Mistake
Sigh. Why do I like making Dick Grayson suffer so much?
From the Fractured Verse:
And that shit is like owfuck with a little bit of how and the fuck mixed in. Doesn’t matter. Shit heals, right? Ask Jason, he healed dead. Impressive.
Right now, however, Red is more concerned with hauling Dick’s dumb ass up and away. All the bullshit between them still a wall of this and that, keeps the two of them on professional terms (“I’m your co-worker, asshole. Where’s the fight? Other than that, fuck off). It’s been that way for the last two years, and, yeah, he’s gotten used to it. It wasn’t fine as much as it just was.
And the damn Batcomm, the one he should have pitched in the river, broken under the heel of his boot, thrown from his Ducati (what seems like) a lifetime ago when he subtly moved the majority of his shit out of the Manor while Dick and Damian set up shop in the Tower, is still in his belt.
Damn it.
Holding on the back of Nightwing’s thighs while his free hand keeps them flying rather than falling, Red has long moments to contemplate why the hell he stepped in tonight rather than send a text to O and went along his merry fucking way.
Because it’s Dick. Seems to be the only answer his brain can spit back at him.
Fine. If he could, he’d throw up his hands at the utter fuckery of the situation as he lights down on the roof of the Wallstone Apartments and tries very hard not to think too much about his own motivations when he saw the utter odds against the guy, the various weapons, the holds on his limbs, and the big bunch of that’s going to hurt like shit in the morning, right?
Nope. He jumped in with both feet when the lead pipe came from nowhere and N hit the ground. Nothing registered except a quick round of ‘let’s zip tie these motherfucker’ and pulling Nightwing’s limp body over his shoulder to get them gone. He’s used N’s comm to call O for police pick-up.
She’s been pretty shocked to hear from him since, well, he didn’t chill with the Bats or anything when he was in Gotham. Nope. He picked his routes away from their nighttime usual with a propensity to know when one of them had a night off and their territory up for grabs.
Natch.
Now, however, he takes a knee, let’s N’s body slide off his shoulder so he could lay his previous mentor and friend, the guy that was his Batman once, out across the roof while he palms the comm again, already hearing O’s distorted voice come over.
“Red Robin. Red. Respond.”
He sighs, straightening, staring down at (the guy that betrayed him, took everything from him, cast him out) Nightwing and finally answered the fucking thing with a harsh,
“He’s unconscious, Fifth and Grand. Get one of the Bats here for a pick-up, O.”
“You are a Bat,” she counters, pissed off in her own right.
Whatever, maybe she’s had a long night, too.
The laugh that tumbles out from under the beak of his cowl is the very opposite of hardy-har-har. “Who do you think you’re kidding?”
“Red…I—“
“Get. One. Of. The. Bats, O.”
Since he sure as fuck doesn’t want to be here when the asshole comes to. Nope. He picked up on that train a while ago. He’s the intel guy, the fucking soldier. He comes back to town when business calls, when the big bads need more than the Bats, when they need to be in the know, when his blood calls for the dirt, the fight of the streets where he started. Other than that, he hasn’t spoken to Dick Grayson in more than a year, within a ten foot radium in longer than that.
It’s fine. He gets it. He shouldn’t have been a douche about giving up Robin to the real son. He should have bowed out gracefully and got fucking lost the minute the new kid got the tunic. Now that he understands how it should have went down, it’s all good.
“B is on his way. Ten minutes out.”
“Good. ‘Bye O.”
“Tim, hey—“
“Nope,” he comes back immediately, “I do my part, O. That’s it. Night.”
“Come by,” and now there’s a thread in her tone…something he need a few years ago. Something he sure as hell doesn’t need now.
“Some other time,” he placates in an empty tone, hearing the bullshit in his voice like when he tells the same thing to one of the Titans when they ask him to come home with them. “Red out.”
He flips the thing completely off. It’s still tracking, sure, but he doesn’t have to listen to the lip service.
The tug on his cape, however…Fuck.
“Timmy—“
With the lenses down, he can see a whole bunch of concussion there.
“Nightwing,” empty, neutral. “B is on his way.” Subtle turn so his cape is tugged out of that hold. He steps back into the shadows while N takes a second to assess the hurt.
“Hey…In Gotham?” The older man smiles a little off.
Obviously asshole, I’m standing here.
“Been a long time since I’ve seen you.”
Red says nothing, doesn’t bother. Hurry it up, B, or I’m leaving him here by himself.
Now the frown is there.
“Tim?”
“Dick.”
“It’s been a while.”
Yup.
“Ah,” the guy sits up, woozy since head shots are really just a bitch. He named his last concussion Jeff and that dude was such a downer. Terrible concussion, really. “How are you? Where are you? Still in San Fran? How are the Titans?”
Another slide further back into the shadows. “Titans are fine.”
And a sigh, a hand with finger stripes held out in his direction, those eyes…
“Hey. We haven’t talked in too long. Stop trying to bolt.”
“No reason to stay.” Red fills in. “Other crime to stop. B should be here for you soon.”
“Look, little brother—“
Oh no you didn’t asshole. “Don’t,” he snarls out, “call me that.”
Even with the possible concussion, N’s spine straightens out with a snap, sharp and coordinated. His eyes clear, narrow. “Tim.”
And, ah. The familiar rumble in the alley below. “See you at the next Office Party,” he deadpans, turning, a few running steps, the leap into the night.
**
And it was a mistake to get too close to Dick like that. He knows it even before he shot the grapple right after; it’s why he’s on his way back to San Fran in the morning. But his goddamned phone hasn’t stopped going off.
Mother. Fucker.
In the old, recommissioned Batwing, Red sighs, monitoring the flight pattern when Titan’s Tower comes into view. He finally thumbs the damn thing off while the roof slides back to let him land.
Gar is there when he comes down the plane’s walkway with his duffle over his shoulder with the wings and pack inside.
“Hold on,” Gar is saying, one hand up right above the Red Robin insignia on his chest, those green eyes narrow. He thumbs his phone on speaker. “All right, dude. Go ahead.”
“Why the hell aren’t you answering my calls, Tim?”
A well of old anger and hurt just—
Nope.
“Obvious answer, N.” He walks to the elevator with Gar trailing behind him, holding the phone out in one hand while the other is shoved in his pocket.
“That is not—“
“Save your lecture bullshit for the Bats, Dick,” he finally gets out. “I’m out of Gotham, out of your fucking hair, so take a pill.”
A beat of silence. “What you told O?”
“What? You think I didn’t get the memo a year or two ago?”
Now Gar looks decidedly uncomfortable. Well, shouldn’t have put the phone on speaker, dude.
“Call me when you need data, a detective, or a soldier. Other than that, I’ll stay the hell out of the way.”
“Timmy, no, Tim, we are so going to talk about this.”
“Hell no we’re not.” The elevator opens on the communal floor, and he’s across the room with Gar trailing behind him. Red gives a wave to Bart and Kon ball deep in video games.
“Yes we are. This is long overdue, Tim.”
Irritated, Red turns and snatches the phone from Gar’s outstretched hand, brings it close enough for: “Get. Fucked. Dick. That’s all the talking I need except for giving you your goddamned intel and which asshole to punch in the nuts. I stay away from the Cave, from the Manor, from everyone else and I do my fucking part.”
“Jesus, Timmy—“ and now the happy-go-lucky mask is gone. The guy sounds like ass.
“Nope. All good here, thanks. Have a good one.” He hangs up, hands the phone back, and starts back on his way to the steps leading to his perch.
“Good times in Gotham, I take it?” Bart calls after him.
“The usual! Bad guys to stop and data to collect,” he calls back without stopping.