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Dick could feel heat radiating from his gloved palm where he’d slammed the man into Black Mask’s table. This one had barely put up a fight--none of them had, to be honest--even though he was running on fumes these days; two days of no sleep and yet, they proved no match for him. This would never be enough to impress Black Mask.
Barely breaking a sweat, Dick calmed the spike of adrenaline surging through his veins as Roman’s words finally filtered in. “I need a number of how many people are there who might give us trouble…and tell me that number is zero.” He wanted them to clear out Blüdhaven? Something he’d been trying to do for ages with little to no success? The task felt monumental, like Bruce’s heavy hand on his shoulder giving him an order from on high, a weight of responsibility that had been dragging him down ever since he first put on those pixie boots.
Well, that’s a little unfair to Bruce. In truth, he’d locked himself in these chains when he overheard Zucco’s men threatening Haly, when he heard and didn’t say anything, when the rope snapped and he knew exactly who was responsible.
“You got that, Crutches?” Roman sneered. He thought himself above them all, that’s why he tasked them with something so impossible. This meeting was entertainment for him as opposed to real business, the real business Tommy was investing so much of himself into, and it took everything Dick had not to leap over the table and smack that pompous smirk off his face.
Clenching his fists tightly, Dick took a deep breath and nodded. “Loud and clear, sir.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I need to be--” Roman began before a man burst through the doors, phone held in front of him as he raced towards them.
“Sir! Sir! We just got word. Out at Jay and Teddy’s warehouse. It’s him.” The look of unease on his face made Roman snatch the phone with almost frantic desperation. He listened to the news on the other end, wide-eyes going from panic to hopeful vindication. Whoever it was, was about to get the full force of a king pin like Black Mask thrown at them, judging by that wild look.
“Come on, Tiger. Let’s leave them to it,” Tommy waved, standing to go with Ray at his side.
They whispered back and forth about their next steps, plans Dick really should’ve been paying attention to considering he was the one responsible for leading the clear-out of Blüdhaven, but he couldn’t help watching the shit show unfold. He could hear men loading up trucks and passing around weapons, excited rumors spreading that the boss might finally take him out and it’s been too long already and can’t wait to put a bullet in that Red Hood and--
Dick froze, heartbeat skipping at the name. Red Hood. The deadly vigilante terrorizing Gotham…and Bruce. The one Bruce told him he could handle alone (though told was very generous for how cold that dismissal had been) and had been struggling to deal with ever since, according to the news. He didn’t often check when living under Tommy’s roof, but in the early hours when he couldn’t seem to shut his brain off, after one too many reassurances to himself that he wasn’t getting too attached, that he could leave at any time, that he didn’t need Tommy’s proud words of approval or Lynette’s soft hand against his cheek or Sophia’s endearing teenage crush (a crush so very much like the one Jason tried to hide whenever he used to stop by for a visit) his resolve would crumble just a little and the news stations always had plenty of fodder to report on.
“Crutches? Are you coming?” Tommy called at the doorway, half his mind already moving chess pieces in his eagerness to expand and rise up in the ranks of the criminal underworld. Lynette’s words played in his head again “he belongs here, at this level,” and he had to shake the creeping fingers of shame trying to pull him under. It was fine. They’d be fine. He could stop this whenever he wanted--
“Actually, don’t go yet.” All three of them looked towards Roman, who had become increasingly more unhinged as he directed his men on how best to take down the Red Hood. It was clear things had become personal in this war between them; Dick had seen that same deranged expression on many Gotham Rogues growing up. The classic “I will not stop until I’ve burned you to ashes. And I’ll take everything down with me, if I have to” sort of madness.
Roman crossed his arms as he approached, Tommy and Ray tensing up when Dick casually pulled them behind himself just in case; Black Mask was well known for lashing out at whoever happened to be nearby when shit hit the fan. And if Red Hood was involved, then it was raining shit already.
“I have one more job for you, Crutches. A chance for you to prove that you’re truly capable of handling Blüdhaven’s scum. If you think you’re up to it, of course.”
Guess that made Dick the umbrella, huh?
The gun shots could be heard blocks away as Dick and the Black Mask reinforcements arrived. Breathing slowly, he tried to focus on the task at hand and not the urge to check for innocent civilians in the vicinity. Even if he could break away to look, he knew the men he was assigned to would report his weakness back to Black Mask, and he couldn’t risk Tommy’s well-being like that.
Tommy and Ray had put up more of a fuss about Dick tagging along for this than he had, and Roman had trapped them there for their obstinance. He promised they could leave once Dick proved himself in this final task. A test of his skills against a real caped nuisance. He didn’t really care because it was the risk you took when dealing with Gotham’s special brand of crazy, something Dick understood in a way neither man ever would; maybe Lynette was right after all--what a scary thought.
“So what’s the plan?” Dick grunted as the truck came to a stop and they all jumped out.
“Plan? Kill that asshole! What other plan do you want?” one of the men shouted before racing inside. Great. How did Black Mask ever come to rule Gotham’s underground with idiots like these?
He could see the flashes of firepower lighting up the place, smoke hanging heavy in the air as the clang of bullets hitting metal rattled around in his head. Someone was getting a warm welcome. Grunts and moans of pain grew louder the closer Dick got to the chaos, spotting the hint of a red helmet flipping through the air towards a nearby exit. It really was him.
The gun burned hot against his lower back, tucked in the belt of his dress pants where he refused to take it out until absolutely necessary. The other men gave him skeptical looks at the sight of his empty, gloved hands, a few muttering about the pretty boy cop who’s finally gonna get his hands dirty, before diving into the line of fire themselves. They’d be surprised to learn just how dirty they were already.
Dick ducked behind a crate as the exit door slammed open, men stumbling over themselves to be the one to take down the Red Hood rather than stop and think. He could almost smell the testosterone messing with their common sense, feel the self-assured bravado radiating from them as they harbored some absurd belief that they really had the Red Hood on the run. He’d seen enough of how the man worked to know he would never fall for something so idiotic as this; walking in without a plan just wasn't his style.
“Come on, let’s show him who’s boss!” What unfortunate last words.
He had a split second to move, the glint of a machine gun preceding an endless barrage of bullets which tore through the unlucky souls at the front. Cries echoed around the crumbling warehouse and Dick felt a pang deep in his gut at how many he couldn’t save. Before Tommy, he would’ve accepted their losses as just part of the job (you can’t save everyone is how Bruce used to put it whenever a mission went south) but some of these men had lives, had families. He couldn’t sit here and do nothing.
Reaching out, he pulled whatever bodies he could find out of the way; kicking in knees so they wobbled down, shoving crates sideways to protect those who had fallen, even leaping around to throw himself in the path of danger to help an injured man take cover. Bruce was right, you can’t save everyone--but you can damn well try.
A bullet grazed his upper arm but he barely felt it. The smoke clogged his lungs but he hardly had time to stop and take a breath anyway. The ringing in his ears drowned out the sounds of dying men but he still heard the shouts of a woman demanding someone stop.
Without thinking, Dick launched himself over the piles of bodies blocking the doorway, wincing each time his shoes landed in a blood splatter. There was no time to think about it. He couldn’t think about it. Thinking meant disaster, he was fine. He. Was. Fine.
“Welcome to Planet Earth, baby! These dead sacks of meat on the floor made their living by beating, raping, and devouring. Fear isn't the answer,” the Red Hood shouted, machine gun pointing at a woman he had pinned to a stack of wooden crates.
Their muffled voices continued for a moment as Dick crept around for a better position. It was suicidal to attack from the air when his foe had such a quick trigger finger, but finding a spot on the ground that didn’t give him away too soon proved even riskier. He settled for a smaller stack of crates behind him and waited for the perfect opportunity to jump.
Though seeing the familiar form of Red Hood again made his pulse spike, an unexpected wave of tension pulling at his nerves like a puppet on strings. Their last clash hadn’t ended well and he intended to rectify those mistakes this time around. An ache in his knee made him waver where he crouched, a phantom spark of electricity thrummed at his fingertips where escrima sticks used to be, and he wished (not for the first time) that he had his costume on hand. Things felt so much simpler behind the mask, which was dangerous in and of itself.
“Y’wanna guess who’s not getting out of here?” The Red Hood suddenly backed up, revealing that the woman--Onyx, if Dick remembered Bruce’s files correctly--had a knife stuck in her shoulder. He discarded the gun to keep teasing her, guard seemingly lowered more than it had been all night, and Dick used it to his advantage.
“You!”
Flipping down, Dick came barreling in legs first to knock the Red Hood into a nearby stack of wooden crates. His unsteady landing shot a line of fire up from his recovering knee but he barely had time to process it when a smoke pellet landed at his feet. He rolled away with watery eyes just as a knife came slicing through the space he’d been only seconds before and aimed a kick at the hand holding the knife in an attempt to disarm him. The knife hopped into the air from one hand to the next just as Dick’s foot connected, and he quickly elbowed the hand which caught it. Unfortunately, that left him wide open for a head butt from that ridiculous red helmet.
Dick held his nose as he stumbled backwards, dutifully ignoring the blood leaking from the wound when the sound of Red Hood’s laughter filled the silence between them. He circled him like a predator on the scent of prey, which only stoked Dick’s rage at being considered so weak.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here? Daddy Wayne’s Golden Boy swimming naked with the sharks,” he teased. A filtered voice that clawed down Dick’s back with each word. “I’d heard the rumors and, to be honest, I didn’t really believe it was true until now. I mean, look at you! Working with the mob bosses, looking like a proper gangster now. Was Daddy’s money not enough for you? Were you that desperate for a taste of corruption?”
Trying a new approach, Dick struck out a fake punch up before going for every vulnerable part of the body he knew could bring a man down in a matter of minutes. Ever since he donned the name Crutches, it was like the parental check on his fighting had been turned off; a freedom to take all the cheap shots, the deadly shots, the moves which could permanently maim if he wasn’t careful--access to all the unsavory tools of the trade he’d learned over the years but always hated himself for knowing. Something about the Red Hood’s smug taunting gouged out his inhibitions and left him wanting to try every single one. Anything to make him stop. Make the words stop. The words that felt too personal, too familiar. And that was the last thing Dick wanted.
The Red Hood dodged every move, whistling in approval when Dick’s heel came a little too close to caving in his vocal cords. “You know, if you wanted to taste something corrupt, you could’ve just asked. Fulfill one of my biggest childhood fantasies, at least.”
Frowning, Dick spotted Onyx attempting to pull the knife out of her shoulder and knew that if he kept him distracted enough, she could help end this once and for all--if she didn’t decide to abandon him to his fate, of course.
The Red Hood’s blade slashed over his head, nicking the top of his cheek as he wormed his way closer. Jumping up, Dick wrapped his legs around the Red Hood’s waist and flipped backwards, bringing the duo crashing down. He put up quite the resistance at first, but all attempts to flip them around ceased when Dick finally pulled the gun from his waistband and jammed the barrel under his chin.
“Oooh, playing with guns now, too? Daddy must be so disappointed.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“What? Do you think he won’t forgive you if you do it? You know you want to. You pretend and pretend and pretend, but I know the real you, Golden Boy. The one who wants to pull that trigger.”
Heaving deep breaths, Dick tightened his hold. “You know nothing about me.”
The Red Hood laughed, a cadence that pulled at long-forgotten memories he couldn’t seem to grasp. “Au contraire, Pretty Bird. I know everything about you. I know that everyone always loves Richard Grayson; every father wants him to be their son, every mother wishes their boys could be half as good as you…” he shifted under the weight of Dick’s trembling form. “Breaking hearts everywhere you go.”
As much as he wanted to smash the helmet to pieces and stick the gun down his throat, Dick felt frozen in place by his words and the faces they brought to the forefront of his mind; the faces of Tommy, Lynette, Sophia, and the countless others he’d let down in his life. That’s all he ever did, was let people down. Break hearts. Fail them. “Stop,” he breathed out through gritted teeth. Where was Onyx?
“You make people care, then you drop them like flies when they get too close. Because no one is good enough for you, Golden Boy.”
“I said shut the fuck up!” He dug the gun harder against the sliver of exposed skin, an ident he was sure would leave a mark tomorrow. If either of them ever saw a tomorrow.
“Are you afraid to face the ugly truth you keep hidden under that pedestal of yours? All that anger I see bubbling within you?”
The Red Hood suddenly bucked up with a surprising amount of strength, dislodging Dick from his position until he’d tumbled backwards to the ground. Between one blink and the next, he’d lost the upper-hand, the Red Hood pressing the gun to Dick’s chin as he hovered over him. Those blank white eyes seemed to sear his soul and Dick felt more helpless than he’d ever been before. Like the weight he’d told himself he could carry was threatening to crush him, to consume him, to end his misery once and for all--and it took the shape of the Red Hood. He hoped that, should this be his end, that he’d finally know peace. Rest. Relief.
Too many masks to juggle, too many faces to keep track of. He was falling apart at the seams with no way to stop it. And somehow…somehow the Red Hood knew it. Could see it. But how?
“You see, I can’t let you be the bad guy here, Dickie. You’re too pretty for that. And besides, I’m the prodigal son in this family,” he tsked, moving the barrel gun a few inches over before firing into the meat of his shoulder.
Gasping in pain, in shock by the wave of doubt his words brought to Dick, he barely had the strength to shove the man off of him before the Red Hood (or…was he? Could he be? It wasn’t possible, there’s no way, there’s just no way) slapped a white bandage on the wound and stood up out of reach.
“That’s a fairly high-end field dressing for the modern soldier. It adheres as well as closes the wound with an antibacterial adhesive agent…stops the bleeding cold. So, you’ll live Big Bird.”
“Ja-Jason…?” Dick whispered. The disbelief clouded his lungs as he grappled with such an unbelievable possibility. Daddy, Golden Boy, Pretty Bird, Dickie--only one person in his life had ever amassed such an array of nicknames for him. One teenage Robin whose death still hurt no matter how many years passed. A boy whose stilted plea for help went unanswered in Dick’s voicemail box until it was too late. He could still recite it word for word to this day.
The Red Hood moved to where Onyx had been, picking up the knife she’d pulled out of her shoulder before she’d made her escape while they fought. Dick wanted to begrudge her for leaving him, but a shoulder wound like hers could’ve become quite dangerous if left untreated for too long. It still felt like a let down, though. “Well, it’s been fun, but the war never stops--you know how it is. Maybe next time you can bring the costume and we’ll make it a proper date…though I do love you in my colors for once.”
Gripping his injured shoulder tightly Dick tried to breath through the tears which began to blur his vision. How pathetic he must look, laying on the ground in a pool of his own failure. It was hard to think about Tommy, and Ray, and all the things Black Mask might do to them because of this major fuck up of an operation when the Red Hood’s words…Jason’s words…kept circling in his head. His words, his laugh, his very presence which felt like picking at an old wound that never healed right.
The wail of police sirens echoed in the distance, followed closely by the sounds of gunshots, but all Dick could focus on before the sweet abyss of unconsciousness took him was Jason’s fading image. A red helmet melding into a blushing boy, a boy so easily flustered by Dick’s silly taunts, back when he felt high on life with a team at his back and the strength of his rebellion against Bruce keeping him afloat. They’d been so young, so naïve, so trusting. What had happened to them? What had happened to him?
But, more importantly, what the hell had happened to Jason?
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