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It never gets easier.
Even now, almost two years later, Dick still finds himself waking from a light doze in a panic when he can’t recall Jason’s whereabouts.
In his dreams, Jason smiles. Breathless laughter erupting out of him like light from the sun when Dick scoops him up, not understanding the frenzy with which Dick checks him over but submitting to it all the same, confusion giving way to indulgent exasperation regardless of how many times Dick buries his face in the owlet’s hair and cries. Like he doesn’t understand why Dick clings to him like his life depends on it, like he’s just been away for a few minutes to fetch a glass of water and wonders what the fuss is all about.
And then Dick wakes up, the comforting smell dissipating along with the dream, and he wishes he could reach inside his chest and claw the heart right out of it.
But things aren’t that easy. And Tim- Tim needs him. Talon has one more nestling to protect.
“You want some?”
Talon chirrups from the back of his throat, picking at a bowl of frosties.
Tim rolls his eyes and sinks his teeth into the Alfred-issued sandwich with a decisive crunch, “You gotta eat something other than cereal once in a while.”
He raises his eye at the pot of coffee pointedly.
Pot, kettle.
Tim makes a sound like a dying walrus.
“That’s different and you know it!”
No, it really isn’t.
“Yes, it is!” Tim insists, correctly interpreting the pointed silence. “I have regular— okay, fine, semi-regular meals. And they always have healthy nutrition!”
The lettuce on a burger doesn’t count. Jason told him so.
Tim glowers, “At least I’m not just eating sugar with a bit of processed corn.”
Dick places a frosty on his tongue and relishes the crunch.
Tim huffs.
“Fine. Be that way. You’ll be the one to tell Alfred why you didn’t eat the sandwich.”
Dick doesn’t scoff, but it’s a near thing. Alfred’s disappointment is not enjoyable, but the Talon finds it hard to care at the best of times. And the less said about Bruce, the better.
Alfred couldn’t have been there to save his owlet, but he could have stopped the train wreck before it happened. Or at least slowed it enough that Dick didn’t have to return to a cold body, laid bare and carved open like a slab of meat on a butcher’s table.
Tim is the exception in that he hadn’t been a part of any of it then. And now he’s the last living relic of his owlet Talon still feels compelled to protect.
It’s a tricky thing, living for someone else. Dick has done so for many years, happy and content in the knowledge of a safety provided by not only himself, but those around him as well. A heart beating outside a body, and all the more vulnerable for it.
Complacency means death, the older Talon had told him.
Dick always assumed it was his own death the Talon was referring to.
“Hatchlings need to eat,” he declares serenely, popping another frosted flake into his mouth as he watches Tim work his way through the sandwich.
He is growing fast these days. Much taller already than Dick’s owlet was at that age. It’s a good sign, Dick thinks. Like this, he will outgrow the need for constant protection rather soon.
Every day Tim gets older than Jason ever got to be, and it’s both soothing and painful at once.
“‘m eating,” he grumbles, “But you aren’t.”
“Am.”
Tim’s glare is frosty. But all Dick can see is a tiny little bird fluffing up its downy hatchling feathers to appear larger.
Dick coos, the sound tapering off into a low whistle, and Tim scrunches his nose before reciprocating with a stuttering chirp. Talon breathes through the pang of pure agony it incites.
“Are you coming with us on patrol today?”
“Of course.”
“Are you gonna-“
“No.”
Tim nods, unsurprised.
“I’ll let Bruce know.”
Dick couldn’t care less.
“But, uh, just a heads up. I’ll be heading to the Tower with him after. There’s a debrief about the mission from last week. There’s-” he hesitates, the pitter-patter of his heartbeat betraying what he’s about to say, “Wally’s gonna be there, I think. And some of the others, too. Maybe you-”
“No.” Talon says, leaving no room for argument.
He will not go after them even though the laws of the Court dictate he should. Even though there’s something distinctly animal in his hindbrain shrieking at him to draw blood.
But he does not think he could bear to be in the same room as them and not attack. Wally pushed his luck when he came to Gotham once, almost a year ago. When he approached, full of hope and so much compassion, it had taken everything within Talon not to strike him down.
Worst of all, Talon thinks Wally might have let him. Because in his mind Dick could never do him harm, and he might have kept his trust long after his cooling body hit the ground.
But Tim had been there, tugging on his sleeve, heart rabbit-quick with fear, and that—coupled with Dick’s own traitorous affections—had stopped him from turning the roof crimson. And allowed Wally to leave in one piece.
Dick isn’t sure he would have extended the same courtesy to any of the other Titans, and he hates himself all the more for it. Everyone who could be even remotely blamed for Talon’s inattention that resulted in Jason death should be in the ground along with his owlet. The fact that so many of them are still breathing makes him nauseous.
But Jason- Jason likes the Titans. Talon can’t hurt people Jason likes. Jason would be upset. Talon must not-
“Okay,” Tim agrees easily. There’s no inflection in his voice, the disappointment that had come the first few times of asking the same question is notably absent.
“Oh, and Alfred asked if it’s okay for him to clean up- okay, that’s a no, got it!”
Dick has to exert conscious effort into unclenching his jaw, the mere thought of allowing anybody to rifle through the remainder of Jason’s belongings is almost unbearable. He doesn’t care about the dust collecting like a veil on top of books and pencils and trinkets. If he concentrates hard enough, he can pretend his owlet is going to come back any second and continue his homework.
“Don’t worry, I think Alfred just wanted to be courteous. I already told him you’ll probably say no,” Tim assures, wiping his hand on a pretty satin napkin that neither Jason nor Dick ever saw a need for, the finer details of etiquette lost to childish rebellion and petty attitude.
Tim is different, though. Tim was raised right. And wrong. An empty nest with scraps of security and propriety chucked at a smart little nestling to do with as he pleases.
Tim survived. A little hatchling in a cold cave growing into a fledgling, downy wings spread for premature flight, fluttering off into the distant sky and its promise of freedom.
Dick thinks Jason would have loved to see Tim fly.
“Oh, by the way, do you wanna come to the exhibit next week?”
Dick tilts his head, chirping inquisitively, and Tim launches into a stuttering explanation of photography and good grades, his face flushed an embarrassed pink.
“But I totally understand if you don’t want to! It’ll probably be really boring, anyway. And B already said he doesn’t know if he can make it, but I just wanted to let you know. Just in case. There’ll be a lot of people though, so maybe not, but-”
“I’ll be there,” Dick cuts in, a gentle trill tacked onto the end.
Tim’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, burning clean through the masterfully crafted facade of nonchalance before he visibly tries— and fails— to rein himself in.
“Great! It’s right after school, so we can still patrol with B afterwards. You won’t miss out on anything in that regard, and the whole thing will take two hours tops.”
It’s Dick’s fault that such a simple thing causes the little bird to display so much unadulterated joy. He’s been neglecting Tim for much longer than he had any right to. Jason would be so mad if he could see how grateful he is for any scraps of affection. Rightfully so. It’s not Tim’s fault that Dick wants to claw his own face off every time Robin does something that reminds him a little too acutely of his owlet.
Dick needs to do better. Make more of an effort to reintegrate himself into society as more than the shadow following in Robin’s wake. Civilians are scared of him again, and the commissioner looks like he’s always just one second away from massacring the entire city, and while Talon doesn’t care… Tim does.
Tim’s excited chatter stops when Dick lifts one hand, carefully telegraphing his movements as he reaches forward slowly and ruffles through the fledgling’s soft hair, almost long enough to collect in a small bun at his neck. Longer than Jason ever liked wearing his.
For a nanosecond, Tim freezes. Spine going ramrod straight as the Talon’s clawed hand makes contact, and Dick is ruefully reminded of the time they made Tim bleed crimson all over the floor in his frenzied urgency to get the suit away from him. The scars are still there, gnarly and discolored from the electrum. A lingering reminder of how much Talon should have ceased existing long ago. Dick never wanted to know what Tim’s blood under his fingernails feels like.
But then Tim melts, head turning more insistently into the caress, and a halting, almost questioning, coo spills from his throat, making every single animal instinct Dick is sure humans aren’t supposed to have hone in on him.
Talon hoots, a tittering sound that bounces off the kitchen walls in a strange echo and makes Tim’s mouth stretch into a careful smile. An expression that’s become too rare on his young face these days.
It’s okay, though. Talon will do better. And until the day he finally meets someone capable of putting him out of his misery, he’ll make sure the fledgling is safe and protected and capable of defending himself.
Weeks pass. Months pass.
The world stays grey and heavy with smog. Arkham’s revolving doors are an age-old tale repeating itself like clockwork. Riddler escapes and is caught. Ivy vanishes and reappears in Robbinson Park, absorbed in her own world of greenery and endangered plants. Penguin dumps tons of toxic waste into the harbor and blackmails the judge into letting him off with a slap on the wrist. People are kidnapped. People die. The perches remain empty.
Bruce still treats his fledgling like more of an outsider than a partner, but Dick recognizes the terror in the rigid line of his spine when Robin is a second too slow to respond on comms. The way he grows quiet and tense when Tim insists on taking on dangerous missions. The way he keeps near obsessive tabs on his missions with the Titans.
It doesn’t reassure Talon. Bruce cared for Jason, too. In ways more obvious than the pained-fond looks and harsh-fearful reprimands he’s become so prone to using on Tim. But Dick can admit it makes his self-imposed job a little easier.
“Nightwing?”
Dick clicks his tongue, annoyed. Bruce and Tim steadfastly refuse to go back to calling him Talon no matter how much he hisses at them. Nightwing tastes all kinds of wrong on his tongue. Nightwing is good and bright. Nightwing doesn’t lay awake and wish he’d drawn out the Joker’s death more.
He chirps an affirmative, soothing Bruce’s unasked question about Robin’s whereabouts.
He can see the little bird just fine, flitting like a wraith between the gaps in security to Scarecrow’s lair, disabling traps and knocking out henchmen like it’s a fun pastime. He stops, just for a moment, and grins out the window over the shoulder of the last guard to salute Talon mischievously before knocking them out silently. Talon’s chest hurts.
The comm line crackles, “All clear!”
Batman grunts, “Alert the commissioner and look for any useful documents. I’ll take care of the hostages.”
“Roger that,” he says brightly, vanishing through one of the doors on the left side of the corridor. “Anything in particular you want me to look out for?”
“Crane’s notes,” there’s a small scuffle in the background, the wheezing noise of a goon put in a chokehold. “Anything that will help us pinpoint the planned epicenter of his new plan.”
Dick does a quick scope of the rooftops, satisfied when he finds them as empty as when the night began, and swings down towards the old office building, hands catching on the window frame. He pulls himself soundlessly into the hallway, sparing a moment to be proud of the way the henchmen are tied up in a neat circle at the top of the staircase, a little pink bowtie fastened to the front of a burly man’s shirt, and then proceeds three doors down to where Tim is rifling through stacks of documents.
“Right, well, there’s a whole lot of nothing here,” he barely looks up when Talon slides into the room, gesturing absently at another box. “Useless info, compound chemicals, scrapped theories…”
Whereas most of the building looks ripe for demolition, there’s obvious care put into the setup of this one. The lack of windows provides the perfect lighting for a number of wall mounted monitors along the back, all of them in various stages of uploading their files onto the bat shaped flash drive blinking a lazy red. The rest of the room is a colorful amalgamation of lab equipment and stray papers. The remainders of a hurried evacuation.
“Looks like someone tipped Crane off, anything useful is gone as far as I can see. With the digital files I might be able to restore some if Crane purged them, but the physical ones are just gibberish.”
A faint sob echoes over the comms, followed by a quiet, reassuring murmur.
“Understood. Wrap up on your end and meet me outside. Hostages are safe.”
An easy night, then. Though not with the desired outcome of apprehending Scarecrow.
Dick tilts his head curiously when Tim stops thumbing through the papers, eyebrows pulling together in puzzlement. Behind him, the flash drive blinks green,
Talon chirps quietly, drawing Robin out of his musings. He looks wary-bewildered-confused, and it puts Talon into immediate alert, walking briskly until he comes to a stop at the hatchling’s side to see what agitated him, only to feel every single muscle in his body lock up when the words register.
“Uhm, Batman?”
Tim chirrups quietly, hand coming up slowly to touch Talon’s elbow, and Talon takes a conscious breath to dispel the fog of violence clouding his vision, choosing instead to focus on the little bird looking up at him with apprehension-bordering-on-fear, and returns the call with a short trill.
The fledgling relaxes.
“What is it, Robin?”
“We found a file. Transactions. Someone transferred a big sum of money to Crane’s accounts. He’s got-” Tim stutters, worrying his lip, “It says the money’s from the Red Hood.”
Talon scours the entire city, top to bottom, but the Red Hood remains a phantom. Unlike his namesake, this new player is quiet. Stealthy.
A name in black ink on white paper and a damning date the only proof of existence.
Talon wants to find him and make him choke on his own blood. Drive it home once and for all that anybody who so much as thinks about idolizing that wretched monster will meet a similar fate.
But no matter how much he searches; every lead ends up cold. Criminals talk of him in hushed whispers, a rumor more than anything. An up-and-coming player with no clear base of operation. Someone with money. Someone who’s not afraid to use violence. Someone who makes the mob twitchy.
It’s maddening. Training or no, nobody save Batman should have the skill necessary to evade a Talon in their own city. Dick’s been raised to know every single crevice of Gotham by heart. Every nook, every sewer. Every pipe that leads back to the Court’s labyrinth and its endless cave systems.
It makes Talon’s sluggish heartbeat quicken into something a little more human. The thought of someone dangerous enough to hide from him, with Joker’s name, residing in the same city bounds as his last living fledgling.
It’s a foray into space and a cold table and the concave of a skull all over again.
No, not this time. Talon isn’t leaving.
Talon won’t rest until the threat is eliminated.
And then the GCPD opens a duffle bag and finds eight severed heads staring back at them.
Dick returns to the manor quietly; shaken.
Red Hood managed to kill right under his nose, and Talon didn’t realize until after everything was over.
Red Hood can operate with a Talon hounding his every footstep.
He misjudged the situation. If this imposter is capable of achieving such feats, Talon cannot afford to leave Tim unguarded at any point.
At least Bruce and Alfred seem to share this opinion, as both have put their foot down against Tim staying at Drake manor. If it was up to Dick, he wouldn’t even be joining them on patrol, but he also knows the mulish expression on the fledgling’s face well enough to surmise he would have snuck out anyway.
Pick your poison, Jason likes to say.
A temporary solution to a temporary problem.
But as time passes and Hood becomes more daring in his actions, staking his claim over parts of the Bowery and elbowing his way into the drug trade with unrivaled skill and brutality, a sneaking suspicion begins to form in Dick’s head. Faint at first, ludicrous almost, only to gain traction the more information they manage to gather between them.
Up until it all comes to a head when Batgirl sends them a short sequence of grainy footage capturing the Red Hood on camera for the first time, crimson helmet a splotch of displaced color in a sea of concrete gray.
Tim is excited. Bruce is stoic. Alfred is concerned. They’re bouncing ideas and theories between them, identities and background. Psychological profiling. Anything that could help them narrow down the list of suspects and find a motivation behind Hood’s meteoric rise through the Gotham underground. Moving on from the footage to argue tactics and possible ways of drawing Hood out of hiding.
It’s useless, of course. Neither motif nor identity are part of this particular equation. They’re missing the obvious.
The footage shakes, tinny bangs and yells echoing over the speakers. A flash of gunfire, the harsh flare of an explosion. A shadow moving along the wall to the spray of blood. It’s an out of place sound in the otherwise silent cave. The early morning hours assuring his lone presence, with Tim tucked safely into a nest behind the impenetrable walls of Wayne Manor’s security.
“Talon,” Dick says quietly. Because there’s nothing else Hood could be, moving the way he does.
It’s the same techniques the older Talon used to instill in him with brutal efficiency. The same ones later honed by the other Talon, not as painful.
The grace of a swooping owl, talons extended to pierce the flesh of its prey. To put an end to the beating heart within.
The screen flickers, the footage glitching as it rewinds and resumes playing.
And Dick watches for the umpteenth time as the Red Hood vaults himself off a rooftop with no safety line to break his fall, rolling gracefully through the open window of an adjacent building before vanishing from sight. Leaving devastation in his wake.