The Boys in Blue
Story 10: Happy Death Day To You: Part 2
Standing atop the GCPD beside Commissioner Gordon and the Batsignal, Robin's gut churned apprehensively. He starred down at two small parcels wrapped in green and purple paper, neatly tied off with bright red bows, and addressed to two people he knew rather well. Neither was for him. There was one for Batman and one for Red Hood, or as was written on the hand-scrawled card, Robin the Sequel. Below the names was written "Happy Death Day" in brownish red ink.
Joker.
Tim hadn't been Robin for long, barely over a year, but he was smart enough to know better than to attempt dealing with the Clown Prince of Crime on his own. But Batman was out of town. He was due back tonight—the tracking beacon indicated that the Batplane was less than two hours out—but with the Joker on the loose, that might be too long.
"Robin the Sequel, huh," said Gordon. He tapped an unlit cigar against the fingers of his opposite hand. A tell. He was worried. "Heard a rumor he was back from the dead."
"Rumor has it," said Robin. He hopped he didn't give too much away.
"I take it the Big Man is still away," said Gordon.
Robin forced himself to exude confidence he did not feel. "Yeah. But Nightwing and Red Hood are just across the river in Bludhaven. They'll know what to do."
Gordon shook his head. "Not sure they're up for it. Nightwing maybe. But who's to say the Red Hood won't slit your throat? Sounds like a dangerous plan, kid. Maybe you should just wait for your boss."
Robin winced at Gordon's implied reference to the time Jason had almost done away with him on a very permanent basis. "Hood's not so bad. He's got a mean streak sure, but he's one of the good guys."
"I don't know, kiddo. But I want you to promise me…promise…you won't do anything stupid. Wait for Batman to handle this. Joker's already killed one Robin. I'll never forgive the bat if he lets it happen again." There was a hardness in Gordon's face that rooked no argument.
Nodding in acquiescence, Robin clipped the two packages to his belt. He was suppressing his curiosity and the urge to open the packages himself, but only barely. "I promise. But I don't promise not to involve Wing and Hood."
"I don't want the Red Hood in my city," Gordon said firmly, "last time he was here, he blew up the Melanie Building just to take out Black Mask."
"He won't be a problem," Robin promised. He fired a grappling line at the top of a nearby office complex. "You have my word." He smirked. "We're tight these days."
And then he was off. Back to the Batcave where Batman had left the Batmobile, and luckily, the keys.
Jason Todd pulled a brown motorcycle jacket over his black armored bodysuit and readjusted the lapels. He looked down at the puppy who'd followed him into his room. She stared up at him from the middle of his laundry basket.
"Behave while I'm gone," he warned, "no chewin' my shoes, no peein' in my laundry, no goin' near the windows…"
He heard the grating of wood against wood and a sudden gust of chilly air burst through the livingroom window. Hopeful that Nightwing had come back on his own, Jason stalked out of the bedroom intent on throttling the guy for being dumb enough to go out on Death Day. Jason would admit—if only to himself—that he was superstitious.
But it wasn't Nightwing's head that popped through the window. It was Robin's. Tim drake stood in the middle of the unkempt livingroom in full Robin regalia, looking pensive and uncertain. Jason's stomach squeezed painfully.
"What are you doing here Nerd Wonder?" he demanded. The kid forced himself to remain calm, but the effort was visible. Uh oh.
"I need your help, guys," said Robin turning to him, then sweeping the rest of the apartment "…uhh…where's Dick?"
Jason scoffed, "probably parading his spandex clad ass around the Haven."
Robin pulled a face. "We've got a situation back in Gotham. The Joker's up to something. He left you a present."
To Jason's horror, the kid held out a neatly wrapped package with a bright red bow on the top and a handwritten card addressed to him. He took the package reluctantly, forcing himself not to recoil from the offending object. His hands didn't shake, but it was a near thing. This was what he'd been dreading. This was why he liked to drink today away. This cut right down into all the hurt he'd buried and made it bleed again.
"I'm sorry I brought this here, but B's out of town and I thought it might be a matter of life and death. I thought maybe you…" Robin was rambling. Something he never did unless he was out of his mind with nerves. Jason suspected that his reaction to the Joker's little present was putting the kid over the edge.
Guess I've got to take care of everyone else on my Death Day. So much for wallowing in my whisky. Thanks a lot, you bunch of assholes.
Out loud, Jason pulled out his 'cop voice'. He was only mildly surprised to discover that he even had a cop voice. "You done right, Shortie. Musta' been temptin' to open my mail for me, though."
"I thought you might kill my if I did."
Robin had meant it as a joke, but it kinda stung. Because Jason really didn't want the kid dead. And certainly not tonight. Maybe he could convince Tim to take the night off.
"Place your bets gentlemen! Dose this thing blow up in our face or does it just release a toxic gas," Jason joked darkly.
"Please don't let it blow up in our faces," said Robin. He crossed his fingers as Jason cautiously pealed back the paper.
"Get behind me," Jason ordered.
After a second's hesitation, Robin reluctantly complied.
Jason tugged his helmet over his head before pulling a little purple CD player from the box. It was a piece of equipment that had once been 'cool' back in the early 2000's. Jason remembered having one when he was a kid; he'd played Manheim Steamroller CD's on it back in the day. Funny to think the thing that had once given him so much comfort now terrified him right down to his core. But then such was his life. Without another recourse, Jason set the player down on the coffee table and hit play.
A recording of the Joker's voice sent a chill down Jason's spine as the mad clown began to sing. "Happy Death Day to you, Happy Death Day to you, Happy Death Day dear Robin twooooOoooo, Happy Death Day to you! From your dear Uncle Joker," He cackled something awful. "You know, I asked your brother—Nightwing is your brother isn't he?—I asked Bluebird if he wanted to help me sing to you, but he just kept making this sound instead…"
A crack followed by a low moan cut over the recording. Then a second. Then a sharp gasp of pain.
The Joker continued. "See? His singing voice is terrible! You sang much better." Joker cackled again. "But enough about Nightwing. The is about you, Robin the Sequel…or should I call you Red Hood?...Either way, I'm just here to give you a nice little Death Day present. It would just be rude of me not to remember, you know. Anyhoo, this is my present: I'm going to do everything I did you your brother here, see. And then weren't gonna wait and see if Batman saves him. Or he doesn't save him, if Batman will come and kill me. All your questions are about to be answered, Robin Two! Who does big bat Bat-dad love most? You, Nightwing, or me?"
"Don't worry about me Hood," said Nightwing's voice in the background, "just make sure you and Robin stay clear. I'll get myself…"
"You're ruining my fun!"
Another sickening crack sounded off on the recording, but all other sounds were drowned out by the Joker's maniacal laughter. "Happy Death Day, Bird Boy! I hope you like your present!"
The recording went dead.
Bright blue electricity shot from the CD player. But Jason has been smart enough not to hold the thing, and the currents dissipated harmlessly into the table.
"So…do you know what that all means?" asked Robin cautiously into the quiet of the apartment.
Jason was grateful that he'd put his helmet on because he was pretty sure he'd scare the kid with the acid blood in his voice and the contorted pain on his face. "Yeah, kid. I do."
"So, we're going after Wing, right? We can't wait for B."
Jason didn't answer. He ground his teeth. Stalking over to the stubby bookshelf in the corner, Jason slid a rusty crowbar out from behind his stash of old classic Jane Austin, Mark Twain, Middleton, and Shakespeare books. He slid the ominous weapon into an empty loop on his belt and opened the window. Paused on the windowsill, he looked back at Robin who watched him with an almost shell-shocked expression.
There was no way in hell Jason was going to risk getting Robin hurt. Not again. Nobody else. Even if Batman was willing to risk it, he wasn't. "Stay here, kid," Jason told him, "you'll be safe as you're gonna get. Relay the Joker's message to Bats. Maybe he'll show up since it's Dick n' all."
"I'm coming with you," Robin declared. He took a step forward, afraid but determined.
"You're not."
"I am. If you don't let me go with you, then I'll follow you on my own. Batman needs a Robin, and Red Hood needs a Nightwing. But since Nightwing isn't here, I'll have to do. Nobody flies alone. That's how we get hurt." Robin put a thin but strong hand on his bicep and tilted his chin so that Jason could see he meant every word. "I can't let you get yourself hurt."
Jason swallowed the sob in his throat before he spoke. "And I can't let you get hurt by coming with me. Don't you see? This never would have happened if it wasn't for me. I'm the problem! I'm the poison. If you get too close to me, you're going to die. Just like…JB, and…"
"No!" The conviction in Robin's voice surprised him. "Don't you see? Joker caught Nightwing because you weren't there. You guys are a team. You're not responsible for getting him hurt! You're the one who's got his back."
"Robin!"
"Shut up, Jason! I don't know all the details, but you and B really are idiots if you think we're better off without you." Robin forced his way onto the windowsill beside Jason. "I don't know what we are to each other, but I do know that I used to talk to your grave ever night when I first became Robin. And I'll be damned if I have to go back to that creepy habit."
Robin squeezed past Jason and jumped out into the night. Shocked, and still fumbling with the un-processable images flipping through his head, it took the Red Hood a moment to get his bearings. God, this is not a good night to be staging a rescue. But there was a job to be done, and a brother to save.
"At least make sure you relay that message to Butt-man," Red Hood shouted after Robin as he fired his grappling gun.
"Already on it," Robin called from ahead.
"We don't even know where we're going!" Hood pointed out.
"That's your job. I'm just going along for back-up."
"I thought you were supposed to be some sort of genius!"
"GPS signal is gone. Wing always says you're the best tracker in the family. This one's on you if we're gonna get there in time."
A job to be done indeed.
"[Incoming message from Robin B-05]"
"Computer, play message," ordered Batman.
The Batplane's computer acknowledged. "[Message from Robin B-05 now playing]"
A block of ice seemed to condense in Batman's stomach when the Jokers voice—not Tim's—came over the cockpit speakers.
"Good evening, Batsy. Dear Uncle Joker here, just wanted to let you know you're part of Robin the Sequel's Death Day present. See, I'm getting the Red Hood the thing he's always wanted; a chance to find out who you love most. Do you love him most, or me most. Or what about Nightwing?...Here's the deal Batman, I've got Bluebird here in the same predicament your second kid was in—just you know, not all the way out in Ethiopia—and you've got the same chance to save him as you did Red Hood. Robin and Hood will undoubtably try to rescue Nightwing first, you understand. Too bad they'll probably run in just in time to get blown up themselves. So who do you save, Batman? Who do you love most?"
The recording cut out.
With steady hands, Batman flipped several controls on the Batplane's cockpit dashboard, and the small craft shot forward at a much quicker speed. He only hoped it was enough to get there in time.
It'll have to be.
Batman refused to think of what the recording meant. Refused to think of all the mistakes he'd make with Jason that had led up to this situation. Why did everyone need to know who he loved most? Why did everything have to be ranked?
But most importantly, he refused to think of what might happen should he fail get back to Gotham in time. If he didn't make it in time, there was an even money chance he'd lose all three of his protegee's in one fell swoop. He'd like to say he had faith in them. He'd like to say he thought they could all save each other. But he'd stopped believing in that sort of thing since Jason died. Better to plan for the worst than to hope for the best.
"Computer, pull up an image list and blueprints of all the warehouses in Gotham. Prioritize by size: 500 square ft and expand," he ordered. If the joker was to be believed, and he really was recreating the events of Jason's death, then he'd be willing to bet that he'd find Dick in the warehouse most like the one his second son had died in. Joker was predictable like that, poetic parallels and drama were part of his MO.
The computer complied, and Batman was sifting through the possibilities within seconds. In less than a minute, he had a short list of favorites: a small 500 square foot warehouse on the wharf used by the Salvation army, a Red Cross warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley, and a slightly larger one on Lower Camelot Street that had once belonged to the Marines. If he had to go with his gut, then he'd pick the Salvation Army warehouse; they were working with a small settlement on the boarder between Ethiopia and Byalia. That seemed…sadly appropriate.
With a specified destination in mind, Batman reangled the plane.
Hang in there, boys. I'm coming.
"Which hurts more, forehand? Or back hand?"
Cackling like the demented clown he was, the Joker tested out his prowess with a crowbar. Already concussed but impressively away of his surroundings, Nightwing was more preoccupied with the part where he was about to get blown up. The Joker had already broken his tailbone—at least he was distantly certain it was broken—which was going to make walking hell. That said, he was pretty sure he could make it to the forklift in the back. Then he could drive out in style. That would be epic.
Would have been nice if Jason had given him more details about what he went through. Might have come in handy right about now. Weird thoughts. Dick always had weird thoughts when his brain was rattling around in his head. They always made sense to him though…as crazy and often insensitive as they were.
"Huh?" said the Joker above him, "must have gotten rusty. I can tell you're not paying attention."
"Sorry, was I supposed to?" asked Nightwing. Not directly provoking the Joker, but then not exactly playing along either.
Joker leaned in close. "You know, your little brother was so much more fun to play with. At least he had some spark in him. You're just a regular party pooper. When I hit him like this…" he swung the crowbar hard at Nightwing's left shoulder blade, "at least he reacted."
Nightwing spat blood in Joker's face at the mention of Jason. "You touch him again and I'll kill you again. That's a promise."
"Ooo-hoo-hoo!" cheered Joker, "there it is! You know, other Robin did that exact thing. Now I can see how you two are related. Batman should have raised you better. That's no way to treat your Uncle Joker." His voice became lower and much more dangerous. "It's just rude."
The crowbar came down on Nightwing again. But this time, he was paying attention.
I'm sorry Jase. I'm so sorry.
Robin stood beside Red Hood atop Gotham City's most exclusive Yacht Club. The wind chill coming in off the water was almost unbearable and his lips were starting to numb. But Robin's inability to pronounce words properly was not the problem. The problem was that the Joker had taken Nightwing hostage for the sake of pulling off one of the greatest mind-fucks in the history of mind-fucks. And Red Hood wasn't on top of his game. He was distracted and only hanging onto his composure by the skin of his teeth.
Which was terrifying by the way. Red Hood still scared him on a good day. If Hood was irrational and unreasonable when Nightwing was right there to keep him in line, then Robin really didn't want to know what would happen when he was left to his own devices. Which is one of the reasons he'd risked life and limb by following the second Robin on this little mission. That, and because Hood really did need the back up. Just on the way to Gotham, the guy had pulled three near suicide stunts on his motorcycle. It was Robin's self-appointed job to save Red Hood from himself. That they'd save Nightwing, he had no doubt.
"So you're sure he's in that one?" Robin pointed at a little Salvation Army warehouse in the near distance, tucked behind a stack of sea cans, and just at the edge of a cracked asphalt parking lot only big enough for a few trucks.
"It's as good a guess as I've got," said Red Hood, already getting ready to leap off the top of the yacht club onto the roof of a semi below.
"You guess?" Robin repeated incredulously. "I thought you were…"
"Look Rob, we don't have time to do this right. Every second we wait is a second ticking down on the Joker's bomb. Wing'll be dead before we get there."
Red Hood jumped. Robin followed. "Won't do Wing any good if we get ourselves blown up," he pointed out. "What if Joker set up decoys? What if we're walking into a trap?"
"Then you stay here, and I'll get Wing myself."
And I thought Dick was reckless. "Hood, I want Nightwing back as much as you do—guy's like my big brother—but you can't just go running in there without a plan!"
"I have a plan," Red Hood slid the crowbar out of a loop on his belt, "free Wing, and lock the Joker up with his own bomb."
"That's not a plan," Robin squeaked, scandalized.
"It's a work in progress then."
Red Hood sprinted down the boardwalk towards the warehouse. It wasn't far. Robin ran after him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Red Hood was running headlong into danger. Would have thought he'd learned his lesson after the last time. It was an uncreatable thought perhaps, but Batman had it drilled into Tim's head that he needed to approach things much more critically. Of the two of them, Robin was the only one scanning the wharf for trip wires and booby traps as they ran over the uneven ground at top speed.
The warehouse exploded right before their eyes, not even 10 yards away. The boom was deafening, almost skull splitting, drowning out the screams of innocent city dwellers and all else. The sky lit up, turning the clouds a luminescent gray, blotting out the dim stars and flickering streetlamps. Bright red and yellow flames erupted into the night, debris and shrapnel rained down from above, the acrid smell of smoke filled the air.
Red Hood hit the ground hard. He collided with a heavy armored body—or rather that body collided with him—trapping him between a protective layer of Kevlar and the concrete. Something, or someone, had tackled him to the ground a split second before he would have been blown off his feet by a flying piece of corrugated steel. He was momentarily confused. Disoriented might have been a better word. What or who…
"Get off me!" Hood snapped.
"Jason…"
Though barely audible, the voice was deep and gruff, and achingly familiar. Forcing his shaken head to focus, Hood realized that Batman was sprawled protectively over him and Robin, using his own body as a shield from falling bits of the warehouse.
Batman saved him. Batman chose to save him. His elation, something that would have been more euphoric a couple years ago when he was still in the throws of his Pit Madness, crashed just as quickly as it had come up. Because while Batman was busy save him and Robin, nobody saved Nightwing. Batman left his brother in that warehouse to die. Nauseating anger, fear, and hatred build up inside him until his body shook with the force of it.
"Get off me!" Hood shouted again. He couldn't hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears, but he was sure he sounded menacing. At least, he hoped so.
Batman moved just enough for Red Hood to forcibly extricate himself from the protective Kevlar prison. He pushed himself to his feet, slightly unsteady on his feet, head still clouded with emotions and adrenaline induced instincts. He made a move to run towards the smoking ruins, hellbent on finding his brother's smoking body.
A hand clamped around his wrist and held him back. "Don't," Batman warned, even as he himself made ready to endanger himself in the roiling flames that engulfed what was left of the warehouse.
Angrily, Jason tried to shake him off. "That's my big brother in there, you colossal dick!"
"Jason…"
"Take your hands off me!"
"It's not safe."
As if to underscore the truth of Batman's words, a large support beam crashed inwards. What was left of the warehouse's western wall collapsed. But Red Hood didn't care. For all they knew, Nightwing was still alive, if only barely, and there might be time yet to save him. If was a fool's hope, part of Hood's brain told him, but a fool's hope was the only thing that help him going.
"Let GO!" Hood tried to yank his arm away again. "If you don't care to save him, I do."
Batman's stoic face contorted into something ugly. Hood knew he'd scored a hit. "I care."
"Like hell you do!" Hood shouted. "Ya know, I used to think you really cared about Wing, that you'd save him even if you couldn't be bothered to save me, but now I know I was wrong."
"You're hyperventilating. Take a breath."
Red Hood couldn't understand what Batman was doing. Why was he still here with them when Nightwing was still buried somewhere in the warehouse? Why wouldn't he just let him go? Why were they all playing Joker's game?
Pulling a back-handed twisting move he learned from Nightwing, Red Hood wrenched himself free of Batman's grip on his arm only to be pulled into a crushing embrace. He thrashed mindlessly in Batman's hold. He wasn't thinking and even his fight or flight instincts we clouded and disoriented. Nothing made sense. Everything hurt.
The universe had taken everything from him. And just when I thought I had nothing left to lose.
"Easy Jason," said Batman. "Easy."
"Don't you get it! Nightwing is…"
"Take a breath."
"Why didn't you save him?"
"I tried."
"No you didn't!"
"I did. But I also had to save you and Robin."
"You didn't!"
"I did."
Red Hood shook his head vehemently. With his arms trapped at his sides and his whole body squeezed into Batman's stronghold, it was the only part of him that could really move. "We would have been fine! We never would have made it into the warehouse in time to get blown up…you should have…we never would have made…"
"I was too late," said Batman, his voice raspier than Hood could ever remember hearing it before, "I would have been too late. But I had to make a call."
"What kind of bullshit it that?" Hood snapped. "It's…it was…god, this was my fault wasn't it."
"No." The certainty with which Batman spoke surprised Red Hood. "It was no-one's fault but the Jokers." The words 'and mine' went unsaid.
Robin wrapped his skinny arms around Hood's waist from behind and squeezed. Hood didn't have any arms free, but he relaxed a little in Batman's hold to let the kid know he understood. "Oh Hood," Robin said, his voice almost as broken and Red Hood's heart.
"Oh Hood?" called a strained but familiar voice. "Oh Hood? What about, 'oh Wing?"
The arms around Red Hood's waist loosened immediately as Robin turned around to face the burring remains of the warehouse. "Nightwing!"
Hood craned his neck around to see. And sure enough, Nightwing's silhouette stood out against a backdrop of red and yellow fires kindling on the ruined building. He was hunched in on himself, and limping, and there was a broken handcuff hanging off one wrist. He looked small and broken, but at the same time, larger than life.
Nobody moved for a full two heartbeats. Not until Red Hood tore himself out of Batman's strong hold and crossed the distance between himself and his brother at a sprint.
"Wingding!" shouted Hood.
He tore off his helmet, not caring that he probably looked and sounded a lot more like a kid on Christmas morning than a crime lord on a witch hunt. Because all that mattered was that the universe hadn't taken everything from him. Not again.
Nightwing tried to straighten up and smile as Red Hood barreled into him. It was honestly a little pathetic looking, but Hood didn't care. He wrapped his brother up in a crushing hug and lifted him a full two inches off the ground. The guy was probably hurt, Hood hadn't bothered to check, but he didn't plan on letting go any time soon. Nightwing's head fell tiredly against his shoulder.
"Miss me," Wing teased.
"You asshole!" said Hood, hugging him harder, "you sacred the shit outta me."
"Scared the shit outta ma-self, if um bein' honest."
"I thought you were dead!"
"Gonna hafta try harder than that ta get ridda meh."
"You asshole," Hood repeated.
He was only distantly annoyed with the fondness creeping into his voice. He was shaking, annoyingly, but also coming back to his senses enough to notice Robin standing awkwardly a few feet away, rubbing at his mask. He was crying. But also waiting patiently off to the side for a chance to get a hug out of Nightwing for himself. Red Hood wasn't under any delusion that he was Wing's only little brother, and for the time being, he didn't mind it.
"Get over here, you little red and green Smurf," said Hood, holding out an arm in invitation.
Robin didn't wait long enough for Hood to change his mind. He moved into their hug, wrapping his skinny teenage arms around them both.
"How did you get out?" asked Robin, "Hood said you'd be beaten within an inch of your life, and that all the doors would be locked, and that the bomb would go off before you had a chance to pick the lock."
"There was a forklift in the back. Saw it while e was hittin' me. Waited till 'e lef' an' then used it as a batterin' ram ta break down the back door," said Nightwing, "piece'a cake."
"So you played the long game and waited him out," Robin noted, "that must have sucked."
"Tell me about't," huffed Nightwing.
"Smart," said Hood begrudgingly, "never thought to check my surroundings…when…ya know, during…"
"Jace," said Wing, "you were'a kid. S'not like you could see everythin'. Wasn't your fault. M' grown up an' I still got hurt. But we beet 'im. Both uv us. One way or another, we beet 'im."
After a breath, Hood nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we did didn't we."
Robin hugged them both a little tighter. "Speaking of Joker…"
"Gordon has him in custody," said Batman, suddenly right beside them. It was a wonder nobody jumped at the abrupt appearance of a fourth voice in the conversation. "He'll need both his knees replaced, but that's not my concern."
"No. It's mine," said Red Hood darkly.
Batman lay a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Later." Then his hand moved to Nightwing, gripping the young man's chin and searching his face. "How bad?"
"M' fine. Jus tired," said Wing.
Hood snorted. "Tell that to my aching arms. You're heavy."
"And your point is?" Wing challenged.
"Batmobile, all of you," said Batman gruffly.
Hood stiffened momentarily but forced himself to relax. B was right. Nightwing could use proper medical attention, even if that was the last thing he'd want. Well tough. Alfred was better with that sort of thing than Hood would probably ever be. Wing was going back to the cave with Batman and Robin, end of story. That said, Hood was not letting the guy out of his sight again. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Damnit. He had to go too.
"You're grinding your teeth again," said Nightwing.
"Shut your face," snapped Red Hood.
The Batmobile pulled up beside them a second later, the massive engine rumbling in a way that was both familiarly comforting and not. Remote control. That had to be a new development since Jason's time as Robin. The realization almost snapped his fragile grasp on his sanity but seeing Robin tugging Nightwing out of his arms and over towards the car brought him back. Back to grumbling that is.
Right. Act now, think later.
"Get in the car," said Batman. The lenses of his mask narrowed as he turned his full attention towards the Red Hood. "That means you too."
Red Hood didn't say anything as he climbed into the back seat beside Robin. Batman settled into the driver's seat, and with a jolt of G Force, they were off. The drive was tense. Batman kept his eyes focused on the road while Robin tried to keep Nightwing awake. They were talking about some Star Wars bullshit—who would win? Darth Maul or Count Dooku—but Jason didn't feel much like joining in. So he didn't. He kept his eyes fixed on his brother's sleepy reflection in the windshield and his mouth shut no matter how hard the other two tried to drag him into their nerd debate.
The only thing that kept Red Hood from exploding on all of them was his mantra, words that he repeated over and over again: the universe can't just take everything from me. We're alive. We're all alive.
Bruce sent Tim home around three. The kid was reluctant to leave and honestly, he could sympathize—it had been a trying night for everyone involved—but it was a school night and Tim needed at least a few hours of sleep. Striking a balance between taking their work seriously, maintaining a public persona, and taking proper care of one's self was one of the hardest aspects of their lives. Bruce really didn't want to screw up Timothy like he had his own kids.
Regret. That was a word Bruce could define at least 40 different ways, hell he could probably write an entire book on it.
Forgiveness. That was a word he knew so little about he had to google it every time someone used it in a conversation.
Family. A word that meant everything and nothing; a concept created for a more perfect world wherein people had the capacity to forgive and reconcile and love a hundred times over.
Unable to process his own thoughts enough to deal with the two boys sitting in the Batcave's medbay—because no matter what they said or did, Dick and Jason would always be his boys—Bruce focused on the computer. Sort of. He was really working, not like he would be if he were actually trying to solve a case, but was instead eaves dropping on the boy's conversation.
They were talking about a dog, a German Sheppard puppy to be precise. Bruce found that topic in and of itself ridiculously mundane in light of the evening's events. On the anniversary of Jason's death, they went out and bought a puppy. Dick almost got himself blown up by the Joker, and they started debating whether or not Golden Retrievers are 'man dogs.' Sitting in the medbay—bandaged, bruised, and emotionally torn to pieces—those two numbskulls were trying to figure out if chocolate would actually make the puppy puke. Jason was all for testing that out the 'old fashioned way'—you know in the interest of science—and Dick was trying to google the answer before things got out of hand.
Dick still sounded tired and more than a little loopy. Bruce could easily picture the exaggerated and uncoordinated gestures he was making with his hands. The kid never stopped moving, especially when he was passionate about what he was saying…which was almost anything and everything. A real ball of energy that one. Bruce could just picture a 9-year-old kid bouncing in his seat while Alfred tried to bandage a stab would in his arm. He almost smiled at the memory. Almost.
Sadly, Bruce couldn't picture what Jason was doing. He hadn't gotten the chance to know his younger son nearly as well. By the time Bruce found him, Jason was already 15 and so hurt by the world that he refused to open up for a very long time. He was a big personality for sure: talkative, opinionated, and confrontational, but also self-contained in conversation. How much ad he changed since coming back? It hurt that Bruce didn't know. But he didn't turn around to find out. He couldn't let himself give into the temptation. He'd hurt that boy enough.
So Bruce just listened from the computer chair, a mug of black coffee at his elbow, a paper file on the Penguin propped against the console, a wishful mist over his blurry eyes.
All things considered, Jason would say Dick had gotten off pretty lucky. The biggest concern was his concussion. Caused by a severe blow to the head with Jason's old nemesis the crowbar, the wound had been messy and hard to clean. The skin on his temple had split back from the skull, all the way from his right eyebrow into his hairline and then some. It wasn't a clean cut, but rather shredded and bruised as it should have been. Cuts caused by blunt objects tended to do that. The fact that Dick was conscious at all when the Joker left the warehouse was a little miracle in and of itself. The fact that he'd had the presence of mind to think of hotwiring the forklift and using it as a battering ram, was simply incredible.
That's why he's the Golden Boy.
But Jason was far too relieved to have Dick back safe and sound to be resentful of his big brother. Aside from the blow to the head, Dick only had a cracked rib, a relatively small second degree chemical burn on his chest, a broken tailbone (which was just embarrassing), and a few bone-deep bruises. Nothing they hadn't all had a few dozen times before.
Was Jason hovering in the Batcave's medbay? Yes. Yes he was. Alfred had, as always, done a stellar job patching them up, but under these rather extremely trying circumstances, Jason elected not to care. Besides, Dick's unintelligible attempts at conversation kept Jason's mind off the looming presence over by the Batcomputer.
He did his best not think about all the old thoughts and memories the Joker had dug up. Jason thought he'd buried them all deep enough that they would never resurface. But life, it turned out, didn't work that way.
Oddly, Jason didn't know whether the Joker had inadvertently done their little family a favor: now Jason knew for sure that Bruce didn't love either of them more than the other. The incident answered a few of the questions that had been plaguing his mind since he first became Robin. Those thoughts were immediately drowned out by a crushing sense of guilt. Because how could he even think that when his brother was almost murdered? All that was left for Jason to do, was to focus on something else instead. That's just how their morbid lives worked out apparently.
Don't think about it. Just don't think about it. Things will all go back to normal. We always move on. We have to.
"So then we're keeping it," said Dick.
Perched on the edge of the bedbay's cot, he was practically vibrating in place. Was he still running on adrenaline from the warehouse or was it the drugs? Or was he overly tired? He didn't know. His head was foggy as if deprived of oxygen and his vision swung like a pendulum between black and warped. Jason's face for example, looked extremely misshapen. Like, had his nose always been so big and round, or was he just really swollen? Nope. Dick figured out that it was just his vision when Jason's nose elongated into his chin for a seconds before his neck became as wide at his chest.
For somewhere behind the ringing pressure in his ears, he heard Jason snort. "For the hundredth time, yes. I'll keep the dog. Holy Marry, what has Alfred got you on?"
"Crack," said Dick without missing a beat.
Jason snorted again. "Right."
Jason helped pull a Wayne Enterprises hoodie over Dick's head, mindful of all the bandages and stiches. Not that Dick could feel anything really. He felt like he was on cloud nine with all the drugs Alfred had pumped into his system. Man, this was fun. I should nearly get blown up more often.
"No, you should not," said Jason.
Hmm, did I say that out loud?
"Yes?"
You're sure you're not reading my mind?
"No."
Weird.
Jason sat down on the cot beside him, then tipped sideways so that he could lie down in a fetal position with one leg still dangling off the side. He tucked the pillow securely under his head with one arm and squeezed his eyes shut. He must have been exhausted. My poor little brother. But Dick couldn't let him go to sleep just yet. He needed to know something very important.
Dick tried to reach over and shake Jason's shoulder, but as uncoordinated at he currently was, he only succeeded in toppling himself over his brother's legs. Which would have been fine if he didn't follow up on that stupidity by then sending himself crashing to the floor. Oops.
"What the hell, Shithead?" cursed Jason, now crouched in front of him on the floor. "Back off, Butt-man, I got this."
Huh?
Oh. The second statement hadn't been meant for him. It was meant for Bruce who was hovering a few feet away. If was the first time Dick had seen his dad looking anything like unsure or self-conscious. Dick thought he would be nice and let B into the conversation. "Holy bruise-us maximus, Butt-man. This floor it hard as fuck."
Dick thought he saw the twitch of a smile on Bruce's face. But then again, that might have been only a fantasy of his warbled vision. "Language Dick."
Pulling a wry face, Dick repeated his previous statement; "sacrés gros bleus, Buttman. Cet étage est dur comme baise."
Jason huffed out a short laugh as he hauled Dick back to his feet by the armpits. "I aspire to this level of smart-assery."
"Jason, you are the definition of smartass," said Bruce as he turned away from them.
Jason said nothing to that. And even though Dick couldn't see the guy's face, he was willing to bet that the 'emotional-constipation face' was back. Important. Part of Dick's brain was trying to tell him that was important, but it wasn't telling him what to do about it. Later then. Seeing as his brother was awake again, Dick needed answers to that very important question...
"So we're keeping the dog?"
"Yes! For the last time, I'm keeping the fucking dog!"
"Oh good." Dick nodded sagely even as his vison darkened at the edges again. "So what are you gonna name it?"
"I was thinking Miley Cyrus. MC for short. Ya know, like JB? I think they go together," said Jason. He sounded a little sad, a little fond, and a little hopeful. It was weird.
But once again, Dick was fixated on the wrong thing. He gasped. "I got you a girl dog?"
Jason laughed outright at that, a barking full-belly laugh that pierced the foggy vail weighing down on the inside of his skull. "You didn't know that?!"
"No," Dick was a little put out. Maybe even a little scandalized.
"You didn't check?"
"It felt like an invasion of privacy!"
"You're such an idiot."
But Jason was smiling, grinning actually, so Dick supposed he didn't really mean that.
Two days Later in Bludhaven:
Tim was lying belly-down on the couch, chin resting in one hand while idly tapping away on his phone with the other. Jason was sitting on his back, with his socked feet braced against the edge of the coffee table, flipping through the cable channels without really paying attention. Across the small—almost dinky—living room, Dick was sitting on the little counter that divided it from the kitchen. His crutches were leaned up against the wall just out of reach. He idly picked at a bowl of chopped watermelon beside him as he scrolled through Jason's camera roll.
Miley Cyrus—or MC as Jason preferred—gnawed on a dried pig's ear between the legs of a barstool. Her big puppy teeth shone white even in the shadows. She looked downright feral and it was easy to see the kind of dog she would one day grow into. But for the time being she was cute and cuddly and hyperactive, and they loved her. Or would grow to love her.
They were all getting a little better after that scare a few nights ago. Apparently, Dick's suggestion to have a sleep over and Pirates of the Caribbean marathon had actually smoothed out a few frayed nerves. Or perhaps just distracted them all enough to go back to business as usual. Either way, a fun night had turned into a late morning, and a late morning had turned into a hazy afternoon. Nobody was trying to kill anyone else, so by their usual standards of getting along, they were setting a new record.
Almost.
"If you don't give me back my phone, I'll fart on the Replacement here," Jason threatened.
Dick laughed over Tim's indignant, and rather horrified, exclamation of, "what!"
"You've got 30 seconds or Bird Boy gets it," said Jason.
"30 seconds?" screeched Tim.
Dick barely looked up from Jason's phone, which had been left on the kitchen counter to be charged, not hacked. Though his head was lowered, eyes downcast, bangs falling over his face like a nice little curtain, his all too amused smile was easy to see. Look for dimples, Jason had learned; they peek out if he so much as thinks about smiling.
"T minus 10 seconds," Jason warned, "10 seconds and I fart on him."
"Which is why I will be giving your phone back in 11 seconds," said Dick mischievously, still not looking up.
Tim, of course, was horrified. And quite possibly feeling betrayed. "DICK!" he screamed in disbelief.
Ten seconds were up quickly, and Jason made good on his threat. The sound was akin to that of someone playing the trombone under water. And Jason couldn't be sure he didn't feel the Replacement vibrate underneath him with the force of it. Jason's farts were loud, and he rather liked them that way. Very manly. One of the benefits of eating chilly-dogs once a week—or side-effects depending on who you ask—is that you can easily let one rip on command.
"Aww man…Jason!" groaned Tim, "that was nasty! What did you eat?"
Dick almost fell off the countertop he was laughing so hard. Head thrown back, eyes crinkled in the corners, mouth wide open, dimples unmistakable. His whole body shook with the force of it, rocking him back on his seat bone. His ribs had to burning up like all hellfire, but either the pain-meds he was on were better than they thought, or he really just couldn't help himself.
Squished face-first into the couch, Tim was trying to bat the smell away from his face and doing so evidently without success. The kid was strong, but not stronger than Jason was heavy, so his attempts to extricate himself from his predicament were incredibly pointless.
"Get off me!" Tim shouted, "you're disgusting!"
And Jason…well, he only laughed harder himself. He laughed the way Dick did. He laughed like a young man who was very much still up and kicking. Because they were alive; all three of them. And Jason had something good here. He had a job that kept him fed, an apartment that kept the rain out, and two brothers who'd go to hell and back with him. And none of that could be just ripped away from him. Not without them all putting up one helluva fight. So he laughed as he grabbed a pillow and used it to destroy the Replicant's perfect hairdo.
"I'm not sure…" Dick was still laughing so hard Jason wasn't sure the guy wouldn't just about pee his pants, "I'm not that one didn't register on the seismic radar machine down in the Batcave."
"Are you still scoring?" Jason asked. Curiosity was a thing, OK. And Dick had been scoring his farts ever since a particularly nasty incident involving a wrecked hook-up, a basket of peaches, and a bottle of schnapps.
"That was a 200 at least," said Tim. He bucked suddenly and succeeded in sending Jason sideways for a second. "That was the most…did you stain your pants?"
"The scale is out of 10, Birdbrain," said Jason.
"So then it was more like a 400," groused Tim.
"It wasn't that bad," said Jason.
"Oh I don't know," said Dick trying to ease himself down off the kitchen counter without aggravating his injuries, "I'd give that one a 12."
"That's it?" shrieked Tim, "you're not sitting underneath him! I can't believe you let him fart on me!"
Dick kept smiling as he walked over to the window and cracked it open. And OK, even Jason had to admit he needed the fresh air after that one. "That's what big brothers are for, Timbuktu."
Tim made a face. "I hate you both."
Dick tossed the phone back to Jason who caught it one-handed, before sliding in between Tim and the back of the couch. With one push, he sent Tim sprawling onto the carpet. Seeing the commotion, MC ran up and started licking the teen's face, pig's ear half chewed and forgotten under the kitchen counter.
"Gross," complained Tim, "get her off me."
"Nope," said Jason.
"She likes you," said Dick.
Tim let out a sigh, then smiled as he wrapped one arm around the puppy's neck. "I like her too."
"Don't get too attached, she's my dog," said Jason, "she was my Death Day present."
Dick eased himself onto the couch opposite Jason and picked up the abandon TV remote. "For a Death Day, we sure got a lot of living done."
"So what I'm hearing is that we should not celebrate a Life Day," said Tim.
"Wouldn't that be a Birthday?" asked Dick, quirking an eyebrow.
Jason pulled a constipated thoughtful face. "From now on, I declare all Birthdays anti-holidays."
"Yeah, screw you universe; we've wised up to your games," said Dick distractedly, "oh hey, it's a playback of the Eagles game."
One week later:
Tim has renamed the groupchat: [The Immortal Ass-Kicker society]
Jason has Renamed the groupchat: [The Midnight Breakfast Club (we dine on the souls of our enemy]
Tim: No
Jason has Renamed the groupchat: [Joker is dead again: (and we the murderers)]
Alfred he renamed the groubchat: [The Ministry of Kick-arse Bats]
Jason has Renamed the groupchat: [The Ministry of Kick-arse Bats + Tim]
Tim: Well now I feel personally attacked
Jason: There's a reason for that
Dick: Please stop. It's 4 AM
Jason: You're watching Scooby Doo!
Dick: And your point is?
Tim: Are you guys seriously texting in the same room?!
Jason: No.
Tim: You're such dorks
Jason: Well now I feel personally attacked
Tim: There's a reason for that
Dick: Please stop
Alfred he renamed the groubchat: [The Ministry of Kick-arse Bats]
A/N: Hey guys, sorry about this chapter and the last one. Hope it turned out to be an enjoyable read despite my worst efforts to the contrary XD. A word of warning: don't eat a basket of peaches with a bottle of schnapps. It will not go well for you. Don't ask how I know that.
Anyways, things should get back to normal from here. If you're interested in checking out my Batfamily fanart…
Look for GohstPainters on Tumblr and Insta or for AshenAngel2 on DeviantArt
