A/N: heyyyy so sorry about not updating for a while. I have no excuse other than the fact that uploading to FFN much more of a hassle than doing it on AO3 X) The story is up to chapter 16 there now, so feel free to hop over if you're curious about what's going to happen next.
Anyway hope you guys like it!
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Dick's hand flinched around his pen when Mac slapped him on the back. Hot liquid dripped between his fingers onto the report he was writing, another popped blister from yesterday. He should've pricked them all this morning, but there was something satisfying about not knowing when they'd break.
The sting grounded him in the present.
"Vacation's over, isn't it, rookie? You're going to be catching up on paper for a while," Mac said, slapping him on the back two more times. Like not sitting at his desk meant he'd taken a vacation. Even with everything that had happened the last month, he still filled in more paperwork at his coffee table than Mac did at the station.
Dick had only come in today to snatch the last of his Ruthello files, but then Redhorn had walked in and forced him to finish at his desk.
"I want everything in my office by the end of today," he had said with a smug smile on his face, "or I'm declaring evidence you keep squirrelled away stolen."
Like Dick didn't keep evidence in his apartment for that exact reason.
When he worked at his desk reports disappeared. 'Accidental' coffee spills destroyed evidence. Even now, Mac peeked over his shoulder to see what he was writing.
"What'd you do?" He asked when he saw Dick's hands. "That looks damn painful."
Dick laid down his pen and stretched out his palms, giving Mac a full look of the angry blisters trailing up his fingers. Some of them wept freely, others already popped and pulsed red with infection. Hiding them would only be suspicious.
"Spilled soup all over them yesterday," he said. "Paperwork's going to be a pain for a while."
Dave scoffed from the other side of the room, his feet crossed on his desk. "Only Grayson would worry about his damn pen over his gun." He pulled his handgun from his side and twirled it around.
"At least I don't treat my weapon like a toy."
Dave aimed, giving Dick a good look down the barrel. "Naïve brat."
Dick tensed, even though the safety was on. He'd seen things go wrong millions of times—the holes in the corkboard behind him said enough. Gunsafety was only a suggestion in the BPD.
"If you can't write, I'll trade you my interrogation for your paperwork," Mac said. "I got those fags from the theatre in the other room and Chief says we can't let them leave until they drop charges."
"They were robbed and assaulted," Dick said as he covered his Ruthello file from Mac's eyes.
"And why the fuck should we care?" Dave asked as he played with his gun. "That Ebony kid basically has his own cell, and those thieves already sailed out of port. There ain't no way Redhorn's gonna call around to find 'em."
Another time, Dick would've taken the case himself. Ivory and Lea certainly deserved his protection, and it wouldn't be hard to find Braid and her masked clowns, even if they gave the police the slip. The BPD didn't make slipping very hard, after all. His colleagues found work that didn't include waving their guns around insulting.
But he couldn't take anything new when he was ending everything in a few days.
"I kind of want to finish this," Dick said as Dave kept twisting his gun, his finger right next to the trigger. The safety was on. The safety had to be on.
His palms stung. Right. The blisters. He relaxed his hands.
"Sucking his cock won't make Chief like you," Mac said. He reached for the papers on Dick's desk. "How about you let me—"
"Fuck off, Mac," Dick said, pulling the case files closer. "Go bother someone else."
The corners of Mac's mouth pulled down. "Take it easy, rookie. I'm only trying to help."
"We graduated in the same fucking class, Mac." This was why he preferred his coffee table over his desk.
The soles of Dave's feet shook on his desk as he laughed, and Mac slowly turned red, his jaw tensing.
"Whatever," he said, stomping out of the room. Bullies never could take their own medicine.
Dick never could've been this blunt if he wasn't handing in his resignation at the end of the week. All he still needed his badge for was to send copies of all his files to Commissioner Gordon. The man wouldn't be able to do much from Gotham, but at least there'd be someone with all the pieces if Redhorn decided to 'lose' them.
A man stepped out of Redhorn's office. Slightly overweight, couldn't be past thirty. His black suit made his pale skin look sickly, and he had a crooked, recently broken nose.
Dick looked down at the list of names in his case file. Nickname: Cosey. Actual name: Franco Costa. Ruthello's cousin, the very same that had escaped Red Hood and Nightwing by being punched in the face. The photo was a perfect match.
Great. Just great.
Cosey said goodbye to Redhorn with a smug smile, hands in his pockets as he sauntered past their desks.
The reason Dick had gone after Ruthello was that his gang was new and without connections, which meant he'd actually stay in custody until his people could gather enough cash to pay off Redhorn. They shouldn't have been able to get enough for another few weeks, but by the satisfied look on Redhorn's face, they'd struck a deal, anyway.
Cosey nodded to them as he vanished through the front door.
Dick put his paperwork in his desk, locking the cabinet. There was no way he could let the man leave like that. Not when he had his criminal record lying on his desk.
"You better not go make trouble," Dave said, twisting his gun around his finger. He stared at Dick with a silent challenge.
Dick put on his police jacket, careful to not brush his sensitive hands against the fabric inside the sleeves. "Your safety's off."
Dave swore and dropped his gun. After a few tense seconds he yelled, "No it ain't, you shit—"
Dick closed the door behind him.
Cosey black tuxedo wasn't hard to follow. He stalked towards the docks, every turn taking them further into shaded alleys where Dick's uniform received hard stares. People clasped handguns in their pockets as he passed, daring him to try something.
Still, Cosey didn't notice him as he stalked towards the dockyard, presumably returning to the warehouse his gang owned.
Maybe Dick should've done this as Nightwing, but that blank had ruined his suit, and he didn't have any spares at his apartment, Plus, if he arrested the man in broad daylight, Redhorn would have no choice but to put Cosey with the others long enough for him to submit enough evidence to get a court date.
Cosey curved into another alleyway. When Dick turned the corner, the man faced him from the other end, half cast in the darkness of the tall buildings that enclosed the space.
"I have a deal with your boss," he said, pulling at the collar of his shirt. "So if you want to get your paycheck, I suggest you scram." So much for going unnoticed.
Dick stepped forward, and Cosey backed up three steps.
"You're under arrest, Costa," Dick said as he took another step forward. There was no sign the man was armed or planning to shoot, but if he ran, he'd still have to grab his gun. Hopefully, Cosey wasn't an idiot.
"Let's not make this more difficult than it has to be."
Before either of them could move, a light flickered on top of the roof. A calico cat jumped from one fire escape to another, the silver pendant on their collar catching the light. When it reached the other side the metal shook, then broke away.
The cat plummeted to the ground.
Dick didn't think. He jumped on the nearest trash can, ran up the wall and caught the animal mid-air. It hissed and squirmed against his chest, ruining his already broken hands. Its claws raked across his chest as he dropped it to the ground, cutting three lines straight through the burn on his chest.
Dick buckled over and retched as the animal disappeared through Cosey's legs, his broken hands digging into the rough concrete. A few scratches shouldn't hurt like this. They shouldn't. He pressed his nails into the burn, as if making it worse would make it better.
Maybe he could pull out his heart and be done with this.
"You ain't normal," Cosey said, his eyes wide as he stared down at Dick. Then he ran.
Fuck.
Dick forced himself to his feet, digging his fingers into his palms to stop them from going numb. He raced after the man, stumbling between the tall warehouses of the dockyard, slamming into brick as his momentum carried him forward during brutal turns. Cosey wasn't fast, but he didn't look back and tipped every trash can he passed.
Stupid fucking cat. What was he going to do? He could hardly dump Cosey in a cell after giving him a good look at those acrobatics.
Cosey ran up the iron footbridge that crossed the train tracks, skipping steps as he pulled himself up on the railing.
An opening. Dick grind his teeth and grabbed onto the railing, ignoring the pain in his palms as he shot himself upward. He landed on the top step, grabbed Cosey's tie, and yanked.
The man slammed on his back, the old bridge ringing under his weight. He gasped for air and clawed at his neck.
God, what was he going to do? He could pass it off as being into gymnastics, with his past in the circus as an alibi, but if Cosey did any research, he'd be quick to find out the shit he just pulled was something gold medalists struggled with.
And that was before he chased him down in broad daylight and assaulted him.
He clawed at the hole in his chest. What if Cosey found out he was Nightwing? It wouldn't take long to track his name back to Gotham, back to the Waynes. Back to Cass, Tim, Damian, Bruce, maybe even Jason.
"You're no cop," Cosey said as he pulled himself up against the ornate railing and tore at the knot of his tie.
Dick grabbed him by the collar, biting through the pain pulsing in his fingers. His hands couldn't afford to disobey now.
"I am," Dick said, "and you're under arrest."
Cosey laughed, his torso dead weight in Dick's grip as he relaxed. "So you're one of them with morals. Thank God."
"There is no them."
Cosey's eyes raked over him. "Which one of 'em was in Blüdhaven again? Nightstar? Bluewing?"
"Stop playing," Dick said, his heart pounding against his chest. He pushed the man against the railing. "Being able to do a few flips doesn't make me a vigilante."
"I've seen that video on TikTok," Cosey spat out. "Black hair, mid-twenties, fit." He smiled. "How do you like your coffee, officer?"
God. God fucking damn it.
Breathe. He had this man's whole family in custody, could hack into his bank and make his assets melt like snow. Could make him watch over his shoulder every minute of every day.
He knew how to destroy people without killing them.
But all of those things required him to be here, and he was so tired of the constant circus, the constant fight between what's easy and what's right. He'd never forgive himself if he left behind such a leak, but he couldn't bear staying, either.
Cosey might have to pay for Dick's mistake.
"Listen to me," Dick said, pushing the man's neck past the railing. "Whatever you think you know isn't worth messing up your life over."
Cosey smiled. "As long as Nightwing keeps out of our business, I won't need to tell anyone."
Dick pushed the man further into the abyss, his feet leaving the ground. Cosey's hands trembled as he held on to the bridge, his expression a lot less sure than before.
One of them with morals. What a joke.
"You'll rot in prison and hammer plates until you're eighty," Dick said. "After you'll get out, I'll make sure you'll have nothing. I'll do the same for all your buddies, too. You think your boss will let you live if he rots because of you?"
"You do any of that shit and I'll open my mouth."
Dick grabbed the man's neck with both hands. Cosey's fingers slipped off the railing, and he grabbed onto Dick's wrists, a panicked expression on his face. "Let me down."
"Promise me your silence."
The man gasped for air. "Suits don't kill."
"You won't die from this height," Dick said as he adjusted his grip. His hands had become numb and unresponsive, but he clenched every muscle in his control to keep Cosey dangling above the train tracks. If he wanted to spare his life, he'd have to scare him so thoroughly the thought of talking would make him a quivering mess.
"You could easily break your back on those rails, though. Would be a shame if no one found you before the next train heads out."
"Nightwing doesn't do shit like that!"
"Nightwing doesn't," Dick said. "But I'm just another crooked cop, aren't I?"
Cosey made a strangled noise. Why wasn't he giving up? How did this criminal have more faith in him than had in himself? If this went on much longer, he'd have no choice but to kill the man.
The worst part was that the stupid cat would've just landed on its feet. But the image had been too familiar: its graceful jump halted, disbelief freezing its body as an action they took thousands of times betrayed it.
When his parents' lines snapped, they'd frozen the same way. They hadn't looked down—instead their eyes found his high in the big top, mouthing sorry like he was the victim.
Like watching their bodies break was worse than dying.
Grayson stared at the cliff on the other side of the canyon. A dozen men and women in military uniform backed away from the heat behind them, fire from the drone-strike on their base eating away at the forest.
The strike hadn't meant to kill anyone. It'd just destroyed their storage depot, where they'd been hiding illegal weaponry. But these people had chosen the wrong way to flee, trapping themselves between the flames and the abyss.
Grayson could do nothing but watch them pull at their hair, hug and cry. Their helicopter would crash if they flew it close enough for a rescue. The gap between the cliffs was too wide to get ropes across, and too steep to climb down.
The first man jumped.
Grayson turned and puked into the grass. Palm wiping his mouth, he forced his eyes back toward the fire. It was important to watch. He'd done this. The least he could do was look these people in the eye for their final decision. Find out their names and add them to his list.
Make sure he wouldn't forget their faces.
"Falling isn't a bad way to go," Tiger said as the man vanished into the canyon. "The drop doesn't hurt, and when you hit, it is over with a snap."
Two more people jumped, fire licking their heels. A woman pulled her vest over her head and sprinted back into the fire.
"Much better than the flames," Tiger finished.
Grayson knew what it felt like to be on fire. Every nerve the heat touched screaming hot, cold, pain. Adrenaline slowing time until every second lasted a century. Skin melting between his fingers, heavy clothes sticking to his body like they're water-logged, the taste of burning meat and plastic scorching his tongue.
Yes. He'd rather jump, too.
Something grabbed his chest, fire exploding from his burned skin. He ignored a muffled scream as he let go of the weight in his hands to swipe the pressure away from his chest.
Cosey held on to his shirt until it ripped, a look of disbelief on his face as he toppled past the railing.
Then his neck hit the tracks and snapped.
Dick stared down at Cosey's corpse, nothing more than a pawn in his uncle's empire. As far as he knew, the man had never even shot a gun.
He hadn't meant to drop him. Even then, he wasn't lying when he said the fall was unlikely to kill him. Who dies falling from a height less than a floor?
And God, why was he so relieved?
Dick stumbled towards the other side of the bridge and retched over the railing, his empty stomach heaving dry. He just killed a man, and his first reaction had been relief.
Relief.
Fucking relief.
If that didn't tell him he was broken, nothing could.
He had to get it together. Right now he was officer Grayson, the white shirt below his blazer ripped at his chest, a body laying on the train tracks with his DNA below his fingernails.
Become someone who can deal.
He squeezed the railing until letting go wouldn't make him collapse, then jumped down and crouched next to Cosey. Unlike his parents, the man's body was whole, the kink in his neck the only proof he was dead and not unconscious.
Breathe.
First: check for witnesses. No security cameras, and the buildings that flanked the bridge and train tracks were windowless warehouses. He'd have to do a digital sweep when he had access to his glove computer.
Against everything, he yearned for his Hypnos implant: if he'd still had it, Cosey could've just forgotten what he saw before he had to become collateral.
For the first time in years, Dick pressed against his temple. The skin was smooth.
Moving on.
Second: getting rid of the evidence. Without his Nightwing suit, he had no way to remove his DNA from Cosey's hands, so getting rid of the evidence meant getting rid of the body.
He hoisted the corpse over his shoulder, the weight hauntingly familiar, sharp cologne forcing him to breathe through his mouth.
Third: clear the crime scene. This one was easy. Once Dick dragged his feet through the indent in the gravel below the tracks, it was like nothing ever happened.
There was only one way to dump a body in Blüdhaven: he took three turns away from the bridge and dropped Cosey in the harbour. In a few days he would float to the surface, any trace of Dick's DNA scrubbed away. Someone would fish him out and look for an ID, or they wouldn't. The water didn't care either way. There had to be a hundred Coseys down there.
Dick looked the corpse in the eye as it sank. Each murder was supposed to be easier than the last, but this deep shame and hollowness of knowing you ended someone's life never lessened.
Cosey's face would keep him awake just the same.
Dick stood at the water's edge until the horizon bled red. Even then, his feet refused to return to the police station. He blinked and found himself turning the key to his apartment, cold metal hurting between his fingers. He sank into his couch without changing, too drained to do anything but stare at the wall.
It felt like only days ago Tim had sat here, balancing two laptops and ranting about toothpaste. Now, not even the mess made his apartment feel lived in.
His neighbour's TV whispered through the wall. " …a message from… …Wayne… "
Dick stared at his own shut-down TV, dust gathering on the screen.
He shouldn't. Didn't deserve to see his family, even if it was through a screen. It was just an announcement from Wayne Industries, or a photo of Brucie Wayne with another scandalously clad woman.
" …youngest… "
Screw it. He dug for the remote through the mess on the floor and turned on the TV.
Bruce sat in front of a microphone, the Wayne Industries logo in the background.
" …my decision to pull Damian out of school has nothing to do with Gotham Academy."
Dick froze.
"As a proud alumnus, it was natural for me to enrol Damian just like his siblings, but he has expressed it isn't a good fit for him. I see no issues with listening to his needs, as long as his education doesn't suffer. He was homeschooled before coming into my custody and still grew into a remarkable young man, after all."
No, it couldn't be.
But he knew this script.
"What do we do now?" Dick asked.
"We send the press a prerecorded message stating Bruce decided to take a trip to the Bahamas," Tim said as he typed on the Cave's computer. "That'll give us some time to figure this out."
"And then what? We're just going to fake a plane crash? A shark attack? Food poisoning?"
"A scuba-diving accident, actually," Tim said. "That'd be protocol if he was, you know, really dead."
"Don't joke."
Tim shot him a look. "You know we have deepfakes to pull all of us out of school or work—we can't risk anyone putting two and two together. Bruce can't disappear at the same time as Batman."
Bruce smiled at the camera. "Damian and I will use the rest of this semester for a much deserved trip to Egypt."
No.
