebrows cinched and lips pulled into a frown.
Dick withheld the urge to curl up and sleep. To just lie there and finally, finally rest. "Not here. I don't want to have to repeat myself." He stared up at Addams, hoping his gaze portrayed how absolutely ready he was to commit murder. "We're taking this witness back to the precinct. Escort him to my squad car."
He had to bring this to Griffins immediately,
Things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
(A/N): Would you look at that; yet another chapter posted without Dick receiving medical attention. Oopsies.
In all seriousness, y'all are such amazing readers! I can't believe there's over 90 (90!) reviews on this fic :O
Every time I get discouraged about updating this, I look back at all your lovely words and just...wow. I love you all 3333
Thanks for reading! Have a great week lovelies!
~ASL