Chapter Text
BRUCE
Gotham City.
If New York was the city that never sleeps, Gotham was the city of insomnia. Sure, NYC had its late evenings, nights of partying till the moon goes down and the sun comes up, but Gotham? It’s late nights were full of terror. Sleepless nights spent hoping, praying to see the sunrise, criminal activity filling the streets as the seedy underbelly of the city comes alive.
Highest crime rate in the country, in fact. Beat that, NYC.
Another area where Gotham stood unbeaten? The city skyline. It was the kind of skyline the corporate world loved to smack on the front of postcards, easily recognizable even as nothing more than a black silhouette. Gothic architecture that never quite keeps up with the times, spires scraping the sky like if they just reached far enough they might get to heaven—all too reminiscent of a certain biblical tower. All of this human ingenuity and hubris combined to make a skyline that some would consider one of the wonders of the modern world.
Bruce loved that skyline. He had loved it when he was a boy, sheltered from the cruel realities of the world, and he had loved it after, even when he saw the horror that lay beneath. He loved it most as it was now, in the middle of the night, illuminated by the warm glow of streetlights, and with a handful of little human outlines racing each other across the night sky.
Several yards ahead of him, two Robins flitted through the air. They’re good—there was no denying that they had more acrobatic ability than he’d ever had—but neither could hold a candle to their eldest brother. Clad in black and blue, Nightwing soared through the sky. The boy—man, really, but forever a boy to Bruce—could fly with the best of them. Put the flying Grayson in a room with Hawkgirl and Superman, you’d never know he wasn’t a meta himself. Bruce had to admit he felt a spark of vain pride when he saw it. Dick could do that because of him. He’d given the boy the tools, the training, all that time ago. But just as soon, the moment of vanity flickered into one of guilt. The Bat had watched his partners, his children, suffer and bleed for his cause. He’d watched them die. What kind of man was he, to have enabled that?
It was calm nights like this one that had Bruce pondering. Without the adrenaline coursing through him, his mind was left to wander where it always did—into a deep, dark well of guilt.
“Earth to Batman,” the voice crackled in Bruce’s ear. Nightwing.
“Hmm?”
“Over here.” Across the street, Nightwing waved at him from a rooftop. His other hand rested on Robin’s head, messing up his hair with a playful shake. The youngest boy frowned and crossed his arms, but didn’t pull away. “You okay, B? You seem a little…distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Bruce replied, voice gruff.
“Almost dawn. Maybe we call it a night? Last one to the cave is a rotten egg!” Nightwing exclaimed, and the two younger boys took off into the night. Laughter and taunts from Red Robin echo off the building, music to Batman’s ears. Despite his issued challenge, Nightwing hung back, instead zipping across the quiet alley and landing softly next to his adopted father.
“After all this time,” Nightwing breathed. “I still love the view.”
Dick had always had a way about him, like he could read Bruce’s mind. He supposed that was what happened when you spent years fighting at another person’s side. You learn to see through them.
“It’s a good view,” Bruce replied. Dick plopped down beside him, letting his feet dangle off the edge of the building with all the casualness in the world.
“I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay, because you’ll just lie and say you’re fine,” the boy starts. “Instead, I’ll just talk while you scowl, okay?”
“Hnn.”
“Good. You have to know how happy we all are, B. I know you’re a broody guy and, trust me, I get it. You’ve got a lot on your shoulders and a lot to feel guilty about. I’m not gonna act like you haven’t royally screwed up in the past—because we both know you have—but me, Red Robin, Robin…we’re happy. And that’s because of you.” Nightwing stood, arms stretching toward the sky. “Sun’s comin’ up.”
Indeed, streaks of pink and yellow had begun appearing on the horizon. The tell-tale paint strokes of the dawn.
“Let’s go home,” Bruce said, drawing a toothy smile from his eldest.
“Race ya there, old man.”
Without waiting for a reply, Nightwing was off, soaring like a bird through the air. Bruce felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth and he followed after his kids.
~~~
JASON
Jason looked up from his motorcycle and felt nauseous. The outline of Batman and Nightwing soaring across rooftops together, made into silhouettes by the city lights, made a pit in his stomach roil with rage. Rage that wasn’t, if he was honest, entirely warranted. He felt it nonetheless.
With the flick of his wrist, the engine of his bike roared to life as he rolled forward. The night was almost gone, morning breaking over the horizon. Jason knew he needed to get going—the whole vigilante thing worked better in the night, plus Jason and the GCPD weren’t exactly on friendly terms—but he had the urge to bust skulls all of the sudden.
The urge only grew when Dickhead’s masked face appeared beside him.
“Go away,” Jason practically growled, revving the engine of his bike so that it sped past Dick.
Never one to give up easy, Dick grappled ahead, swinging in time with the bike, a goofy grin pasted across his face. Under the helmet, Jason rolled his eyes.
“Hey, Jaybird,” Dick said. He sounded a little breathless. Jason just had to keep driving and he’d run out of steam. “Slow night, huh?”
“Fuck off, Dickhead.”
“Rude,” he chided. “What are you doing now? Come to breakfast at the manor.”
Jason barked a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
“Seriously. You know A makes more than enough.”
“That’s not the problem and you know it.”
“Aw, come on. B is in a good mood.” Even with the hood covering his face, Dick could sense the face he was making. “An okay mood. I promise to keep him on his best behavior.”
“Not happening.”
“Please, J,”
With only a domino mask to hide his identity, Dick could still do a pretty good puppy-dog face and, hell, even Jason wasn’t immune. But he did have a high tolerance and a bout of pit rage coming on. Jason hit the brakes hard, the bike skidding slightly. He couldn’t help but chuckle a little at the shock on Dick’s face as he flew past him, unprepared for the sudden stop. As he came jogging back, Jason released the lock on his helmet and pulls it off.
“What’s your fucking deal, Nightwing?” He demanded.
“What?” Dick blinked.
“You used to hate me, y’know.”
“I never hated you,” Dick said, brow furrowed.
“Sure you did! I stole your job, your life. You couldn’t stand me. You tolerated me, eventually, but you were never…this.”
“Hood…” Dick reached out and Jason stepped back. His hand lingered in the space between.
“No, don’t. We aren’t brothers, we’re barely even colleagues. Why can’t you all just leave me alone?” Jason knew he was shouting, knew that if he had a mirror there would be a sickly green tint to his eyes. Too bad he didn’t care. “I mean, what’s with this whole big brother, family schtick, huh? Robin finally get sick of your coddling or something and you’ve decided to turn it on me? What happened?”
“You died.”
The smallness of his voice as Nightwing uttered those two words like a confession was enough to suck the air outta Jason’s lungs. He felt the pit rage vanish as he took in Dick Grayson. He’d folded in on himself slightly, the hunch of guilt in his shoulders and Jason felt like he’d kicked a puppy.
“Jay—Hood, you died. And it was my fault. If I had been around more, if I had been a better brother—mentor—I could have stopped it. I should have stopped it. I know I haven’t always been the greatest, well, anything to you, but I want to try.”
Jason was rarely at a loss for words. He was not as talkative as Nightwing or Spoiler, maybe, but he always had a snarky remark loaded in the barrel. But in that moment, he had nothing. Dick was waiting for him to say something, probably for the outburst he surely expected of Jason. But Jason couldn’t even give him that. The truth was, he was never angry at Dick. At Bruce, definitely. At Tim—his replacement—sometimes. But Nightwing—Dick? Never. Jason had been a shit in his Robin days. He taunted Nightwing at every turn about being the superior Robin, which surely must have stung. It was no wonder that Dick couldn’t stand Jason at first. He started to come around, later. Too late, really, not that they could have known it. But Jason had fond memories, the kind associated with his angsty teenage older brother. Back then, Dick was a little more of a bad-boy. He fought with Bruce, he snuck in and out of the house, he pushed buttons and boundaries. Jason looked up to him. He used to wish they were closer.
Then…he’d died. And he came back different—angry, bitter, dangerous. And the world he returned to had changed as well. His older brother had turned into a smothering mother hen, Bruce had replaced him. As time went on, things got better. Jason wasn’t as angry anymore, at least not all the time. He grew to like Tim—not that he’d ever admit it—and they’d gotten Damian, whose stabbing tendencies amused Jason to no end, plus a whole plethora of other strays that had attached themselves to Bruce. But Jason was still outside looking in.
Was it mostly his own fault? Maybe. Bruce had to shoulder a lot of the blame there too, though. That relationship was never going to be what it once was. Nothing was.
Jason sighed.
“Listen, Nightwing, I—” He didn’t finish that thought, distracted instead by the figure at the end of the alley. The Red Hood narrowed his eyes. It didn’t take long to realize what was staring at them. But it took him longer than it should have.
A shot rang out before Jason’s gun could clear the holster. He tensed, expecting to feel the intense sting of a bullet biting into his shoulder. When no such sting comes, his blood ran cold. Ahead of him, Nightwing looked up, eyes wide, and collapsed, bright red blood blooming across his chest, staining the blue bird emblem a deep purple color.
“Sonuva—!” Jason whipped both guns from the holsters at his sides, firing toward the shadowed figure. Two more figures emerged from the shadows, also firing. The sound of a delivery truck’s engine grew near, the sputtering of it echoing through the alley just below the gunfire. Jason kept firing as he ran toward his brother, the sight of him bleeding out in the alley fueling Jason’s rage tenfold. His first instinct was to destroy. To fire enough bullets to tear these three thugs to shreds, not even leaving enough of them for the vultures. But the sound of the truck means there are more coming, likely with more weapons. Nightwing’s pained whimper drew his attention, forcing him to make a choice.
Jason holstered one of the guns, grabbing Nightwing’s extended arm and dragging him behind a dumpster, all the while providing as much coverfire as possible.
“Nightwing! Are you with me?” Jason asked, unable to keep the anxious edge from his voice. Dick’s breathing was ragged and wet, blood covering his lips as he coughed. “Fuck.”
“Thats…comforting…” Dick wheezed.
Bullets rained down, the metal dumpster barely shielding them—though it wouldn’t last long. The thugs were shouting, obviously having trouble getting their stupid truck through the alley. A part of Jason found that funny, but not funny enough to ignore that the longer they were pinned down the more Dick bled out.
Dick’s head lolled to the left. Jason felt the panic surge in his stomach. “Nightwing. Hey, stay awake, Dickhead!” Jason patted Dick’s face, urging him to keep his eyes open. Jason pulled his hand back and smacked Dick hard enough to leave a mark. The older boy made a pained noise akin to a moan, shifting slightly, but a second later his head fell to the side as he went fully limp in Jason’s arms.
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered. Jason reached into his pocket, retrieving a small black, bat shaped object. A communicator Bruce had reluctantly given him a while back, one Jason had never used—vowed he never would—but always kept on hand. He didn’t want to use it now. He never wanted to use it, to give Bruce the satisfaction. But, well, desperate times and all that.
A few seconds after he pressed the button, a triple beep came through followed by Batman’s gruff voice.
“Red Hood?” He sounded surprised, Jason thought distantly. “What’s wrong?”
“Di—Nightwing, he’s—” Jason wasn’t sure he could finish that sentence, but luckily he didn’t have to.
“I’m coming,” Batman growled. And like that line died.
Good talk, Jason thought.
The sound of the truck approaching made Jason go rigid. It was coming their way, down the alley instead of around. Bold of them. Jason was almost impressed, but he and Dick were exposed. He didn’t think he had time to move Dick and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving the bastard, especially when Jason was the reason he was in this mess to begin with. Jason reluctantly let go of Dick’s shoulder, reaching instead for his guns. He knew he was almost out of ammo (he was supposed to be home by now), and the thugs most definitely weren’t, but if he could get in a few good shots maybe he’d stand a chance.
With a deep breath, Jason steadied himself, preparing for the onslaught. As the truck prepared to pass, Jason cocked his guns and aimed. He could hear the barrage of bullets starting up again, and he braced once more for the pain.
Instead, a black mass descends—Vengeance, The Night, The Caped Crusader—and he was pissed as hell.