Chapter Text
About a strange call, a road to nowhere and a guy in a red hoodie
Just a week ago, celebrating his twenty-seventh birthday, Dick Grayson didn't know that he would be driving a car in the middle of the desert, feeling like a character in a B-rated horror movie. True, Dick, in principle, couldn't fairly judge the plots of such films as he didn't like them too much and tried his best to avoid them. But the feeling was so acute that it was impossible to give it another name for it was the third day of the journey along the sandy plateau. Dick had already forgotten the last time he slept and ate properly, and a hot shower seemed like a fantasy that came from a dream. And yet, he stubbornly drove forward, nodding off right at the wheel…
Seven days ago, he turned twenty-seven years old. Six days ago, he arrived in Gotham and found Bruce making a phone call that drastically changed their lives.
Dick always considered Bruce to be an unbreakable rock, a citadel of justice, and just sometimes an asshole with dried out tear ducts. But, walking along the long corridor of the Wayne Manor, Dick saw with his own eyes that Bruce is as human as all of them. His father — albeit adopted, but Dick was too old to deny it — spoke on the phone. More precisely, he listened to what was said to him from that old thing. And thick, fat tears flowed down his cheeks and onto his crumpled home shirt.
The first thought was that something had happened in the family. But Dick had just passed Alfred, and Tim, Dami, Duke, and Barbara were waiting for him in the living room while Cassandra and Stephanie were showering after patrol. But what if it's Lucius? Clark? Diana? The rest of the Justice League? Has something happened to them? And who in the twenty-first century still uses a landline?
While Dick was thinking, the conversation ended, and Bruce, still clutching the phone handle in his hands, slowly knelt down. It was as if a thousand-year-old oak tree had surrendered to the whim of the winds and time, bowed to the ground for the last time, while its insides cracked and shattered into sharp splinters.
And then Dick didn't think. Dick acted.
Carefully taking the phone from him, Dick grabbed Bruce by the arms and almost dragged him into his room. A quiet voice in the back of his mind whispered that he shouldn't show Bruce in this state to anyone. And Bruce is unlikely to want anyone else to see his weakness. His idea to hide Bruce for the time being was almost successful, but Bruce suddenly came to life and began to resist. By the time Dick realized what was happening, they were already halfway to the door to Jason's room. Swallowing viscous saliva, he stopped pulling on himself and helped Bruce move the last few feet, and after that it wasn't long before they made it to the bed.
Collapsing on the burgundy blanket with Bruce, Dick inhaled noisily, wondering again how Alfred could keep this room so clean. Bruce, diligently not looking at Dick, grabbed one of the red pillows and pressed it to his face with both hands. For a person who, according to Bruce, liked the color green, Jason had too many red things.
"Bruce?.." Dick started, putting his hand on his father's trembling shoulders, but the man shook his head, silently asking for more time.
"Jason," Bruce finally said muffledly into the pillow, gathering his strength. "It was Jason. He invited me to visit."
Dick's heart, already not finding a place for itself in his chest, sank somewhere down with a pulling pain. And then it flared up in anger.
"Bruce. Jason is dead."
They buried him. Small, bright and so kind, if you break through his thick shell, a boy. Ten years have passed since then, and now someone was trying to take advantage of their love for him.
"I know!" Bruce raised his voice, dropping the pillow, and Dick winced. He didn't like it when his father screamed. And there was the fact that Bruce hadn't lost his composure in such a way for a long time. "But it's him, Dick. It really was Jason. I feel it."
"Feelings are not proof," Dick pulled Bruce towards him, hugging him, and he, in a moment of weakness, allowed it. "We need to think rationally. Check the phone…"
"The phone, grave and a city," Bruce agreed after a few minutes of silence and hugged Dick tightly in return. "Night Vale. Jason invited me there."
Seven days ago Dick celebrated his birthday. Six days ago, Bruce received a call from a person pretending to be Jason. Five days ago, what they found almost drove them mad.
First of all, they decided not to tell anyone. Unfortunately, this decision hadn't saved them from Alfred, who still understood and found out everything. It wasn't clear from the look on butler's face what he was feeling, but Dick kept noticing how he stopped all the time to calm the trembling in his hands. This only made it worse: Dick never liked to keep secrets anyway, and now all three of them literally crumbled before each other's eyes and still had to hide their secret with all their might.
Am three of them checked the call after locking themselves inside Alfred's room so that no one else would suspect something. Telephone logs from the landline did show an incoming call. But the number from which it was made, even at first glance, couldn't exist in this world. After the second and third glance, supported by a search in databases and registries, and some simple googling, it still remained rubbish. One could understand their surprise when Alfred, unable to stand it, called the number, and somebody on the other side actually picked up. Dick and Bruce then, without saying a word, got up and left the room, after barely seeing Alfred's tears and a timid smile.
When Alfred finally descended into the Batcave to confirm Jason's existence in some Godforsaken place, Bruce had already received all documents needed for the exhumation, and Dick began to scour the Internet about Night Vale. Which, in fact, also didn't exist. Not on maps, not in history. Only scraps of information and horror stories on the forums, and rare photographs. But what fool would believe crumpled travel brochures with "A City Full of Hidden Evil and Secret Hostility" written on them? Dick certainly wouldn't have believed it if he were an ordinary person. But he wasn't. Dick survived meetings with meta-humans, mutants, monsters, aliens, magicians, robots, ghosts… After all that, some kind of horror story city, all the information about which was reduced to "From point A, go straight until you see the road sign", looked easy. The only catch was that point A could be anywhere from a street in the suburbs of America to a research station in the Arctic.
Dick was about to contact the Justice League, or one of the wizards he knew — everything was too suspicious — when Bruce called him with the results of the exhumation. It turned out that Jason's body existed in the same way as the city of Night Vale, or the mysterious telephone number — it didn't, but had living eyewitnesses.
"When I installed burglary sensors," Bruce told him then, breathing heavily into the phone, which he had never done before. "I didn't think that someone could break the coffin from the inside."
Hearing that, Dick hung up the phone and went to pack his things. He realized what Bruce was trying to tell him even then, but his brain refused to accept such a terrible truth. It was easier to think that some sick villain had done it. And if someone dug up and defiled the body of his younger brother, then the matter became personal, too personal to contact others with a direct request. Dick was ready to break all that bastard bones with his own hands, no matter how much Bruce frowned at the unnecessary violence. He finally lost it, bursting into tears, when he saw the coffin up close and could no longer deny the reality of what had happened. Sobs literally choked him as Bruce stood next to him, stone faced, and looked at the coffin lid, covered in bloody scratches on the inside.
Dick hardly even remembered that seven days ago was his birthday. He was shaking at the thought that six days ago Bruce had received a phone call from his dead brother, whose grave they had opened five days ago. Four days ago, they almost killed each other arguing over who would go to Night Vale.
In the end, Dick was able to convince Bruce that it would be better for him to stay in Gotham. It was easier in every way: Wayne was too prominent a figure, the Justice League needed Batman, and the rest of the family needed Bruce himself. Brothers and friends and Blüdhaven also needed Dick, but at least he could disappear for a while. Also, he must have finally learned how to argue with his stubborn goat of a father and win, especially with the help of Alfred, who assessed the situation more clearly than both of them combined.
Goodbyes didn't take long. His thing, packed since yesterday, Dick loaded into an expensive jeep, then hugged everyone who could see him off, ruffled Damien's hair, promised to call regularly, and left, supposedly to rest with supposed friends. It was a shame to lie to the family again, but this lie was for the good. And no one will accuse Dick of treachery if he can really bring Jason back from the dead, or where this Night Vale was. Tim and Damien, so grown up but children still, waved after Dick for a long time as he drove towards the nearest A-point. According to a post on a deep web forum, he needed to drive down one of the highways from Gotham, then turn right and continue straight ahead on an inconspicuous dirt road until he saw the right billboard. The author of the post also stated that during the search you can’t go out or stop, just go ahead, otherwise you can get lost. An exception — if you really really need to do a toilet break. Not really believing in all that, Dick nevertheless stocked up on energy drinks and granola bars in advance. He couldn't risk anything when Jason was on the line. Unless, of course, Jason truly wasn't the one waiting for him at the other end of the road.
Dirt road was really hard to find — Dick would probably have passed it if he hadn't slowed down to a snail's crawl. He accelerated only when he was convinced that he was exactly where he needed to be, and began to count miles. Only nothing happened: he drove through familiar parts of Jersey, dreaming of getting out and stretching his legs, drinking energy drinks to stay awake, eating candy bars with dry cereal, thinking about everything and remembering the days gone by. But nothing changed until the third day.
The last supplies of food and concentrated caffeinated heart attack have run out. The sun has long gone below the horizon. A full, pale moon rose, but the world remained a barely visible outline behind a patch of headlights. Dick began to frankly fall asleep at the wheel. He held on with the last of his strength, or rather even stubbornness and desire to still find Jason. He hoped to the last bit of his sanity that it wasn't a hideous prank, or some kind of trap, or the devil knows what else. But he was tired and hungry and…
Still fell asleep at the wheel. It only took a few seconds when his eyes were closed and the head fell on the chest for something unusual to happen. Because when Dick opened his eyes again, the world subtly changed, and that sensation sent goosebumps up his spine. No, the landscape outside the window didn't change, time didn't jump, and Dick remained himself. Only a strange premonition in the hindbrain and a GPS gone mad. Dick hardly even paid attention to the last bit, and then he completely forgot, because something appeared in the distance on the edge of the road. With sleepiness all but vanishing, he pressed the gas pedal.
"Welcome to Night Vale, 6 miles," read a huge, chipped road sign at the edge of the road. It was already a completely dark, starless night, but the text was perfectly readable even in the dull light of jeeps headlights. Dick breathed a sigh of relief, looking back at the road. He finally found this city, he came…
Dick could've sworn that there was no one on the road or on either side of it, and nobody could appear in those insignificant moments that it took him to read that road sign. But the headlights definitely illuminated a human figure almost in front of the car: Dick even managed to see the guy's red sweatshirt, black strands under the tight hood, his bright blue eyes, the light of a lit cigarette. And the next moment he screamed and braked sharply, turning the steering wheel to the side.
Fast enough. The guy, that damn psycho, was left somewhere in the dark, and Dick pressed his hand to his heart, trying to calm its frantic pounding. You have to be a huge idiot to get out in the middle of the highway at night. From where did he even come from?!
The door on the passenger side opened, and Dick jerked his head up, ready to defend himself. But he didn't have to — the guy threw away his cigarette butt and calmly got into the jeep, closing the door behind him. Up close, Dick distinctly saw both long eyelashes and the way his hair curled, noticed that his bangs were completely white, and his nose was hooked, and that the involuntary passenger was tall and young. A total stranger in his twenties.
"Jason?" Dick breathed out uncertainly, because something inside, in his chest, in his heart and in his very soul, screamed to him that it was him. That this was his brother. Risen from the dead, completely different from the little boy or the way Jay grew up in bitter fantasies and dreams. But him. Brother. Little Wing.
"One and only," stranger answered in a low, slightly hoarse voice, turning to face Dick. "You look like shit, Dickie."
Dick broke down and snorted, loudly. He felt nauseous and even started to shake a little. Now he understood why Bruce and Alfred unanimously repeated that it was Jason, and there could be no mistake or catch. It was just that part of Dick that loved and would always love Jason was yelling out loud that it was him. That it will always recognize Jay, in whatever guise he appears.
Jason, meanwhile, sighed softly and pulled off his hood. Dick hadn't seen him this shaggy since Bruce brought home a small and hungry boy from the streets. He even forgot how the black strands almost curled into rings and framed a thin face, tips almost touching his shoulders. But seeing it again, Dick remembered with a painful twinge how more than once or twice he tousled this hair to the indignant squeak of his brother. Or almost the same hair. Adult Jay's bangs were completely white. Beneath them was a strange tattoo in the center of his forehead: purple lines intertwined into a stylized eye with a narrow pupil and a scattering of short, thick eyelashes.
"And lets you stare at me later," Jason grunted, pulling Dick out of some semblance of a trance. "We'll get to my place and we'll talk there. You are really tired."
"Yes." Dick licked his dry lips and started the car again. The nausea went away as it had come, only his hands were still trembling a little. "You’re right… It’s just… Damn, Jay…"
"Now one and a half miles at any speed, and then you have to drive one hundred and eighty, don't forget." Somehow distant, as if not listening to Dick, Jason said and turned to the window. "We have a system of road sign semaphores here. You're definitely not used to it."
"You died! " Dick suddenly blurted out, and even he himself heard a shrill note in his voice. As if he was about to fall into a tantrum, or, worse, faint. Hunger, lack of sleep, nerves — that's how Dick calmed his pride so as not to burst into tears.
"Is life not death, which hasn’t happened yet?" Jason said, and suddenly a heavy hand landed on Dick's knee. How does Jay have such big hands, if he died so small and fragile?.. "One and half miles at normal showed, then another half at hundred and eighty, then I'll tell you what next. Come on Dicky, you can do it."
Dick sucked in air and held his breath as he leveled the car back on the road. Yes, he can. If he successfully found Night Vale and even met Jason, he's sure can do everything. A little patience, and Dick will even get all the answers to his questions.
The jeep rushed forward like a bobcat stung in the ass by a vengeful bee.
Somewhere ahead, over the night city, strange turquoise lights lit up.