isn't this the way it is? between fathers and sons

by eternalchill

Summary:

There's a light in Gotham city, and Dick will be more than buried six feet under before he ever truly forgets what it shines for.

“But, sometimes, you can only jump and hope that someone else sets a net.” The almost-smile is gone. “The jumps I can't stop.”
He stops, his hand slipping away. He looks at it, with some emotion it can’t name but it feels like it should.
This—
Something about this is. Wrong.

There was a choice — somewhere, that it missed, or made wrong. There's no yellow light under the trees.
But it
can't
remember why that matters.

Notes:

STOP
.
.
if you're reading this as a binge-read (I see you) and you read the previous installment 10 seconds ago and remember what happened, continue on. If you're a victim of my update schedule (I'm so sorry), go back and read the last ~300 words of the previous installment.
As always, read the tags

Chapter 1

There is—

—in flashes—

A window shutting, the grit of asphalt shingles, the grating of pliers.

“How much do you think you're worth?” Master asks. Its blood is on his hands. It can't get away.

Whatever voice it had, is gone.

“ I think less the fucking bullet in my gun.” His face smears, until it's only the impression of features. “If you survive—”

The empty handle-holds of air. The ground dropping away.

The body—

A hand coming around the back of its neck, pushing its chin down. “Tuck, my little Robin.”

bounces. Once.

Rocks bite into its palms and it looks up, up, up, at a window. Like a pit, the darkness inside stares back. It blinks.

And there are—

trees.

“Wilderness survival training,” the tall man says, “don’t pretend it's a game, Dick. Every time, it needs to be real. Eventually… it might be. If you think I can find you, stay where you are. If you think I can’t—” his hand squeezes its shoulder, “move, until I’m the only one who can.”

The tall man’s eyes crinkle, but his head turns to look at something else.

“You’ll be fine. If—”

The world spins.

I swear, he says, I swear I swear I swear I'll find you.

It spins.

There are— stars. In the sky.

And with sudden, nauseating clarity, it stops. 

 

---

 

Its feet are peppered with a dozen insignificant cuts and one that comes from halfway down its sole to its heel on its left foot. It stares at the wound stupidly, as the blood weeping from the wound drips onto its folded knee. It's sitting on the ground, pressed against the bark of a tree, and…unmoored.

There's a cut on its foot. Like it if it had stood and ran. It watches the blood seep. It watches the blood clot. It looks at the wound and doesn't understand.

 

(but it does. terribly, horribly, it sees the red smear and knows that that impossible dream has a cost)

 

It buries its fingers into the ground litter: dirt and twigs and the rot of last-autumn leaves. It’s a different kind of filth than normal. In some manner, the sight makes its throat tight.

It didn't know until it was here, that there could be a difference in the feel of dirt on skin.

It thinks—

it doesn't want to go back to the dark room. But it doesn't make those kinds of choices. 

“Richard?”

There's no sound to announce the small boy’s arrival. But he makes a small, displeased noise when he see the body.

It turns its foot against the ground. It is— important, that he doesn't see it hurt.

The small boy stalks forward until he's standing just out of reach. “Richard,” he repeats, “you are being foolish. You can't stay here — you will catch ill. And you don't need to eat less of your food.” His head tilts, “come.”

It…hesitates. There’s too much undergrowth that crawling is. Unfeasible. But it doesn't remember the last time it walked more than a half dozen steps with an audience. It's been too well trained that the thought of doing so makes it viscerally ill.

“I can't carry you,” the small boy says, his hands are small fists by his sides. “You must walk,” he looks away, “you must.”

Its foot stings where it's pressed into dirt. It— ran. To here.

“Grayson,” the small boy inches a half step closer, “you can't stay here. You know that. I will say nothing to the others, but you must walk.” His voice wavers, “please.”

It's not fair.

Its head thumps against the tree behind it. The bark digs into its skull. It squeezes its eyes shut. It—

It isn't very good, at being good. But it is endlessly, forever, trying to be.

It shifts to its knees and uses the tree to pull itself up. Bits of bark come off in its hands. An unpleasant twinge comes from its back when it moves its arms to brush them off. Stiff. From—

 

(the window, the fear, the landing)

 

—before.

The small boy exhales softly, “good, Richard. Follow me.” He turns neatly on his heel, but moves slowly through the undergrowth, quiet as a ghost.

It moves slower. There's a stiff ache in its joints, made worse with the chill that's starting to sink into the air. The cold permeates it. 

The body shakes.

The small boy, waiting, says, “it’s fortunate it's not raining. It would be colder.” His eyes follow it carefully. “Are you hurt?”

Yes.

It thinks — something is wrong.

But—

It bites down on its tongue. It doesn't want to speak. It doesn't know if it can. And this isn't Master ordering it. 

The small boy frowns. “I see. I think you are, but, you can’t fix it now,” he says, then, apropos, “Do you remember the game I showed you — climb over the log. If you go under you won't get up. Cheese Viking? When you can focus properly, we can play it together.”

It takes it longer than the small boy to get over the log, and it has to stop, panting on the top. It doesn't remember this. The small boy waits until it slides down before he continues. 

“We played before. When Father was…” he trails off, “away. Do you remember that? I learned with Jon and showed it to you.”

It leans heavily against the next tree. Everything hurts. It's head—

hurts.

It doesn't want—

“Richard!” The small boy snaps, “keep moving.”

It squeezes its eyes shut. There's a burn in the back of its throat. Moving is. Hard.

“You can't stop,” he says, “if you stop, I can't help you. Do you want this to all be for nothing?”

Miserably, it shakes its head. But it hurts. Its pulse echoes loudly in its ears.

The small boy exhales sharply, “then keep moving , Richard. It's not long now; you already made it this far.” He reaches out like he's going to touch it, but pulls back, his fists slipping into the pockets of his coat. “There's a road, ahead. It will be— faster, but.” His brow furrows. “It doesn't matter. It will be quicker. Come, this way. And don't stop.” He says the last sentence over his shoulder, trodding ahead. Lost, quickly, to the dark.

It stumbles after him. The undergrowth snarls around its ankles and it crashes heavily to its knees. It gets up. Slowly.

It moves slower. Its breath is louder than its steps. Movement is…mindless. It must be. Because if it thinks—

Master's rage will be apoplectic. And it doesn't want to think what will become of it— doesn't want to think of what limit there can be to endure.

So. Necessity makes it thoughtless.

This, at least, it knows, hand in hand with the dark.

 

---

 

There's a road. Intermittently lit with yellow streets that disappear around a corner if it turns right. If it turns left they continue straight, highlighting the start of driveways. One has a mailbox with a ceramic figure sitting on its lid. It's holding a sign that says have a tip-top day. Oddly it wants to laugh. Odder still, it wants to cry. 

The small boy is waiting, shoulders hunched, at the edge of the light. Half of his face is still shadowed.

“You don't want to go that way,” he's looking at the curve of the road, to the shadows that consume it. “Come, the lights will let you see if there's glass on the road.”

He doesn't wait, walking faster than he had in the woods. There's a strange tightness to his shoulders.

“You know this was foolish,” the small boy says when the streetlights have become more frequent. He doesn't look at it. “What if—” he looks down, “you could've broken your neck. What if you couldn't get up? I can't save you from that.” 

There's a pit in its stomach that burns unpleasantly into existence with the small boy's words. It wraps its arms around itself. 

The small boy huffs under his breath, “honestly.”

The road continues. There are small, but sharp, rocks that it has to take care to step around. It's immensely grateful that the streetlights have become common enough that there's no gap between the individual illuminations, but there's no darkness anymore to hide the wet marks its feet leave.

The small boy looks back at it occasionally, the line of his mouth becoming increasingly more pinched.

“You're almost there,” he says, but it can’t tell if he’s talking to it or to himself. He doesn’t look back. 

It lowers its eyes to the ground. Not, out of subservience, but because the small boy was right. The light makes it easier to see glass shards that have been swept to the side of the road. Bottles or jars, maybe once, thrown from a car window. They glitter, brighter and sharper than rocks. 

Unsteadily, it bends down and picks up a piece. The vertical change makes its head spin and its stomach twists unpleasantly. It gags at the taste of bile that rises in the back of its throat.

Ahead, the small boy stops. 

He turns to took at it, hands still in his pockets. His eyes dart to the glass in its hand. “Tt. Don't cut yourself, Richard.” He shakes his head, turns again, and keeps walking. “And don't stop!”

It wipes the back of its empty hand against its mouth. The glass in its other hand makes indents in its palm. It doesn't drop it.

It—

can't. Couldn't, it thinks, even if Master was ordering. And the thought of such mindless, unstoppable disobedience makes its heart stutter. 

 

---

 

There's a bridge. Empty of cars, but spanning across a river that, with the current snagging dark waters around the support pillars, would be untenable to swim across. And through the river mist, a city. The small boy points across to it.

“Todd wandered the city for months without a working brain before the League found him — although it's indeterminable if he's still going about the city with an empty skull.” He shakes his head. “You aren't so incapacitated. Well,” he amends, “not always.”

It holds its glass shard a little tighter. The edges make indents in its skin.

“You hit your head,” The small boy says perfunctorily, “because you jumped out of window, Richard . Honestly.” But his eyes soften, his features soften. The spill of light from above them makes him translucent. He turns on his heels, hands behind his back. “You have to keep going, you know. Do you think you'll survive otherwise? Going back to him?”

The glass in its hand cuts into its palm and it squeezes its eyes shut, and doesn't know.

And when it opens them, the small boy is. Gone.

But that— isn't surprising. 

The gravel on the road never moved under the small boy's feet.

Chapter 2

“Jeez, kid. Where’d you crawl out from?” A man, with grey-blond hair and nicotine fingers that drum against his thighs looks down at it. 

It lets its graze drift down to the stained man's feet. 

“Hey.” A sneaker pokes at its shin. “Can you hear me?”

It's too—

much, to answer.

The stained man sighs, “Hey, Jetty. Come here. Take a look at this guy.”

A second set of feet joins the first.

“What's wrong with him?” The second person, another man, crouches down. He's younger, face narrower and a head of dark brown hair. “He looks like shit.”

The stained man grunts. “He's blocking the fuckin’ door.”

There's a bone-deep lethargy in it. If it could move, it would. But there's just finite surety of the glass in its hand and the end of moving.

“He looks like someone had him,” the younger man says, nose wrinkling, “shitty fucking luck, man.”

The stained man takes a half step closer. He lets out an odd sigh. “Shitty luck.” He joins the younger man in crouching down. He snaps his fingers in front of its face. 

Reflexively, it tracks the motion.

“Yeah,” the stained man’s mouth turns, “still got a light on in there. Jet—help me move him.”

The younger man rises, “just—?”

“Grab an arm. We can't leave him here if someone had him.”

The younger man scoffs, but bends at the waist to pull its arm around the back of his neck. “You're getting soft in your old age, Mark.” 

It doesn't resist the upwards motion, but leans heavily on the younger man. The reflexive fear rises and burns in the back of its throat, but it clamps down on the please that tries to escape it. The glass in its hand is still sharp.

The stained man shuffles by them, pulling a key from inside his coat pocket and opening the door. A red flush rises up the back of his neck. “I have to live here tomorrow,” he corrects, “I don't want whoever had him scouting out my door for weeks. Get inside.”

The younger man snorts, but tells it, “I hope you can walk, man. Mark's elevator has been broken since Tuesday. And he lives on the third floor.”

It says nothing — can't say anything. There's some immobile collar wrapped under its skin and choking away the idea of speaking. But it can walk, slowly, with the younger man’s support. It leans heavily on his shoulder.

The stained man pulls the door close behind them. “You're young, Jetty,” he says, “if you can't carry someone like that up the stairs you're in the wrong business.”

The young makes an odd sound in his throat, “my mom thinks so.” His teeth show in his smile. There's a cut on his upper lip. 

 

(“First things first — what does this tell you?”

“Like B needs to get better cameras?”

“ Tim .”

“I'm serious! The quality is terrible. That's an unidentifiable blob. Give me twenty minutes and we can have up close and personal footage.”)

 

The stairs are—

unpleasant. There's a stiffness in its legs that started when it stopped moving and refuses to dissipate. The small boy was right. There's a distant fear that it made it this far, only to make it no further. It stopped, and couldn't start again.

The younger man takes more of its weight when its feet catch on the stairs’ edges. His breath huffs. 

“You stopped going to the gym?” The stained man asks. 

“No—” the younger man says quickly, “I've just been…busy.” 

His grip around its arm tightens and reflexively, it makes a quiet, unintelligible noise. It doesn't try and pull away — it still knows better but things are—

 

jumbled.

 

In the dark, past the maw of the room and Master, obeying until it died stopped being the only survivable option.

(it heard a story once, of rebirth. it can't remember how it ended, of what came crawling back)

“Sorry,” the younger man's grip loosens, “Mark, can you get the door?”

The stained man slides past them, pulling keys from his pocket again to unlock a grey door. There's chips in the paint, but the younger man is leading it through before it can count the layers of paint that have had scratches carved through them. 

On the other side is a hallway: brown carpet, yellow-white walls and a low ceiling with fluorescent lighting. The stained man walks ahead to another door and unlocks that one as well. He props it open with his shoulder, waiting until the younger man has it across the threshold before he shuts it, and slides a deadbolt into place.

Inside is lived-in but barren. A grey couch and a low coffee table that face a TV hanging on the wall. There's a rifle half disassembled on the floor.

The younger man brings it to the couch, letting it down carefully. His mouth pinches when he looks at it. “Christ, Mike. Do you think he's dying?”

The stained man joins him, but he squats down. “Maybe. Hey, you.” He taps its shoulder, “pay attention. I'm not dragging a body down those stairs, okay? So, shirt off. You're a fucking mess and I need to see what we’re working with.”

It looks down at its shirt. There's dirt from the woods, from the street set into the fabric. Dots of blood from the fall are underneath that. It doesn't want to take it off. Its fingers curl into the couch cushions.

“Jet.” The stained man motions for the younger man to do something. “If he—”

“Yeah, yeah,” the younger man nods, “I'll stop him.”

The stained man grabs the hem of its shirt and it flinches back, but—

the younger man reaches to hold the back of its neck. It can't—

“Hey, man. Mike's won't hurt you.” The younger man's voice is quiet. 

“That's right,” the stained man agrees, “I need a paycheck first. Pro-bono brings out the best in me.”

Its mouth is dry. The stained man's hands don't move away. Its still holding the glass, but it doesn't know what would break faster — it, for using the glass, or the glass for being used. But it can…endure this. It knows how to do that. 

The stained man pulls its shirt over its head. It's loose fitting, but it has to shrug its shoulders to get the material free.

“Oh hell above,” the stained man says, “Jetty — are you still talking to that girl?”

The younger man is silent, his hand removed from its neck when the stained man pulled its shirt off, but it hears the hissing intake of breath from him.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “um. We were supposed to get lunch, but. I'll call her.” He takes two steps back, pulling a phone from his jacket pocket and tapping something onto the skin.

He holds the phone up to his ear and rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. There's the tinny sound of ringing. 

“Esha? Hey, it's me. I— yeah, about that. Are you busy?”

The stained man is still holding its shirt. His knuckles are white.

---

The younger man disappears, taking something from the stained man's hand. He comes back, quickly, with another person.

A woman, half a head shorter than the younger man, is carrying a bag that crinkles in her hands. Her mouth pinches when she sees it. She looks at the stained man, “did you do this?”

The stained man holds up his hands, palms out. “He was outside the alley door. I didn't do any of this.” He lowers a hand to gesture it, “I don't do this .”

The crinkling woman looks at the younger man, “what are you going to do to him after I help him?”

The younger man shrugs, “I dunno,” he says, “get him out of the city?”

“He's either a drop-off or a runaway,” the stained man tells the crinkling woman, “come over here. Look at this.” His hand dips down to point to something on its back. Its skin prickles under the almost touch.

“Has he said anything?” The crinkling woman comes over. Her bag is placed next to it on the couch.

The stained man huffs, “he can make noises, but he hasn't said anything I understand.”

“I see,” she says.

She kneels down in front of it, hands clasped in her lap. “Hi, there. My name is Esha. I’m a paramedic. Jetty called me to see if I can help you. I would like to try. Can you nod if that's alright?”

“He's fucking out of it, Esh,” the younger man says, “and the—”

“He’s a human being, Jet.” The crinkling woman doesn't look away from it, “people get to consent to medical examinations. And he's not going to bleed out—” she stops herself and takes a breath. “You're not going to bleed out, but I can see that you're hurt pretty bad. I would like to see how badly, is that alright?”

Its teeth. Hurt. Its nails dig into its palms. It can't meet her eyes. It can't do anything. 

It doesn't know if it can bear it, to be taken apart again. But if it has to be complicit in its own deconstruction, it won't be able to bear anything again. 

The crinkling woman shifts closer, “hey,” her voice is quiet, “it's just me and you, okay? Give me something and I can help you.”

There's bile in its mouth. 

“Just a little nod, okay? Mark and Jetty won't tell anyone.”

The stained man says sourly, “it's Mike.”

The crinkling woman doesn't respond to him, but she's close enough now that it can smell her perfume — citrus and juniper. She doesn't smell like any master.

It dips its chin in a waver towards its chest.

“Thank you,” she says, “I have gloves in my bag. I'm going to put them on and we're going to see what I can do to help you.”

She gets up and grabs the bag. There's a zipper on the side that, as she pulls it, splits the bag in half and it opens to reveal neatly packaged medical supplies. 

The gloves she puts on are blue. Then she pulls out a white square. “This is an antiseptic wipe. I'm going to clean anything that's open on your back. Then we'll move to your chest. Jetty — can you help him sit on the floor? And grab a cushion.” She gestures to the ground next to herself.

The younger man comes over, and like earlier, grabs its arm and pulls it over his neck. When he straightens, pulling the body off the couch, he grabs one of the semi-flat pillows and tosses it on the floor. Two shuffling steps later he lowers it back down onto the pillow.

“Thanks, Jet.” The crinkling woman's eyes soften, “stay close.”

The younger man takes a lazy step back, “course.”

Its skin prickles.

The crinkling woman moves so she's at his back. “This will sting,” she tells it, “but I'll do my best not to hurt you.”

It does hurt. It thinks—

nothing.

It knows pain. There's no bargaining that can erase it.

---

In some hazy, shutter-blinking passage, it's back on the couch. Its head is propped up on the arm of the couch. There's a blanket tossed over its shoulders.

“—saying someone had him for years .” The crinkling woman’s voice is barely audible. “Those are bullet scars. He was someone’s target practice before he was a knife block. And they wanted him to live. You don't get scars healing that neat without some amount of professional care.”

“He's thin. I doubt they cared that much.” The stained man is slightly louder. He's cleaning the rifle on the floor.

“What if the Joker had him?” The younger man matches the crinkling woman's volume. “He's insane.”

“No. I've seen Joker victims. They…they aren't like this. Someone who doesn't think sepsis is a game had him.”

The younger man sighs. “So someone crazy enough to use another person as their personal target practice for non-lethal injuries, and motivated enough to make sure they don't die from those injuries.”

“He's a runaway, then.” The stained man scrubs the neck of the rifle. “If they didn't want him anymore, they'd have dumped him in the bay.”

---

A phone vibrates.

Outside, the sky is dark. It's lost time, somewhere.

“This is Mike. Jetty's here. I'll put you on speaker.”

“Where are you?” Master's voice, modulated back into a robotic rasp, comes through the phone.

It's chest—hurts.

“My apartment,” the stained man says. He's holding up a finger to the crinkling woman. 

“I need you on the streets. Both of you.”

The younger man raises his brow, “sure, boss. Is there a shipment coming in?”

“No.” Master bites off the word. “I need you to find someone.”

The glass isn't in its hand anymore. Instead its hand is wrapped in a white gauze mitt. Its fingertips peak out a neat opening. The slight constriction makes its head—

 

float.

“Sure, boss,” the younger man says again, “what are we looking for?”

“Black hair, blue eyes, male. Average height, but he's…underweight.”

The stained man turns his head to look at the body. “Does he have a name?”

“Not one he responds to. He doesn't talk much. If you find him, and he says anything — let me know and ignore it until I'm there.” Master's makes a noise that's lost in the modulator, “he's wearing grey pyjamas. I doubt he changed. So, look for that. Mike— you're looking until you find him.”

“Anything else we should look for?” 

It curls in on itself under the stained man's gaze. Its heart beats loudly in its ears.

“He's—” there's a long silence on the other end of the phone, “he could be dangerous. Don't approach if you don't have to, and keep civilians away. I want to keep this fucking quiet.”

Master is looking for it. It will hurt, because it knows better than to run, but it did and now—

there will be regret and blood on the ground.

“Sure thing, boss,” the younger man says.

The stained man makes a noise that could be agreement, but it can't be sure.

The phone beeps and the stained man slips it back into a pocket.

The crinkling woman makes a noise it doesn't understand. “So, Red Hood, hey? He's crazy enough to do this—” she gestures in its direction, “and crazy enough to keep the sorry sonofabitch alive. Jesus Christ, Jetty. That's really the kind of guy you work for?”

The younger man’s eyes are closed, “Mike, we gotta hit the streets.”

“Jet—” the crinkling woman hisses.

“Red Hood knows where I live, Esha,” the stained man interrupts her, “we don't go out, he comes here. If he's here, he sees him. The poor fucker goes back and maybe he doesn't survive running again.”

“Oh my god,” the crinkling woman is on her feet, “so you're just going to go out ?”

“Yes! We are.” The younger man joins her, but grabs her hands between his, “we’ll go out. We can— I don't know. Paulo on Third owes me a favour. He can get me a body that’s close enough. We dump it in the bay for a few days. Pull it out, call Hood. He stops looking. There are buses to Metropolis. We can send him there.”

The stained man says, “it's a plan. We can fine-tune it later.” He's grabbing a coat from a narrow closet. It's an inconspicuous black. He shoves something it can't see into one of the pockets.

The crinkling woman runs a hand through her hair, “I have a shift tonight. I can't stay here with him.”

“He's out of it,” the stained man passes a sweater to the younger man, “he's not moving. He'll be fine. C'mon.” 

The stained man gestures for the other two at the door. The younger man pulls the sweater over his head, and takes the crinkling woman's hand.

“It'll be okay,” he says quietly, “I promise.”

“I'll be here in the morning, after my shift.” She pulls her hand free, and she looks at it. “Okay? I'll be back. Just wait here.”

It doesn't—

Its head is. Static. 

But it

 

knows

 

Master is coming.

 

It disobeyed, and it was in the dark room and it ran and now— his voice on the phone.

“Out.” The stained man opens the door. The other two head into the hallway. He pauses, like he's waiting for something, but he shakes his head and closes the door behind them.

The lock clicks.

Its— 

heartbeat won't leave its throat and its hand without the bandages is clammy.

But it’s—

 

not

alone.

The small boy is on the other side of the window. He points to the latch on the inside of the glass. “Open it, Richard.” His voice is muffled slightly.

It gets up, staggering slightly with the unexpected tenderness on the soles of its feet, but when it looks at them, they — like its hand — are wrapped in gauze and tape.

“Richard! Pay attention.” The small boy is still pointing at the lock. “You are Nightwing. That is a hardware store window latch. Open it.”

The static in its head isn't going away. But it— stumbles, to the window. It uses its unbandaged hand to flick the latch and push the window up.

“Good,” the small boy’s voice is still muffled, “you can't stay here. But do you see the closet? Yes. That one. Take a jacket with a hood. You must cover your face.”

The room spins in and out of focus as it crosses it. It can't catch its breath. But it pulls a jacket from the closet and puts it on, pulling the hood over its head.

The small boy gives an approving nod, “good job, Richard. Now, come. You can't stay here. You can't be sure who will find you.”

Notes:

i know, i know, you were all worried that Dick was going to get an infection and die in an alley (no one was worried, that would end the story), but look! he's all sanitized and ready to keep going

I haven't read every comic that Jason Todd appears in, and I've read objectively very little of his coming back to Gotham days, so it's possible he does canonically have goons. But, from what I have read, he went to a goon hiring fair in RHATO and blew it up(?) (I know he didn't hire, them but its been a few years) and that was the most goon interaction he's had in the comics that I can remember. But I played an atrocious amount of Arkham Knight, and because of that I've had enough death loading screens of the Arkham Knight's/Red Hood's militia talking shit about my combat abilities, and I like the idea of Jason having henchmen, ergo.

Chapter 3

Notes:

if everything else I've written has had some degree of medical accuracy, then pretend this as accurate as grey's anatomy. All the 'would this work' and 'do you think' questions I've been able to ask people in real life didn't stop me from hitting up the TBI subreddit and then floofing things along for plot purposes

The small boy leads it down the fire escape, and waits while it climbs down. The metal of the ladder is cool and rough and catches, achingly, on the edge of familiarity. When it's on the ground, it brushes its hands against its thighs and bits of rust fall away.

“Come, this way.” The small boy gestures for it to follow. “If you stay in Crime Alley, Hood’s people will find you. I doubt all of them would care what happens to you. We can pass through the Bowery and take the Dillion Avenue Bridge.” He looks at it critically. “It's unlikely you have the coordination for Sprang. Unfortunate. It would be quicker.”

His disappointment is obvious, but he says nothing else, darting to the corner to peer around it. When it joins him, he points down the street. “GCPD patrol.”

There's an unmarked car idling on the side of the street. One of the windows is down and there's a scantily clad woman leaning in to speak to whoever is inside. 

“That's Officer McDavid — do you remember her? She hit you once with a potted plant,” the small boy tilts his head, “she works in the bio-containment unit; I don't remember her working undercover.” 

He gestures for it to follow, slipping into the shadows near the wall. It does so, stepping carefully around the litter (wrappers, gum and the orange of a needle cap) that's accumulated on the sidewalk.

Store windows, barred from the inside, front lights still turned on and smearing into puddles with the streetlights. They line the side of the road where the woman leans into the car. Nothing can hide over there.

 

(The tall man, on a roof, pointing. “Do you understand, Robin?”)

 

The small boy asks, “what will you do when you can't run anymore?” He doesn't look at it, but his shoulders curl inwards, like he's trying to protect his heart without taking his hands from his pockets. “Do you think you'll last more than two days? I don't. Exposure. Hunger. A henchman hired by anybody else. And you can't—you had a weapon! And you lost it!”

 

“Fuck me,” Master says, “you just don’t get it, do you.”

 

They're past the GCPD officer and the car. The small boy still slinks forward.

“Richard, I can show you the way — but if you're caught…” He turns, facing it, “he loves you. You can't make me bury you. You can't. Don't you remember? What it is like to bury a brother.”

There's a nebulous sensation that sits in the back of its throat, expanding until it's hard to swallow. It looks down at the ground.

“You were brave, once,” the small boy says, his hand reaching as though to touch its face, “try to remember.”

There's so much pain built into the murky fog that separates the then and the now , that it only knows to kneel and beg and beg to be remade.

The small boy's nose wrinkles. “Sustained head trauma proves otherwise. Do try, Richard, before you die of an untreated brain bleed, or heal and stop hallucinating. This—” his hand drops, leaving no warmth in its wake, “—isn't sustainable. You aren't sustainable as you are.”

 

---

 

Of the people it passes, most ignore it. If they didn't—

it doesn't know what it would do. The small boy was right; it doesn't have the glass anymore. 

It does see more — there are dumpsters and business windows in states between repair and vandalism — but it doesn't... pick another up. 

It's caught somewhere, in knowing how damage can be caused, but not—

(for all the fear in the dark, it could never hurt him)

—knowing who it would aim for.

The small boy is right. It won't survive the city. 

Next to it, the small boy’s head snaps toward it. “That's not what I said,” he snaps, “and you aren't Todd. Cease the unnecessary melodrama. Look.” He points to the road ahead. “Dillion Avenue.”

The road is four lanes: larger, wider and more tree-less than the historical layover that has it still being called an avenue. A meridian down the middle separates opposing traffic. 

The small boy continues on, gesturing to an unseen point further down the road. “Drake takes the patrol route that covers the bridge, usually. You can see into the Gotham City Stadium from the top of the bridge towers. He'll watch the Knights’ scrimmages on slow nights.” He sniffs, “eating chili dogs at a windy elevation isn't subtle .”

It can’t see the towers, but it thinks — there would be aviation lights, blinking in measured lines up the side, battling unblinking stone faces at the top. 

The small boy clicks his tongue. “If our armor isn't supposed to stain, then perhaps Father should spend less time in space and more time investigating what Mendez puts in his chili.” 

It says nothing, but follows doggedly in the path that the small boy picks. Thinking…hurts. The rain-slick gargoyles and wet concrete. Its blood smearing over both. But it's… grateful, at least, that it's not Master narrating its thoughts back to it.

It would be — too much. To have him see what it can't control.

(it can't handle the inevitably of beds and free fall and terrible obedience

how could it handle that too)

“Come,” the small boy beckons, hands back in the pockets of his jacket. He doesn't say anything else as it follows him down the sidewalk.

 

---

 

It shows up when they're halfway across the bridge: a yellow cutout against the midnight clouds. The jagged hole in the light, a symbol in the absence.

The body stops. 

The small boy pauses. “Grayson,” he says quietly, “you are a tragedy as you are. You can do nothing. It's not for you .” He doesn't look at the symbol in the sky — he doesn't need to. It's reflected in his eyes, in the dappling streetlight on his skin. 

All of it, consuming the small boy in the greater shadow. 

His mouth pinches. “Richard. Be reasonable. That—” he gestures to signal, “is one way. You don't know who will answer, nor if it will be answered at all.”

It can't help it, looking back to the signal. It knows, in a way that it can't explain, can't justify, that the light in the dark is a call that must be answered.

The small boy scowls. “No. You— the GCPD headquarters is full of eyes. If the wrong ones see you…”

 

(the tall man, on a roof, pointing, “do you understand, Robin?”)

 

But it thinks—

it does understand, and that is has—

 

“Fuck me,” Master says, “you just don’t get it, do you.”

 

—for some time.

 

(it was never going to survive running)

 

---

 

The small boy leads it from the bridge through a suburban district that ends abruptly at the edge of a park. He looks at the trees, squinting into the dark. It can’t see anything past the brambles that line the pathway. 

“I don’t know if Ivy’s here,” he says, eventually. “But you won’t make it to GCPD headquarters tonight. The sun will rise soon — you can get off the trail, and wait. If Ivy is here…” he shakes his head, “hopefully she’ll find you too pathetic to bother with. Come, this way.”

He slides into the brambles, quiet and non-disruptive as he was in the woods before. It—

follows. Slowly.

The bushes snag on its skin—

 

("Rubus allegheniensis,” the old man puts the tweezers down, “and I must disagree, Master Bruce doesn't need additional samples.)

 

And its head aches .

The small boy is back, suddenly, “what are you doing?” He hisses, “come, Richard, before you turn into fertilizer.”

He disappears, again, into the bushes. It pushes after him, stumbling until it hits a tree where it rests its head against the bark. It takes one long, shuddering breath. The bottom of its feet are scuffed, with small rocks embedded in the skin. It slides to the ground, curling over its middle so that it ends up with its back against the tree and its head against its knees.

It just…hurts.

Head, back, and feet all sending unsynced bouts of aches and sudden, sharp pulses of pain.

“Grayson!” The small boy crouches beside it, hands disappearing into dead leaves. “I told you—” 

It doesn't know what he told it. It doesn't matter, because its stomach rebels so strongly that it loses track of the small boy in favour of retching up yellow bile.

There's. A checklist. It knows that.

And this is—

One, two, skip a few call B—

 

Bad.

It coughs, spitting saliva into the bushes while its stomach contorts in a pit below its ribs. The body doesn't get up.

“You can do this, Dick.” The tall man kneels on one knee. His skin is dappled strangely in the shadows; blackness like a shield over parts of his face.“I know you can.”

It shakes its head.

The tall man huffs, “c’mon chum,” his grip is nothing on its arm, “away from the path. Then you can rest.”

The bark of the tree is rough and sticky, like the tree is—

“Dick,” the tall man murmurs, “focus.”

It pulls itself up.

Slowly.

“Good. Now — you hit your head, do you remember?”

Yes, in the room. Out of the room. Because Master was coming back and—

The tall man moves slowly ahead of it, indomitable. But his hand stays weightless on its shoulder.

“Hallucinations can occur after moderate to severe TBIs. Vomiting, loss of consciousness, and poor coordination are… also concerning. You know this. Careful,” he leads it around a bramble, “but you made it this far. That’s good.”

The further they travel, albeit slowly, the trees shiver like the plants can feel their passing. It makes some older instinct set its teeth on the edge, but the tall man doesn’t react.

“Sometimes,” he says eventually, “all the options are bad. But,” his mouth quirks in a way that it knows is reminiscent of a smile, “that’s why my children don’t leave Gotham until they’re a threat to national security. You are your own greatest advantage.” 

It looks down. There's something squirming hot and unpleasant in its chest. Mud and blood are on its feet.

“But, sometimes, you can only jump and hope that someone else sets a net.” The almost-smile is gone. “The jumps I can't stop.”

He stops, his hand slipping away. He looks at it, with some emotion it can’t name, but it feels like it should. 

This—

Something about this is. Wrong.

 

There was a choice — somewhere, that it missed, or made wrong. There's no yellow light under the trees.

But it

can't 

remember why that matters.

 

“Dick,” the tall man pulls its attention back, “you came here for a reason. Think. Why here?”

It shakes its head. It's not—

 

fair.

 

“That doesn't matter right now,” he says firmly, “ think , Dick.”

The plants around them are trembling in time with the heartbeat migrating to its throat. Unnaturally moving with fingerlike stems towards the only source of warmth. It notices now, that there aren't any bird calls to announce the coming dawn.

It stares blankly at the tall man. It followed—

“Dick,” the shadows on his skin move to pool around his feet, “it was you. Always you.” 

It takes a step back from the tall man, then another. There isn’t—

It wouldn’t.

It learned that it can’t be trusted to make choices. Master taught it that. So it followed the small boy, because—

It takes another step back. It shakes its head. No. Nonononono no.

A sprawling ivy vine follows the bloody footprints it's leaving. And it looks at it, with a forgotten sense of alarm that spikes nauseously against the forever safety of not knowing.

The tall man watches, expression blank. And it can’t—

 

It turns and—

—falls.

The vine wraps around its ankle like a leafy manacle. Immediately it tries to pull it off, while a rising crescendo of incomprehensible noise fills its ears. The fibrous arm of the plant resists its nails and can’t do anything

 

(why can it never do anything)

 

when the vine lifts it upside down into the air. It twists, trying to drop back to the ground, but the vine doesn’t let go. 

Something moves in the bushes, or makes the bushes move. They part, leaves and branches touching the ground like they’re bowing to the green woman who walks through the entrance the plants have made.

She lifts her chin when she looks at it hanging in the air, but it doesn’t — can’t hear her, over the nothing noise in its ears. She frowns, and says something again. 

It doesn’t say anything, there’s some band building around its chest that’s making breathing impossible aside from short, staccato pants.

She frowns, pulling something from a vine — a flower pod — that blossoms in her hand. Yellow-gold, almost glowing pollen that she blows like a kiss.

And it's sweet. Like a dream.

Chapter 4

Notes:

thanks everyone for all the nice comments you've been leaving! They're all very much appreciated ❤️

 

There is a dream —

Of gold and unreality. A woman speaking to the trees and the trees rumbling back.

 

---

 

“There are two things I love,” the green woman says, “one very big, and one very small.”

The world is hazy, bioluminescent mycelium fanning across the ceiling. Moss tickles the back of its neck. Somewhere, close by, the sound of water.

“And I left one of you to wander, mindless, in this city once and he came back with fire.” Her fingers comb through its hair, catching where it stings. “What would you do? In memory of misremembered love? Fire, like your brother?” Her voice drops, like she's turned away. “I hear it in the Green, the sound of my world burning.”

It makes a plaintive noise in the back of its throat. There's too much fog between its thoughts for it to understand her.

“Shh, Nightwing.” The green woman's hand covers its eyes. “Sleep.”

 

---

 

“Pammy?” A different voice, bubbly. “Red? You here? I saw your message.” There's the sound of a zipper opening and something being taken out. “And I gotcha something too. See this? It's a cellular device . Poor Mrs. Hua ain't ready to see mushrooms like that. She went all ‘cào ni—’ and— is that guy dead?”

Footsteps on the moss and then two fingers on its neck. A low breath when they disappear.

“Jeez, guy,” the bubbly woman says, “don't let Bats see you or he'll throw Red back in Arkham.”

There's more movement — branches? Something creaking as it moves. It wants to open its eyes to check, but it finds the effort beyond it. 

“Harley,” the green woman's voice, warmer and coquettishly fonder than what it remembered from before. 

“You, uh, planning something?” Something nudges its side. “Who is he?”

Footsteps closer, and then away. The pressure against its side disappears.

“Nobody,” the green woman says, “did you bring what I asked?”

“Boo, I brought you more than you asked for. See this? Nokia. And a prepaid plan. Mrs. Hua— okay! You coulda just said you didn't want it.”

“Do you know the environmental impacts of lithium mines, Harleen? Open pit mines, sulfuric acid in ecosystems—”

“Alright, alright! I get it.” The soft sound of lips on skin. “Sorry, Pammy. Here, I brought this too.”

There's the sound of something crinkling, while footsteps approach it again.

“Is that for him?” Fingers on its skin again, tracing along the underside of its jaw, to pulling its head up and feeling the back of its head. “You got wacked real good, didn’t cha, Mr. Guy.” Carefully its head is placed back on the moss. She doesn't walk away this time though, the cautious prodding continuing. 

There's a distant, slippery panic that builds as her inspection drops below its chest, and — 

 

---

 

A dream, made sweet and gold.

 

---

 

“Wake up, Nightwing.” 

The green woman is sitting cross-legged beside it. A blooming flower is cupped in one hand.

It is — aware that it's wearing different clothes. The fabric is stiffer, sits differently, but not any more restrictive than before. But it doesn't know when its clothing changed and something squirms unpleasantly in its stomach at the thought. 

It tries, very hard, to stop thinking.

The green woman is staring at it with a strange, unreadable expression. Her mouth thin, her eyes cool, but her shoulders relaxed.

“Did you like the dreams my pollen gave you? Jonathan's experiments always damage the park when they make it this far. Terror begetting violence. But if they just… stop, what is left to fear?” She looks away, “sometimes they survive. Sometimes their hearts give out. The Green takes the balance.” She rubs a petal between her fingers. “In the end, all that live return to the earth. Unless,” her gaze wanders back to it, “it's one if you . What makes you cling so hard to life that death can't claim you?”

It doesn't understand. But there's a frightening intensity to her question that makes it try—

“Please,” it says, it begs. It doesn't understand. 

Or maybe it's her with the intensity and it's asking the wrong thing.

It's good at that. Getting it wrong. And now that Master isn't here to make it get it right—

“I'm not Jonathon. I don't have a use for your fear.” She leans closer. Her breath is cold. “What do you have left to fight for?”

“Phht.” The pale boy leans weightless against its knee. “That's an easy answer, isn't it?” He rolls his eyes. “Riddler can cool it with the death traps if this is the local competition.”

It jerks hard away from him. Instinctively fleeing — not his touch — but another body touching it. 

The green woman frowns when it moves, her eyes narrowing when she looks at the pale boy. “It seems Harley was right. Humans are so…fragile.” She sighs. “Sleep then, Nightwing. Your demons will disappear soon enough.”

The flower in her hand puffs out pollen, all of it gold, and all of it sweet. And it finds, like all the things it has been helpless to stop happening, this is no different. 

 

---

 

The world is thick, slow moving syrup. The green woman flickers in and out of sight, disappearing once long enough that the light of the mycelium starts to fade. 

It doesn't like the darkness, and when the green woman comes back with the light it begs her—

please

please

please—

to stay.

She exhales slowly, her face perfectly blank. “I've never known you to fear the dark. It won't happen again.” 

There's a bag in her arms that she places on the ground next to the body. She opens it, taking out a bottle. “Drink this.”

The bottle is red and white, her fingers cover the name. It doesn't want to drink it. It doesn't want to wake up in the dark.

“Nightwing,” she's still holding out the bottle, “drink.”

There's a phantom pain in its fingers. It knows—

 

better.

 

The green woman frowns. Her eyes drift to its nails curling into its palms. She takes a step closer, then sits so that she's kneeling, resting on the backs of her ankles. 

She's still holding the bottle.

Its breath comes in unsteady, useless pants. Master stands at its shoulder — black hair, blonde hair, glasses on and off his nose. 

“Don't you fucking dare,” he says.

“C'mon, Dick,” he says.

It makes a noise — halfway garbled into nothing, fully begging forgiveness for a crime that it won't commit, but can never assure him otherwise.

It knows its place, really.

The green woman reaches with her free arm, hand tight on its shoulder, and fully possessing a strength it can't fight, pulls it forward so that its chest is resting in her lap. Its heart tries, and fails, to break from its chest. Instead it aches.

“Hush,” she says, “calm yourself. This won't hurt you.”

And it

 

tries.

 

It wants to — but there's a hand on its chest, a body behind its back — his mind throwing up the greatest terrible hits of how this could go—

“Please,” it begs.

“You don't see what I see.” The green woman doesn't let go. “The fires burning, started and unattended. The men trawling the bay. If this is the world with you half in it, then I can't allow you to leave it because someone took your hands from you.” She adjusts her grip so that she can hold the bottle in front of its mouth. “Drink. We both have our roles to play in this city, and this isn't it.”

The liquid in the bottle is sweet, vaguely chalky and chocolate. When it coughs, she pulls the bottle away and waits till its breathing is under control. Then, she brings the bottle back, the process repeating until there's nothing left.

She doesn't let it go immediately; one hand still braced across its chest, the other combs through the hair at the back of its head. There's a staticky buzz between its ears. 

It shudders when her fingers dip below the nape of its neck. 

The green woman ignores it, restarting the process again, prodding where the ache in its head is lingering. There’s an odd catch in her breath when she sighs. 

It stays, carefully, passively, still.

 

---

 

“Mr. Guy! You’re still here!” A woman, skin bleach-pale and two-toned hair, bubbly voice — it’s heard her before. “Red, we’ve talked about hostages. It’snot a good look if you’re keepin’ em long-term. You know — oh eugh, ” she windmills her arms, prancing around the bottle she'd tipped over.

It looks down, oddly embarrassed. Oddly wishing that Master was here. At least then, it could trust that he would correct it.

“Harley? I wasn’t expecting you.” The green woman gets up. The moss beneath her swells, churning, until it's fresh and new. 

The bubbly woman bobbles, “You wouldn’t believe who I saw last night,” she looks at it, hand covering the side of her mouth like she’s telling it a secret, “the big man. Y’know,” she turns back to the green woman, “Mr. I-don’t-have-fun-so-you-don’t-either. And phh,” she drops onto the moss, “he’s in such a mood. Like he hasn't been on vacation.”

The green woman frowns, “you saw him? Where?”

It curls in on itself when the bubbly woman makes a face. It's scraped out and hollow, full of chalk and chocolate. 

“Looooong way from here.” She spins on her toes, arms above her head, before she drops, bouncing on the ground. “You know, Mr. Guy, Bats would love you. He—”

“Did you see Batman in Gotham, Harley?”

“—has this thing about helping people.” She sighs. “It's so annoying.”

“Harley.”

“Oh, you're fine, Red. He was in the Alley. Poor Jerry, though. It was the wrong night to try and shoot the Bat.” 

Something is twisting uncomfortably inside it, making its heart pang. It looks down at its nails that aren't neatly cut. There's dirt under the edges. 

A flower blooms beside it, and it—

“Please,” it tries, at the futility, at the inevitable. 

“Pam?” The bubbly woman inches back, “what—?”

“He's panicking,” the green woman says in a tone it doesn't understand, “in a minute, he'll forget where he is and ask for things you don't need to hear.”

The flower puffs, gold and sweet.

And it thinks it's unfair that it can't get it right.

 

---

 

The green woman holds the body close, its heart beating rabbit quick against its ribs and her arm. Its nails curl into its palms and it shudders, but it doesn’t fight. It knows better, really. Distantly, it thinks Master would be pleased that something finally stuck.

“Relax,” she murmurs. There’s a clementine in her hands that she’s splitting apart. “I have no interest in seeing Batman face-to-face right now. I have other projects to finish before we meet again.” 

She holds a clementine wedge to its mouth, and obediently it opens. The fruit is sweet, and it chews it slowly. By the time it swallows, she’s holding another piece up.

“But when you see him, you will say this exactly—”

 

---

 

“Repeat after me—”

“Again, as I say it —”

“Repeat—”

“Repeat—”

 

Repeat. 

 

Repeat. 

 

Repeat. 

 

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

 

in a dark room, a man squeezes its shoulder. “See. I knew you’d figure it out. Now, one more time. What do you say?”

It looks at his feet, and says, obediently, “Master.”

 

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

---

 

The mycelium gives way to branches, which give way to moonlight. The green woman leads it to the edge of the trees. 

It shuffles its feet, digging them into the dirt. There’s some part of it quietly, hysterically, lamenting that it doesn’t have shoes. But the green woman doesn’t notice, she’s looking instead at the cityscape at the park edge.

“The people of Gotham call me a villain. Do you think I am? Because I chose to champion for the voiceless?” She shakes her head. “Humanity is poison, leaching into water. Look at you — you were one of their heroes, and they cultivated you into this. And I would keep you longer, to see what comes from your ashes, but you come from a family of wildfires and they are scouring too deeply already.”

She turns away from the city, her eyes dark. A vine unfurls from the earth, draping itself over her shoulder. It has a dozen delicate, pink flowers that glitter with iridescence in the moonlight.

“I need you to run to them, and not away.”

She pulls one of the flowers free, crushing it between her fingers. It, forever reflexive, flinches when she runs her hand through its hair. A strange coldness follows her hand, one that stays even when she drops her arm.

It shivers, wrapping its arms around itself. There’s an older emotion that comes with the feeling, but it doesn’t know its name.

“That will get worse,” she tells it, “but I meant what I said. I won’t watch my world burn, from your grief or theirs.” She takes a step back. “Find a camera, Nightwing. They’re looking for you.”

The ground swells up, opening briefly to show the glowing mycelium before it consumes the green woman, and it's left alone at the edge of the park.

It shivers again and looks at the city.

Notes:

Ivy: I should get credit for not letting this one wander around bloody till he discovers rocket launchers
Bruce: *tweaking hard for a man who's dipped on the plot for the 4 parts*

Chapter 5

Notes:

Thank-you everyone for sticking this part of the story out with me! Your comments, kudos, and subscriptions mean so much❤️ and if you're reading this and you've made it this far but interaction with this type of content is a 'no' for you, just know that I'm still pumped you clicked all the way here.

The cold digs deep, burrowing into the marrow of its bones and burning under its skin. Blisters, boils, freezes and still does nothing at all but bring the memory of pain. It doesn't understand what it did wrong. If it did, it would really, truly promise to never do it again. 

(somewhere in the distance, the clocktower bell marks the hour)

 

---

 

The stone is—

pitted.

Its fingers fit in the chipped out holes left by titanium alloy claws, from — it doesn't know. Or it did. Or does. Or— the buzzing under its skin, cold and somehow on the edge of frostbite, makes that matter less the mindless need to go up.

Up, where birds go; where it goes to peel its skin off because the brighthotagony of that might be better.

“Are you planning on waiting out here all night, sir?” A male voice, over and up.

It doesn’t know how it got here (there's only cold and fog and prickling agony).

“Been a long week, McDavid, and it won't get shorter if I go inside now.” Another man, older, gruffer and voicing a despair it knows.

It keeps climbing, mindless and senseless and so cold it can't feel the stone it's clinging to. It can't feel much of anything, really. There's some distant alarm at — everything. 

But it thinks that its knees won't bruise up here. 

And it thinks—

it must have been good, once, to know that as sharply as it knows the outcome of ‘no’.

“Could be worse,” the younger man says, “remember when Ivy and Joker were fighting? I don't know who had more OT — us or the morges.”

The older man coughs a laugh, “you transferred from Keystone last year, didn’t you?”

There’s a gargoyle with a pitted face and wings that rise and cover its feet. It fits the body into the space between the statue’s talons and chest like the wrong kind of bird. 

“February last year,” the younger man confirms.

Terror and obedience and failure all go hand in terrible hand, and it thinks, unfairly, that the green woman knew it would fail. It wants Master to tell it how to be better. At least then it might know when this punishment could be over.

(there used to be a boy and a camera here—

—he’s supposed to be here, isn't he? like a moth coming to the light)

“I’ll let you in on a secret, John. What we’re seeing—? That’s not what’s worrying me. Something’s making Batman lose his goddamn mind and he’s not sharing. I’m worried about what we’re not seeing. Last time this happened Red Hood… debuted. I’m not in the mood for this city to get another masked lunatic with a schtick.”

“You really think we're about to see another Hood? I heard about him showing up when I was in Keystone. Seemed…bad.”

The older man sighs, “God above, I hope not.” Breath blowing, tobacco smoke. “You should go home. This will still be a mess in the morning.”

“You sure? I don’t mind keeping you company.”

“If he is going to show, it’ll be even later than now. There was a sighting of Robin in the Bowery — I doubt he’s there alone.”

A shoe kicks something metal. “Hopefully he shows,” the younger man says. “Well. G'night, Commissioner. I'll see you tomorrow.”

There's a hood over its head. It remembers that — the small boy insisting on the importance. And the green woman hadn't taken the jacket away. It doesn't help with the coldcoldcold that keeps dividing into agony splinters. 

 

There's blood in its mouth.

 

(“—worse? Ivy’s pollen or Joker venom?”

“Jeez, Dick, you must be bored. Jason would say venom, Damian would say pollen.”

“Red,” singsong, “you're avoiding the question.”

Over the coms and beside him in a double echo, “ focus, Nightwing.”)

 

It wipes the back of its hand over its lips. There’s a smear, black, in the shadowed light left behind on its skin. It is focusing.

It pushes itself further back in the gargoyle’s perch, trying to burrow into nothing. Its feet scrape on the stone.

Above it; behind it, footsteps again on the roof.

“You may as well come out. McDavid’s gone.” The older man says, “goddamn divas, the lot of you.” A snort, like he’s laughing but not. There’s a heavy shift-clunk .

It looks at the blood on its skin, feels it still in its mouth. It thinks it bit its tongue, but there’s no…distinction between the frostbite consuming it and anything else. 

“Look, I don’t want to monologue off the roof at one in the morning. Just. Hop up.” Another scuffing footstep, still moving further back.

Its head hurts, its skin aches.

But it looks up — there's a stretch of brick between the gargoyle’s back and the parapet wall. The ghost of casual assurance at the reach hovers at the back of its neck; for of all things it does and does not know how to do, there's no doubt of this.

It had to be taught to go to the ground. It doesn't remember — something lost to the grey fog of before — unlearning the fear of going up.

(It thinks it must have hurt far less, to not remember)

Wiggling around the gargoyle’s wing, it does a lurching jump because it doesn't trust that it can pull itself up without a reliable foothold. The cold ache freezes its joints into rickety, painful masses.

From the gargoyle’s shoulder there's a second, half-heaving jump required to climb the parapet wall that lets it tumble over and onto the asphalt roof. Small rocks stick to its palms when it rights itself, sitting with its knees bent.

The older man takes a half, scuffing step closer. “Goddammit,” he says, with some type of feeling. There’s no laugh anymore. “Which one are you?”

It doesn't understand. 

When it says nothing, he reaches out like he wants to reach for its hood. It flinches back against the brick. 

The older man stops. He takes a breath. “Are you wearing a mask?”

There’s nothing on its face under the hood. It keeps looking at its knees. It shakes its head again.

The older man’s breathing is forcefully even. His feet twitch like he wants to come closer. “Okay,” he says, “that’s…not great. Kid, I—,” he cuts himself off, “are you bleeding ?”

It looks at the black-in-the-light smear across the back of its hand. There's bloody foam in its mouth that it can feel bubbling at the corners of its mouth.

It doesn't think it's bleeding, so much as just. Imploding.

It—

—shrugs.

“Jesus Christ," the older man says, “how did you even get up here?”

It doesn’t know. Everything is — patchy.

“Hey,” he’s snapping his fingers, “is Batman coming for you?”

It can’t help the—

—wheeze that comes out from the spaces between its teeth. 

Nobody is coming. Nobody ever came. 

“Hey, focus!” the older man snaps. He’s crouching, but out of arm’s reach. It doesn’t know why that realization makes the cold worse. “How can I help?”

It looks up, but carefulcarefulcarefully because there’s some line that matters and the older man is too close in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

Behind him is a giant spotlight pointed at the sky. It’s off, but in the yellow light of the buzzing rooftop door light behind it, there's a lever.

Shift-clunk, it thinks.

It points.

The older man looks. He shakes his head. “He's been ignoring it all week,” he says gruffly. There’s something else, but it doesn’t know how to name it. “Kid—”

“Please.” Its voice bubbles, but its hand doesn’t drop.

Everything is 

very far

and still too close.

 

There’s a clock, different from the one it had heard before, counting down. It ticks with the throbbing of the cold. It’s important, vitally, that it doesn’t run out.

“Please,” it says again.

The older man drags a hand down the lower half of his face. “I have my phone. Can you call him? I’ll delete the history.”

It swallows blood, bringing its hand back so it can wrap its arms around its chest. This is important. From before the rest.

 

(“Easy-peasy. You’ll know it’s me.”

 

“It’s a light, Dick.”

 

“Don’t be a goober, B.”)

 

It shakes its head. Pushes itself up.

The older man stands with it, but stays standing a careful distance away. He’s braced like he wants to catch it, or push it back down. 

Resolutely, it stays standing. It can do this — has to, because like in everything else, it doesn’t think there’s much of a choice. 

Then it's one step, two steps, twenty feet of asphalt and gravel. It keeps its arms wrapped around itself until it's at the spotlight. The older man follows a few feet behind. “Kid,” he says, “I’m telling you—”

The lever goes shift-clunk when it pulls it, the light beaming and catching in the clouds. The metal bat welded to the edges is reflected by the darkness left in the circle of light. It takes a breath, shifting its grip. Shift-clunk. The bat disappears. Shift-clunk. The bat appears. Shift-clunk. No bat. Shift-clunk. Bat. Shift-clunk. The sky is empty.

It lets its head rest against the top of the lever handle and tries to steady its breathing. Its ribs aren’t moving right — intercostal muscles slowly freezing.

The green woman didn’t lie when she said it would get worse. This is worse. It wants it to stop now, please.

 

Please.

 

It pulls the lever again. The bat looks down. The bat goes away. Comes back. Disappears.

It lets go of the lever, sliding down against the side of the spotlight. It buries its face in its knees, wrapping its arms around its shins, fingers locked. 

“Goddammit, kid,” the older man says, voice oddly thick. “You start looking worse, I’m calling dispatch to send an ambulance.”

It doesn’t want an ambulance.

It wants—

Or rather—

It doesn’t want—

 

—to hurt anymore.

The body shivers, muscles contracting and it's stuck breathless until the fit passes. 

Behind it, the rooftop door opens. “Commissioner—!”

The older man moves so that he’s between in and the door. Which is. Good. It doesn’t have a mask on. That’s keeping the older man away, but it doesn’t know if it would keep anyone else away. 

“The signal had some faulty wiring,” the older man says, without any tools. “It’s fixed now. You can go back downstairs, Martinez.”

“R-ight,” the new voice says, “I’ll um. Go let everyone know that. Is there going to be any more…faulty wiring, sir?”

“It’s possible.”

“I’ll file that then. Tomorrow.” The door shuts.

The older man sighs after a minute, “you’re going to have the Gazette reporting about the GCPD’s irresponsible use of light pollution tomorrow.” It holds its hands together a little tighter, but he doesn’t try to make it move away from the lever.

It looks up from its knees into the inky sky away from the doorway light. There’s the smattering of apartment lights, bodies moving in front of the windows. Neon billboards. Under one of the billboards is a half loop of mostly chipped away green paint.

It lets its head rest back on its knees. Nobody is coming; nobody came. But it's still stuck futilely waiting. 

The cold burns. 

Its eyes burn.

 

---

 

It doesn’t know what changes — everything or nothing, but the skin on the back of its neck prickles and it looks up. Apartment windows and billboards and shadows clinging to a man. Its breath freezes again when he takes one ghosting step closer.

He freezes, as silently and resolutely as the air in its lungs. His eyes are white, blank. Slowly, like he’s trying not to spook an animal, he raises his hands so that they’re open and empty at his side. Just as slowly, he lowers them back down but doesn’t hide them in his cape.

“Gordon,” his voice sounds like it was chewed up and put back together wrong, “go inside.”

The older man jumps. He looks at the shadow man. He looks at it. He glares at the shadow man. “Next time I turn that damn light on, you show up. We need to talk.” He stays steady until the shadow man inclines his chin a fraction of an inch, then he deflates, “and you, kid. Next time I see you, I want to see you better.”

It doesn’t dare look away from the shadow man as the older man disappears through the door. The shadow man drifts closer, but increasingly slowly, until when he’s at the edge of arm’s reach, he’s almost still.

Slowly, still slowly, he crouches down.

Even halfway folded over, he’s so big.

(it doesn’t want to hurt anymore)

It shivers, skin prickling, waitingwaitingwaiting. It lets its hands let go of each other, pushing off the ground to take a half shuffling step into the shadow man. Immediately, there are hands on its shoulders — not restraining but…oddly hesitant.

It doesn’t matter.

Where the shadow man touches it, the cold ache dips into near-bearability.

“Bruce,” it babbles, the green woman whispers, everything so drilled in, it doesn’t know who’s speaking, “I want to go home.”

Notes:

sound the alarms, assortedsnakenoises (ao3)/@towering-trash-road (tumblr) drew a scene from weep, for I'm not who i was click here to see it!
and then, if you're like me and had your art skills peak in kindergarten go look at it again

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 8 of steps of reclamation