Chapter Text
Quiet, Mi amor.
Dick gasps awake, covered in sweat and grime from not showering after patrol the night before. Vestiges of her whisper trace the shell of his ear. A quick look at the clock tells him it’s way too early to get up, but he knows he won’t get any more sleep tonight anyway. Anchors weigh on his chest as he sits up, the blanket pooling around his waist.
The room around him is dark–almost pitch black– as he blinks through syrupy thoughts. He laments the warmth of his bed with a quick and heavy sigh, but finally manages to slip his feet onto the cold hardwood floor.
Callado shh.
He shakes his head violently to remove the sickening words from his thoughts. It doesn’t work. It never does. Instead, the voice repeats and morphs and soaks through the cotton in his brain.
Slowly, he pads over to the bathroom to wash his face, passing a full bottle of prescription pills without even a glance. It’s all he can manage these days to even look at them.
I’m making an executive decision, Catwoman.
Dick looks in the mirror and sees a ghost staring back. A dead man lost in the desert with a baby in his arms. A child eating rats off the cave floor. He looks away, unable to bear the emptiness staring back at him. At the poison he can see dripping off his skin; the droplets of blood mixing with rain.
He looks at the shower, considering. Then he smells his shirt, vaguely disgusted at the sweat emanating from him. Still. It’s better than that god awful clinging cherry perfume she used to wear. He decides to take a shower anyway, his hair’s starting to get itchy with grease and the scent is lingering. He decides, but ends up staring at the shower curtain for god-knows how long.
Just do it, fuckin idiot, He berates himself internally.
Feeling a bit like he’s stepping up to the gallows, he strips down and makes the monumental stride over the edge of the tub. He turns the knob all the way to the left to burn away the feeling of bugs crawling through his skin.
Mi amor
He’s pretty sure he spaces out again, because next thing he knows, the room is foggy with steam and he feels faint with the heat. Good.
Dick is quick and methodical, electing to let his mind autopilot him through the shower. He used to enjoy the feeling of water pelting his neck and relaxing his muscles. Now, it’s just suffocating. It feels like Lex Luthor’s rough hand covering his mouth and nose while Dick chokes on the acidic foam that bubbles up from his stomach and stutters his heart to a stop.
As soon as he towels off and changes into a pair of relatively clean sweatpants, he makes his way to the empty kitchenette. He’s making a cup of coffee to get his day started when he notices a creak on floorboards behind him near the window.
He sighs deeply, but doesn’t turn from the brewing machine.
“What do you want, Tim?” Dick’s just out of it enough that he doesn’t feel guilty for starting the conversation on a less than friendly note. It’s not like Tim really cares anyway at this point.
“You haven’t been to the manor in a while.” Tim’s voice is flat and gives nothing away. Dick knows better than that though. He’s angry. He hates him now, just like Jason and the others.
It’s not a question, but rather a demand for answers he doesn't have. Probably so Tim can tell Alfred he did his due diligence and can go back to ignoring Dick.
“And?”
Doesn’t mean he has to make it easy.
Tim says nothing, but Dick hears footsteps carefully step over to the edge of the kitchen laminate. A soft puff of air escapes Dick’s lips as he recalls the last time he went to the manor(three or four weeks ago at this point). Even though he tried his best to keep conversation going, it seemed as if no one but Damian even wanted to look at him the entire time. In the end, he gave up and spent the rest of the evening by Alfred's side cleaning up after dinner before quietly slipping out without a goodbye. Not like they would've noticed anyway.
“Alfred’s getting worried.” Tim says after a moment.
Bingo.
Dick presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath in. His hands shake as he attempts to steady himself. He’s trying to ignore the bomb shaped hole in his heart as he answers.
“Well if he’s so worried, he can call and talk to me himself.” Dick finally turns around, pressing the cup to his lips and taking a long sip, ignoring the burn as it slides over his tongue.
Tim looks incredulous as he raises his voice slightly, “He has! You never answer! I know you’re an inconsiderate prick, but the least you could do is answer Alfred, probably the only person in the world who doesn’t want to punch your face in.”
Dick stares blankly, barely able to keep his face from reacting. It’s not like begging for forgiveness will help anything(been there, done that).
“Are you done?” He says instead, feigning cool indifference.
Tim scoffs, turning away and making to leave. Then he hesitates, one foot out the window, and speaks so softly Dick’s not even sure if he heard correctly.
“It’s been too quiet lately."
He pauses, as if waiting for Dick to respond. He doesn't. Nothing he says will change the situation, so why bother?
Neither of them say anything more as his brother disappears into the morning air with a flurry of his cape.
The rest of his morning goes by in a haze, words from the past assaulting his every move.
You don’t do that to another Robin!
Jason was right, of course. It was Dick’s fault he got caught in the first place. If he had just been watching his six like he had been trained to. If he had just looked back once. If he cared to double check, he wouldn’t have gotten himself captured. He wouldn’t have died. He wouldn’t hate Bruce this much. He would still have his brothers. His family would be whole.
I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson.
Sometimes, he swears he can still hear the beeps of that fucking machine speed up before Lex puts his hand over Dick’s mouth.
When he finally manages to lift his head from the couch he’s laying on, the sun is already high in the sky and the clock on the stove reads late afternoon. Damn. He really needs to get out of this apartment. The stale air is starting to smother him.
"Get up, asshole." He groans out loud at himself.
Lately even pulling his body weight to a sitting position seems like an impossible task. But he can't afford to stay in bed or on the couch all day; he’d completely waste away if he let that happen. He’s well on his way to that reality already, but Dick’s an expert at pushing himself in hopeless situations. This is nothing.
He ends up staying seated for another twenty minutes before actually hauling himself up and making his way to the bedroom to get dressed. The blue sweatshirt Damian gave him a couple years prior and the pants he wore yesterday will have to do. With a quick glance in the mirror to fix his hair and rinse his mouth out, he’s out the door.
Outside the apartment, the sun is blaring down(a rarity in Gotham) and Dick curses everything above. He was not prepared to be blinded today and it just further sours his already shitty mood. He strongly reconsiders being outside, but moves further from the building anyway.
Lately, the world seems grayer than he remembers. It’s not like he doesn’t understand why–it’s the one thing that actually makes sense about his situation–but he just can’t seem to bring himself out of it. He’s Dick Grayson (disgraced)ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne, cheerful and positive to a fault. He should snap out of this funk already. People count on him and he’s just further proving his incompetence to Bruce the more he sulks, but he’s just so fucking tired of trying.
He’s tired of being the “Golden boy”, the “good” one, the unwavering hero. After everything that happened in Spyral, those monikers just feel wrong. He thought he could still keep the “oldest brother” title if nothing else, but that, too, was stripped from him unknowingly during the year everyone mourned his death.
And he is angry about it.
What gave Bruce the right to let them believe he died; that he lied to everyone and left them cold-heartedly? What gave him the right to sit by and watch as Jason punched him? When Tim looked at him like Dick personally shattered his heart and stomped on the shards? When Damian, his Damian, looked at him like he was a stranger?
But he can’t even blame them for hating him at this point. They don’t know the truth of the situation. All they think is that he betrayed their trust and went undercover while he heartlessly made them mourn his ‘death’. It’s not like he’s innocent, though. He can recognize that at least. He’s a grown man who can make decisions for himself(even if one of those said decisions felt like it was ground and beaten out of him). In the end, he doesn’t blame anyone besides himself and Bruce for how things turned out. And boy, does he blame Bruce.
The worst part is that even if Dick does tell the truth, it will just sound like he was shifting the blame like a child. Bruce knows that. And he had exploited that against Dick, as a lie of omission. As angry as Dick is at that fact, a part of him recognizes the logic in it.
If Bruce and the family didn't blame him, then everything in their world would fall apart. Bruce would not only lose the trust of his family, but of the vigilantes he's raised. Especially Red Hood, who is already a livewire to begin with.
As much as he despises Bruce right now, he’d rather the family focus their anger on Dick at the end of the day. He doesn’t want everything to blow up and make himself into a victim. Besides, Bruce is far more important to the family dynamic than Dick is.
However, just because he recognizes the logic behind Bruce’s decision, it doesn’t mean he forgives him. Nor does it mean Dick hates him any less. He told Bruce that everything would change when he got back and he meant it.
Even though he’s been back for a little under 6 months, he has yet to speak to Bruce alone beyond the occasional report and Arkham breakout. He used to be bitter and upset that Bruce never bothered to adopt him, but now, it feels like a blessing. Bruce doesn’t have to be related to such a fuckup of a person and Dick doesn’t have to say that his legal father beat him. It’s not abuse if it’s two grown unrelated men fighting. Right?
Seething, simmering rage is the only emotion he can actually dredge up lately, and he clings to it like a lifeline. It's the only reprieve from this aching numbness; the only thing holding him together. He's afraid what may happen if he lets go. The storm may sweep him away and he may never surface again(not that he’s ever really been above the waves). Not that he hasn’t been drowning in it for years already. Ever since that day on the rooftop. Ever since—
He thought the sun was shining, but now he’s not so sure. He swears he can feel shocks of cold, pelting and trapping and clinging his clothes to his body. His breath quickens.
Callado shh.
Dick ends up at the grocery store in what feels like a blink and he’s surprised by sudden movement to his left. It’s a child throwing a tantrum over what seems like a balloon and his poor mother looks so worn out trying to wrangle him.
“Shh, Cállate Mi vida, we don’t have enough for that balloon. We can get it next week when I get paid.”
Dick feels so bad for the woman that he internally debates just buying the balloon for the kid himself, but before he can, she grabs the screaming boy’s hand and exits the store.
Eventually, he goes around in a haze to gather his supplies and pays before heading back to the apartment. Even this short trip has exhausted him beyond belief. He plans to take a nap before patrol, but by the time he gets home, he’s already made a list of things he needs to do before he can rest. He’s been neglecting chores around the house and figures since he's up, he should knock them out. Man, he really doesn’t want to, though.
He only gets so far as taking his shoes off in the entryway before he spots Jason on his couch.
“If I had a nickel for every time one of my brothers has been in my apartment today….well, I’d have two nickels.” Dick injects some levity into his tone, so as to not set off his brother. He makes his way to the small kitchen and haphazardly sets the bags down before starting to put the few items he bought away.
Jason ignores his comment, instead electing to brood in the dark a moment longer. He gets up slowly, leather jacket creaking and zippers jangling.
“Fuck’s up with your apartment, dude? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was abandoned.”
It basically is, Dick almost says.
“Hi Jason, nice to see you too. I’m just peachy, thanks for asking.”
Jason scoffs, “You think I care? That’s not why I came here.”
And okay, ouch.
“You asked, jeez.” Dick suppresses the urge to turn around and walk his ass right back out of the apartment, but decides against it at the last second in favor of his curiosity, “Then, Oh Great Red Hood of Crime Alley, please pray tell.”
Jason stares at Dick for a second, expression hesitant(and more than slightly annoyed).
“Okay, the last thing I want right now is to see your shitty face, so believe me when I say I have no choice, but I need an extra body during a raid coming up. You’re the only one available.”
Dick sucks in a breath, squashing any hope that bubbles up. Of course he needs something, why else would he be here? Certainly not for a friendly chat.
“How do you know I’m available? I could be just as busy.” Dick is looking for an out. As much as he loves his siblings, he can’t really bear to be around them when he knows he’s the cause of their latest trauma.
Jason gives him an unimpressed look and gestures around the apartment. At the obvious trash and pile of laundry in the corner and the distinct lack of decoration.
Now it’s Dick’s turn to hesitate, “Fine, send me the details.”
Jason doesn’t bother thanking Dick, instead nodding exactly once and turning toward the window.
“You know I have a front door right?”
“Where's the fun in that?”
In the next breath, he’s gone.
Turns out ‘coming up’ means the raid’s happening the very next day. It doesn’t really give him enough time to understand the situation he’s getting himself into, but Dick’s gone in blind before and survived(okay maybe except for the last time but who's keeping track).
Whatever, he doesn’t really care about the details, as long as he can get in and out quickly and go back to his dark apartment to sulk in peace. Sleep sounds nice right about now. Really nice. And if he just happens to not wake up at all, well, it wouldn't be any sweat off his back.
Dick wonders vaguely when the thought of death became more comforting and less overwhelming. It’s not like he doesn’t have experience in the matter. He remembers what it felt like to die, however brief it was. It was darkness and pure.. nothingness. Just absolute stillness and bliss.
Right now, he craves that feeling. Has craved it since Jason punched him. Maybe even before.
Dick somehow manages to scrounge enough energy to pull his suit on the next day, noticing how loose it’s become around his waist and thighs. He crinkles his nose at the smell of the inside of his boots and sprays some deodorant inside before slipping them on. He’ll deal with it later.
He’s less meticulous than usual as he prepares for the night. But at the very least, he makes sure his escrima sticks are charged before he straps them to his back. He doesn’t bother locking the window on his way out, it’s not like it matters much anyway.
When he arrives early, he makes his way to the adjoining building and gears up to wait. After about half an hour, curiosity starts to prickle at the back of Dick’s mind. He slowly walks to the ledge peers over the edge of the Wayne Enterprise building, where he’s scheduled to meet Jason. A sick feeling curls in his gut. The wind whistles around the shell of his ear and subtly pushes against his back. He wonders exactly how much pressure would be enough to send him toppling below. A fitting death for a Grayson.
Fly. The wind says. Stop trying. It's not worth it. Just let go.
And by god, he wishes he could; wishes it were that simple.
He zones out, gaze on the lines of headlights on the street below, and doesn’t hear the soft thud of Jason’s boots on the rooftop behind him.
“Whatcha lookin at?” Dick would startle if he wasn’t already used to sudden appearances. Jason sounds cautious, which doesn’t really make sense to Dick.
“Nothing, just the pretty lights.” Dick replies easily, whipping his head up and plastering his signature grin on his face.
Jason eyes Dick carefully, “Well, the targets will be in that building there. Just need to get in, kick some ass, take some names, then get the hell out. You just need to distract them while I get info from their database. Sound good?”
“Yup.”
They both slip into position and wait for the signal.
It’s a clear night. The smog of the city seems to have dissipated briefly, offering a rare glimpse at the stars above. They remind him of days in the desert, desperately trying to keep a baby alive. He remembers pointing out the constellations and telling her stories to get her to sleep. It was cold at night, often leaving him huddled around the baby to keep her warm all while he couldn’t feel his feet. He wishes he could go back to that moment, as painful as it was. At least then, he had a goal–a purpose: to just keep walking. To keep her alive.
Now, though, it feels like he’s floating on still water-no current pulling him in any direction. He’s drifting and lost at sea, not even worried about making it to shore. A storm is brewing on the horizon, but he can’t find it within himself to care. Rather, he wishes the dark waves of the ocean would just pull him under already.
Jason looks over, “You’re quiet today.”
Dick shrugs, what can he say? He’s not really in a talking mood lately.
Before Jason can inquire any further, a black car pulls up and they switch to business mode. They wait a few moments for the target to get in the building and up to the right floor.
When they see the lights turn on, Red Hood gives the signal and they spring into action.
The windows burst when Nightwing moves in and he uses the strong lycra in his suit to block the pieces from scratching his face. Immediately, he wishes he demanded more information as he comes face to face with Black Mask and about 50 foot soldiers. He doesn’t have time to send an irritated look to Red Hood, because he’s overwhelmed trying to fight them off.
A well-aimed kick to the side sends a couple boxes corralling over onto the floor and on top of the closest foot soldier. He throws some sharp wingdings and two more go down. He doesn’t notice the small charges along the walls until it’s too late and one of the loose projectiles he launches gets stuck in the side of one.
“Red! Cover!” Nightwing yells as loud as he can before it goes off. Both of them run and dive behind the only desk in the room, covering their ears to protect their hearing.
Boom!
The whole building shakes and both of them are blown forward by the shockwave. Thankfully, it was a small bomb and it only collapsed part of the room. Nightwing wonders briefly how many more bombs there are and why they don’t seem to be connected or close to each other. If they were, that would’ve been bad.
“Why would Black Mask bomb his own building?” Nightwing yells incredulously over the sound of rubble dropping.
Red Hood looks at him and says harshly, “So he can watch idiots blow themselves up?”
“Hey! I lived!”
“Barely.” Red Hood mumbles. Then, “Fuck. We have company.”
Below, on the street, goons pour out of parked suvs.
“Guess we gotta leave the old fashioned way. I'll figure it out, you plug into the computer to get what you need.” Nightwing twirls his escrima sticks and charges the biggest guy, while Red Hood pops a couple goons with (seemingly) rubber bullets before plugging into the database.
The next couple minutes go by in a blur of fists and black suits dropping to the ground. Black Mask stands behind the wave of goons, a neck vein popping and face red, angrily waving his arms around. Despite the gravity of the situation, Dick finds the image vaguely comical.
Suddenly, Black Mask is shouting a retreat order above the chaos. Only about half of his men actually leave, but the bullets stop regardless and the dust starts to settle just a bit. Confusion gnaws at Nightwing. Why would they call for backup only to retreat?
Nightwing doesn't have to wait long for the answer, it seems. He spots it as he's mid-air and sideways, which causes him to stumble on the landing.
Fuck.
In the corner to the left of him red numbers are counting down, attached to a giant bomb. The wires on the outside and the color of the casing looks very similar to that god awful heart stopping machine.
The counter reads 01:45.
Oh.
Oh no.
His heart stutters in his chest. He catches a punch aimed at his face and twists on instinct, flipping the goon on his head. He doesn’t even quip because he doesn’t have time.
Dread fills his stomach and he’s suddenly lightheaded and queasy.
Even through the sounds of bodies hitting the floor and shouting, he swears he can hear it beeping as it counts down.
I’m making an executive decision, Catwoman.
I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson.
Nightwing looks around, trying to reorient himself and breathe normally. Red hood is fighting his way through goons, his back turned.
A goon to his right gets a lucky hit in when he’s distracted and Nightwing pedals backward, trying to catch himself. He does an uncoordinated back handspring, nearly spraining his ankle on the landing. His cheek hurts now and he’s even more disoriented. On pure adrenaline, he manages to fight off around ten goons, narrowly avoiding a baseball bat to the head. God, that would’ve hurt.
The clock on the bomb says 01:15 by the time he knocks down 5 more goons. Not fast enough.
Red Hood looks over to him and even below his helmet, Nightwing can tell he’s spotted the bomb too. A hand signal is shot over Red Hood’s head, which is meant to signal something important, but for some reason, Nightwing can’t comprehend it. His brain feels like slush and he can’t stop hearing that incessant beeping.
He’s survived more brutal situations than this, so why is he faltering now? Why can’t he feel his body? What’s wrong with him?
Frustration and anger surface within him at the situation and Dick can see his body freeze from somewhere above.
Shit.
He sends a prayer to anyone who will listen for his legs to unstick from the ground. For him to feel his arms beyond distant tingling.
Move, damnit.
A goon nearby seems to notice Nightwing’s predicament and goes to plunge a long knife between his ribs. The movement is so slow and uncoordinated that Dick could easily disarm him with one hand.
He doesn't. Can't.
He yells, screams, shouts at his body from the ceiling, but nothing happens outside of a finger twitching. Maybe this is the end. Maybe this is how he’s meant to go out, he realizes. Maybe he's supposed to die at the hands of some no name nobody. And didn't he want that? To die an inconsequential death? At least he didn't have to do it himself, right?
Red Hood looks over at him through the chaos and before anyone can do anything, the knife is lodged in Nightwing’s chest.
The pain snaps Dick back into his body like a freight train. He shares a brief moment of disbelief with the goon, where they both stare at each other, the hilt jutting out of his sternum. The man steps back in uncertainty while warm blood wells up Dick’s throat and dribbles out of his mouth.
Dick vaguely registers Jason’s modulated voice shouting over the waning crowd as Dick feels himself fall to the floor bodily. His head lulls heavily onto the concrete and he sees and hears the timer still counting down.
00:39
Fuck.
Is he really gonna die hearing that high pitched beeping? Again?
“Wing!”
His vision is spotted with black dots and he can’t feel his legs anymore.
00:14
The world around him blurs and muffles as his hearing fades and he doesn’t remember where he is all of a sudden.
The last thing he sees is Jason running toward him before he completely blacks out.