A/N: this chapter is updated too!
enjoy! ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა
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His grand escape from the manor had left Nightwing early for the drug-bust with Red Hood, so he decided to swing by Dunkin' to order two giant sugar bomb lattes.
In costume, of course.
The nervous blush on the cashier's face and the bewildered stares from the other customers were the exact pick-me-up he needed after he'd abandoned Damian in the Cave. His future self would thank him for the caffeine, too.
Someone yelled at him to do a backflip and he did so with a coffee in each hand, ignoring his protesting ribs. He'd probably be on Instagram or TikTok within five minutes, but Tim was the one who had to deal with the dumpster fire that was their social media presence.
Bliss.
Time moved slowly while he waited, hidden on a roof in the seedier part of town. 'Seedier' being a kind term for Blüdhaven. There wasn't a single 'unseedy' part to compare to—only parts where they spoke of liquidation instead of murder, something that doesn't make much sense if you haven't toed that line.
After almost an hour, Red Hood finally thud onto the roof.
Jason removed his helmet. "Sup, Dickhead." He was wearing his usual uniform, blood red Kevlar all the way up to his neck, his belt heavy with ammo, a gun on each hip. The grenade launcher slung over his shoulder was new, though.
That wasn't exactly the kind of 'help' Dick had in mind when he asked Jason to join him last week. He probably only brought it to start an argument, but Dick didn't have the energy. If Red Hood wanted to bring a goddamn grenade launcher, good for him.
Not like he'd actually dare to use it during a vigilante team-up.
"Before you say anything, I only brought four," Jason said with a grin, rattling the grenades that hung from the belt that crossed his chest.
Nightwing held out a cold latte as an answer. "And I brought coffee."
Jason clearly had too much faith in him, because he immediately went for a gulp. His eyes bulged behind his mask when he realised his mistake, and he spit out the drink over the side of the building.
"What the hell is this?"
"Coffee."
Jason stared at the cup in his hand. "That is not coffee. Just fucking shoot me next time, Jesus."
Dick took the latte back and finished it in a single gulp. Cold, but still sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of caffeine. Definitely not the crime against humanity Jason made it out to be.
Red Hood stared at him. "How are you even alive?"
He knew Jason didn't mean it like that, but he always wondered if things wouldn't be better if they'd left him dead at the Crime Syndicate. He would've died a hero, nothing like the person he'd become at Spyral. How nice that would've been.
But Dick couldn't undo history, and right now, dying was a selfish wish. His family needed him. Damian needed him. Blüdhaven needed him.
Not that he'd ever say any of this out loud to his 6'4 bear of a little brother who'd been brutally beaten with a crowbar and killed in an explosion. Jason didn't deserve to deal with his bullshit.
"I don't know," Nightwing answered.
And even with the mask, it was Jason, not Red Hood, who grinned back at him. "Amen to that. Now tell me about your drug dealers."
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Blüdhaven's drug dealers weren't that different from Gotham's. They used big guns to threaten little kids into the trade, and when the police came after them, it was the kids that paid the price. Standard stuff. Of course it wasn't just about the kids, it never was, but… okay, it was about the kids. At least Nightwing knew he could count on Red Hood when it was about the kids. Everything else could turn into a dangerous clash of morals he wasn't ready for.
Not tonight.
Nightwing held up a hand, signalling his brother to get ready. Both of them sat crouched in different parts of the hideout's ceiling, waiting for a good moment to strike. There was only one table in the entire brick warehouse, the rest of it left empty so the guards stationed at the exits had a clear view. At the table, Ruthello, the main target of tonight, indulged in cheap hookers and expensive alcohol with his crooked cousins.
Nightwing had an understanding with the 'working girls'. They often couldn't refuse gangs at their corners, so he always made sure they left unscathed before engaging criminals. In turn, they were some of the best contacts he had—you wouldn't believe the shit people spew when they climax.
So he and Jason had to wait.
They stayed crouched in the rafters, silent and stock still. That way, someone was unlikely to spot them even if they looked up. It was the first lesson Batman had taught him about going unnoticed: It's movement that gives you away. No one expects to see eyes when they look up, so as long as he stayed still, their gaze would move right past him.
He remembered training the skill on low-risk stakeouts, Batman adding another ten minutes of silence for every twitch or whisper. On those nights he'd cried silently in his bed, something so wrong about not moving that it broke him without meaning to.
Ruthello pushed the girl he was groping away, signalling the guards with a drunken hand. The other men at the table did the same. The girls' heels clacked on the concrete as they left, only briefly halted by the guards to get half of what they were owed. They knew better to complain, though.
One of the yes-men said something, and Ruthello broke out laughing, almost falling backwards from his chair. The younger man next to him—his nephew, it'd said in his files—caught him just in time. He strained to push the heavy man back forward.
Ruthello punched him in the face, making sprawl out on the floor. He didn't get up, blood escaping from his broken nose.
That was going to be some hangover.
"Don't touch me," Ruthello said. His voice was calm, but there was something manic in his eyes, his fist swaying as he wiped the blood off. The other men leaned away from the table as guards hauled the unconscious man away.
Then someone said something funny and the tension was broken, the four remaining men laughing like nothing had happened.
"How are these clowns your biggest problem?" Red Hood whispered through his earpiece. "They're so wasted they'd mistake a bullet for a flower."
"Let's just say they didn't sign up to get this drunk," Nightwing answered through his own comm. It hadn't been hard to figure out which expensive bottles to lace—Ruthello would never open them without enjoying them himself. When in doubt, count on the hubris of lowlifes.
Red hood's helmet shook slowly on the other side of the rafters. "That's cold. Didn't figure you the type."
Nightwing almost laughed. Like lacing alcohol was the worst he'd done.
An older guard he didn't recognise stepped into the room. Instead of taking post, he marched right towards the laughing drug lords.
"Something's wrong, Boss," he said. He reached for the open bottle on the table, then held it upside down until the alcohol formed a puddle on the floor. This man was fearless, completely stupid, or insane. Or more likely, he just came from another location and hadn't realised yet just how badly his Boss took his alcohol.
Either way, this wouldn't end well.
Ruthello stared at the brown puddle on the ground. He slowly went red, his nostrils flaring like a bull's.
"The alcohol was laced," the guard said, "we found—"
A glint of silver and the man crumbled to the floor, his head a disgusting red paste on the concrete.
There it was.
"Who dares!" Ruthello screamed, his voice overpowering the gunshot echoing through the empty building. Then he finally made the mistake they'd been waiting for: he held up his still steaming handgun and yelled, "Get the fuck out! The next person to interfere gets it in the crotch!"
The guards didn't move, their gazes frozen on the dead man. Blood seeped out of the hole in his head, mixing with the alcohol.
Ruthello aimed and emptied his whole clip into another goon. His body slid against the wall like a wet paintbrush, his eyes blank before he hit the ground. He didn't get up.
Obviously.
The spell on the others broke, and they stumbled over each other to get to the exit. Ruthello threw his gun and shattered the window next to the door.
Then the four men were very drunk and very alone.
"Now," Nightwing said, and they dropped from the ceiling on opposite sides of the table. They hit the remaining four thugs unconscious, their faces hitting the table before they had time to turn around.
That happened embarrassingly quickly, considering they'd been waiting on these assholes for over an hour.
He couldn't complain, though. If he'd known Ruthello was this stupid piss drunk, he hardly would've bothered to call Red Hood in.
"Good Job," he said. "That was surprisingly easy."
Red Hood shook his head as he tied up the men on his side of the table. Nightwing had expected a quip, or at least a hum, but Jason was silent as zip-tied the criminal's thumbs together. Had he said something wrong? Had his brother taken the coffee thing seriously?
"Let's go," Jason said, slinging a man over each shoulder.
His brother was right—they shouldn't overstay their welcome. The guards could return any moment. So Dick hauled Ruthello and the remaining cousin over his shoulders and followed Jason outside.
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Fifteen minutes later they were back on the roof they met on, their cargo dropped off at the police station. Tomorrow, they would be the problem of Officer Grayson. Tonight, they would spend in an alcoholic coma.
Red Hood had removed his helmet, even though it was still early in the night. Too early for Nightwing to take off his mask.
Jason scratched his chin, his eyes shifting back and forth between Nightwing and the city behind him. "Wanna hang out?"
Nightwing stared at him. How much he'd had to beg for Red Hood to join him tonight, how much Jason kept hiding the location of his hideouts. And now he suddenly wanted to hang out?
Jason sighed. "Shit, that sounds bad after all this time, doesn't it? We can just patrol, if that's okay. I'll leave the launcher."
Dick gestured for him to stop talking. "You mean without the masks?"
Red Hood put his helmet back on. "You know what, never fucking mind. I have shit to do in Gotham, anyway." He moved to grapple away, but Dick caught his arm before he could shoot the line.
"No, you know I'd love to. I'm just… confused? Why now?"
"No reason," Jason said. His voice was sharp through the microphone in his helmet.
Oh, there definitely was a reason. Not that he needed to know to accept the offer. He'd been trying to get Jason more involved with the rest of the family ever since he returned from Spyral. Red Hood had seemed different from before. Like he might like some family.
But this was the first time Jason had offered anything this bluntly.
"Okay," Dick said. "let's 'hang'. What do the cool kids do these days?"
"You mean the homicidal drug lords?"
Dick smiled. "Same thing in Blüdhaven."
Jason barked out a laugh. "I know a place."
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To Dick's surprise, Jason actually took him to one of his hideouts. It was small but clean: Alfred would call it orderly, Bruce utilitarian. The only whimsical things were the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen counter, shaped like the Eiffel Tower and the Big Ben. s
There was no way Jason used this safe house regularly, though, since there wasn't a book in sight. Not even a classic stuffed behind his computer screen, a habit he'd developed to keep Alfred from returning his reads to the manor's library. Maybe he'd just grown out of the habit, but Dick doubted it.
They hadn't spent much time at the manor together, Dick already established in Blüdhaven when Jason came into Bruce's care. But whenever he sneaked back to Gotham to see Alfred, he always found Jason hidden inside an empty room with his nose buried in a book.
Alfred would tell him to read inside the library, to stop leaving old, fragile books in the damp Cave.
But Dick knew how some rooms inside the manor made you feel watched. The library was one of them, just like the upstairs gym. Logically, he knew there were cameras everywhere, that one empty room was no different from another—but that didn't take away the feeling of being watched.
So when he'd first spotted Jason, hidden in a tiny bedroom on the fourth floor, he knew he couldn't hate the kid. Not even if he'd stolen Robin.
"Nice place," Dick said.
Jason typed a code into the wall, making the door next to it slide open. He took off his helmet and threw it onto his couch, then pointed his thumb back towards the open door. "Shower's in there. Just choose some clothes from the pile on the counter—it's all clean, if dusty as hell."
He pulled out a bag of popcorn kernels."You want sweet or salty?"
Dick had never been this confused in his life. Sure, he and Jason had an understanding about patrolling, even some fun banter, but he didn't think for two seconds his brother considered him family. Not since becoming Red Hood.
And now they were going to eat popcorn at 3 a.m. and… what, exactly? Bond?
Jason must have some ulterior motive. Something he needed, like Bruce always did.
Maybe he needed Dick to get to Batman.
Maybe he needed Nightwing to take a break so he could shoot some rival drug lords in Blüdhaven.
Maybe that door went into a cell, somewhere to trap him so he could do both of those things.
When the silence dragged on, Jason sighed and grabbed the sugar.
Jason hated sweet things.
"Just take a break, Dickhead. If I wanted ya dead, you'd have a hole in your skull already."
Well. Nothing he could say to that.
Dick mumbled a sorry and moved past his brother. Sure enough, the other side of the door featured a bathroom. He peeled his costume off with his head hung low. Jason finally invited him over, and he repaid him by jumping to conclusions. Like his brother would ever do such horrible things.
He would, a tiny part of him whispered, but Dick turned the shower searing until the thought disappeared down the drain. He wasn't Bruce. He could trust people.
He could.
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Jason whistled when Dick came back freshly showered, cleaner but still feeling terrible.
"That's some nasty bruise you got there, Big Bird."
He'd almost forgotten he'd put on make-up that afternoon. Now the water had revealed the bruise in all of its purple glory, staining his chin, nose, and cheek. It wasn't pretty, but it wasn't anything special, either. They'd all had worse.
He caressed his cheek. "What, you don't like it?"
"Cut it out. You know you look like shit."
Dick deflated. "Yeah, okay."
Jason set down the bowl of gooey popcorn on his coffee table. It smelled like the circus. Haley's only ran their machines during shows, so even as a child, Dick rarely got to eat some. But the smell always lingered into the early hours, long after they'd retired to their trailers, the crack in the window above his bed making sugar stick to his tongue.
Jason couldn't have known, really. But it meant something.
After setting down the bowl, Jason went back to the kitchen to pull out a first-aid kit.
"You want something?" He asked, rattling a pill bottle.
Dick shook his head. "No painkillers." They made you vulnerable. Made you ignore your limits. And, as Batman had told his Robin one angry evening, pain is a good lesson for incompetence. That had been one of the rare quotes Bruce actually apologised for, but Dick had still taken it to heart.
They both sat on Jason's little couch, almost touching—there were no chairs except for the single barstool in the kitchen. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them touched the popcorn. Jason didn't even pop a beer, nor did he offer Dick anything. They just sat there, daring the other to speak first.
If Jason wanted something, he'd have to ask now. Dick was fine with playing scrabble or pictionary, hell, even I spy, but the way Jason just sat there meant he needed something, after all.
He hated it when the little voice inside his head was right.
Dick sighed when it was clear Jason wasn't going to speak up. "Why am I here? I have my own shower. I have my own food."
"You mean cereal?"
"Opposed to popcorn?"
"You like popcorn."
Dick gave his brother a look. "And you sure as hell don't. So tell me why I'm here, eating popcorn, when I had to leave thirteen messages just to get you to confirm a time to meet up tonight."
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. He had big hands, like Bruce's. Calloused like his, too. The similarities ended there.
"I'm just gonna get straight to the point," Jason said, "but what the fuck's wrong with you?"
Dick blinked. Not the angle he was expecting. "Apart from my charming personality?"
The whole couch moved when Jason shot up. "Can you, for once, stop fucking joking? I swear to god I'll unblock Bruce just to tell him about tonight if you don't start talking. Like, what the fuck."
"Language."
"Shove your language up your ass! Why the fuck would you call tonight easy?"
Now he was confused. Everything had gone smoothly tonight. Sure, they lost one cousin, but he'd been a minor yes-man. It wouldn't be much trouble to coral him later. All the working girls got out fine, too.
He said as much to Jason.
His brother stared at him. "I don't give a shit, but two of those assholes got murdered right in front of us. I thought Nightwing would cared about that, but then you just fucking smiled and… " Jason breathed out heavily.
"Did you even notice the goddamn blood you stepped in?"
Oh. Oh.
When he replayed the night, Jason's words made sense. That first shot had been straight through the eye, leaving a nasty hole in the back of the guard's skull. The second man hadn't even yelled, the first bullet hitting his throat, all the others just insult to injury as the wall behind him stained red.
It should've been traumatising, but Nightwing had joked around, cheerfully stepping in puddles of blood to get to his bounty. Dick glanced down at his feet, as if the blood was still there. He willed himself to feel some kind of regret or guilt, but there was nothing. Couldn't even remember the faces of the dead guards.
Something had changed in him at Spyral. Something he couldn't reverse.
"I'm sorry," Dick said, still looking at his feet. After his shower, he'd changed into some old clothes Jason had laid out, but now he regretted not putting his suit back on. He had no shoes and no coat. He'd left himself vulnerable.
"This isn't something you say fucking sorry for, you idiot. Fuck, Goldie. What the hell happened?"
What happened? He'd fucked up, that's what happened. He'd been so careful to hide who he'd become, especially around his family. But after two years of pretending he'd finally slipped, and he couldn't think of anything to say that would excuse this huge gap in his morality.
Before Jason could react, Dick grabbed his costume and locked himself back in the bathroom. He changed quickly, tuning out the banging on the other side of the door. When he was back in his gear he checked the entire room for a hidden exit. Knowing Jason, there had to be one. But also knowing Jason, he would never find it.
No, the only way out was through. So Nightwing took a deep breath, willed his aching ribs to quiet down, and unlocked the door.
"What the fuck—"
Dick pushed Jason aside and made a beeline for the door, but his brother grabbed his shoulder before he could escape.
"You're just going to run away?" he said. "What the hell?"
He couldn't talk about this with Jason. Would never dare to burden anyone in his family with his whining, even if they asked. They thought they wanted to know, but only because they didn't realise the scope of his sins. Things would never be the same if they found out his body count.
He had to get out before he forgot how to breathe.
Luckily, Jason was easily manipulated by his anger.
"Like you ran for three years?" Dick spat back. "I don't owe you an explanation for shit. And half the time, you're the one pulling the trigger, so don't pretend you fucking care."
Jason let go as if burned, making Dick stumble through the door. He hadn't expected his brother to give up this quickly, had already braced for a fight. Still he caught himself and kept going, forcing his legs to move as he disappeared into the night.
Whatever words had made Jason let go, he was grateful for them.
