Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson isn't any stranger to loss at this point, but it feels different this time. His throat burns and aches and he takes a step back. He shuts his eyes against the almost-pained gaze of Tim, his Tim-Chick. Not so much a chick anymore, but seeing him in those colours…

"Off." His voice rasps, cracking as he clicks weakly. His reprimands don't have the strength behind them they need to, to make Tim listen. "You're Hatchling." Take it off.

"Batman needs a Robin." Tim-Chick - no no not anymore. He's twelve next week - sounds as upset as Dick feels. He turns away from his younger brother, dragging in a breath and starting to pace across the floor of the Batcave. Talon shudders slightly, shaking his head as small footsteps follow. Tim-Chick persists, his chirrups shaking. Bat needs Robin.

Not Robin! Talon screeches, whirling back around, and his recently grown-into-a-fledgling flinches. Eyes wide and unaffixed with the mask that Robin wears. Fledgling-Tim clicks back at him, his voice wet and hurt. Talon hisses his disapproval, its voice choking slightly as it turns back away, so it doesn't have to see the look on the little fledglings' face.

The Robin has died and The Bat has a Hatchling and a Nightwing-Talon. The Bat doesn't need The Robin back. The Robin is not The Bat's to give away, and -

Dick. The small sound behind it makes it tense, clenching hands as it shakes. Please. Bat didn't listen. It doesn't know what The Bat didn't listen to Fledgling-Tim about. Talon does not care about what The Bat thinks anymore, not after he refused to take revenge for Owlet-Jason. Not after The Bat refused to let Talon do what Talon knows it has the strength to do and kill.

Talon should have carried out The Courts' orders when it received the Mission two years ago. Then it wouldn't have to deal with this.

No. He sucks in a breath, a cold wash of horror going through him and Talon almost chokes at his own thoughts. He isn't a pawn of The Court anymore. Hasn't been for a long time, even if sometimes his own hands shake with the knowledge and the memory of That Night. Thinking about it makes his throat burn more. He hisses softly, clicking to himself.

Fledgling-Tim chirrups, sounding wet and lost and helpless, and Talon forces himself to breathe. Fledgling-Tim wouldn't do this to hurt him. He seems as reluctant to wear Robin as Talon is to see him in the colours. Talon knows that Owlet-Jason would have given The Robin to Fledgling-Tim once he was old enough, anyway. Once Owlet-Jason would have outgrown The Robin, and taken flight under his own pair of wings.

But Talon can't be here and watch The Robin take flight again after months of The Bat's actions. He knows what Batman's been doing, knows that his own grief and rage is consuming him, but Dick is struggling to keep his own head above the ocean that threatens to drown him. He breathes again.

"I can't be here for this, Tim. Don't… Don't make me."

Tim makes the merest of noises, before dragging in an equally-wet sounding breath. He chirrups softly. Okay. Dick hears him move across the floor of the Cave, towards the cases and hears one click softly open. He keeps his eyes shut for a few more moments, then opens them and starts walking.

He doesn't look back.

The apartment, to put it lightly, looks like it had been summoned straight from the depths of the earth and coated with definitely-not-fresh paint. Dick stands in the middle of the room, clicking softly to himself as he looks over it again. The air is thick with the smell of old mold and dirt and something that he strongly suspects is the faint smell of bleach and most certainly not-up-to-par cleaning products. It's far from ideal, and something in the pit of his stomach squirms uncomfortably.

Even the network of tunnels and caves under Gotham hadn't been like this. At least then it was quiet and dark and the dirt and stone belonged. Dick drags in another shaky breath, shoving his hands through his hair, and shuts his eyes. He listens, the smell making him half-expect the soft twittering of little owlets and quiet hoots of parent owls. What happened to those little owlets anyway? He has the sudden urge to check, to go back down into the earth and find his old rocky nest and - his breath hitches.

He can't think like that. He's almost successfully put The Court out of his mind. As much as he can, when he knows the only reason he breathes still is due to the electrum in his veins. It's almost impossible to not feel like he still owes them something, still impossible to ignore that dragging clawing feeling underneath his ribs that reminds him constantly; he never completed his Mission. He's gotten too good at pretending it doesn't exist.

He breathes again, smells the underlaying dirt that's been covered up with splashes of landlord-white, and tries to quiet his racing mind. He's thinking too much. He needs to focus on something else.

Bludhaven sounds different to Gotham in a way he hadn't expected. Unsettling in its own way, and dangerous in an entirely different way. He can hear the people outside his window, down on the street below. It probably hadn't been the smartest idea to choose a place in Bludhaven's red light district, but it was the only place available at this short of a notice.

He hadn't told Bruce he was leaving.

He doesn't have any of his things, other than his phone, his wallet, and a backpack of clothes.

His phone has been ringing for the past five minutes.

Talon takes a deep breath, shoves open the window, slips out onto the fire escape and climbs his way to the roof of the building.

The lights of the city - his city now - almost twinkle in the darkness. Talon ignores the bleeding fingers he gets from digging them into the brickwork to haul himself the last few meters to the roof ledge. It's cooler up here than inside, a subtle night chill that makes him blink hard against the sudden sleepiness.

He doesn't have time to sleep, though. He has to know this new city, he has to find something to do other than stand in an empty, white-washed apartment; under too-bright lights and bare walls and bare floor and no furniture at all. Talon wants Home.

He can make one in Bludhaven. He just needs time. He can't be around The Bat or - he can't be in Gotham right now, no matter how much it softly sings to him, familiar buildings and darkness beckoning.

Talon reconsiders, perched atop the apartment building, his head tilted slightly to the side as he watches this new city. He watches as night leaks away like blood down a drain, until the soft greyness edges behind buildings and what little people left out on the streets start merging into more early-risers.

He feels stiff in a way he hasn't for a long time, his heartbeat thrumming weakly behind his eyes. The climb down is almost painful, limbs that haven't moved in hours protesting it.

He swings himself back through the open window of his new home, picks up his phone and ignores the thirty eight texts and ten missed calls, and books the next available trip to San Francisco Bay.

—————

"-and so I don't know what Barry even wanted, but he seemed - oh!"

The voices cut off, and Talon curls himself up tighter into the Nest he'd dragged together in the living space. Admittedly, it was half-under the coffee table, and he hears Wally curse slightly; a slight bang letting him know the speedster had probably just smacked his head into the wood.

"Dick, you alright there? I thought you were still in Gotham-"

Talon shakes his head, a soft chirp slipping out of him that sounds painfully wet and broken to his own ears. There's more movement, then a slightly softer, different voice chirps back. Want company?

Talon nods, ever so slightly. He wants… He's not allowed… The Owls will be displeased. Talon is not supposed to Want or Need things. It is Talon.

Something squeezes into his Nest - his soft and comfortable Nest, so different from the hard rock and dark stone scored with its own claw marks - and wraps firmly around him. It doesn't feels constricting, and Talon shifts slightly. Turns and blinks at a concerned pale face with an almost-messy shock of ginger hair. It knows this face.

It knows the other faces that climb awkwardly into the Nest too. It doesn't think they are Targets - and Talon is missing its usual coverings, and sharp claws. There's a soft click, and the space is plunged into a comforting, semi-darkness, before another face appears and climbs into the Nest.

Talon? The ginger one - Wally, it remembers now - chirps its designation at him, and Talon blinks at the ease that creeps into its frame. Wally knows its designation, and holds itself like it is unafraid. Talon shuts its eyes and shakes it head slightly, and cautiously allows itself to sink further into the Nest. Warm bodies press all around it, and the soft sense of comfort - something that Talon is never allowed to have - is heavy in the air.

"Do we know what happened?" Talon-Wally is whispering to one of the other Talon-like that have crawled into its Nest. "He hasn't been this bad since…"

"It might be something to do with Batman." A softer voice whispers back, the faintest name of Donna springing into Talon's mind. "Maybe they had a fight?"

"Wouldn't Talon be more angry if that happened?" There's a soft, considering pause, then the Nest shifts and someone starts crawling out, a slight hint of audible worry in their almost bubble-like voice. "I'll see if I can contact Hatchling. He might know."

Hatchling. Bitterness and something soft and choking swirls through Talon, followed by a sharp spike of fury, and it hisses. Hatchling no longer exists, it was destroyed-swallowed by The Bat. Talon had a Hatchling and it lost it because of The Bat. The Bat now has a Robin again, and Talon has - Talon has nothing. Not The Court, not it's Tim-Chick, not it's Owlet-Jason. All because of The Bat.

"Oh," the softest murmur interrupts the slight still in the air, and the bodies press closer, a sudden firmness in their words from whoever speaks. "Alright, we'll all stay here for now. Okay, Talon?"

The Owls never ask if Talon is okay. Talon is not supposed to feel things like 'okay'. Talon is not supposed to feel at all, and it swallows around the thick bitterness and confusion in it's throat. It is - it is both Talon and Not-Talon anymore. It has no Court, no Owls, nothing. It is the last remaining shred of an effort to balance the city that belonged to the Owls. The city that was taken over by The Bat.

Talon swallows hard, burrows down further, and forces itself to chirrup. Something in it doesn't want these other bodies to worry.

Okay.

————

He wasn't expecting to wake up, and he gasps into the darkness. Pain is burning through his throat and he chokes, trying to move. He shifts to the left and hits a wall. Wood, firm. He doesn't think he's tied up, but his entire body feels stiff and agonized. He's cold. He gasps in another breath, a strange burning sensation in his veins that he has to grit his teeth against.

Where is he? The last thing he remembers was - was eyes.

The memory of those floating, haunting-like golden eyes makes him shudder. The pain at his throat gets stronger, somehow, and he swallows. Tries to search his memories for anything else of importance. There was… someone he needed to get back to. Or was waiting for? The name slips through his mind like thin sheets of silk, leaving a faint lingering sense of urgency.

He drags in another breath, his chest oddly tight. There's not much air wherever he is, and he has to take shallow, burning breaths. He's shaking, he realizes. Why can't he remember anything right now? Is he dreaming? Is he - is he dead?

His veins burn anew, and a choked sound leaves him, a barely-there croak. The wood around him is unyielding. Below him, to the left and to the right, and above. It's a box, he realizes, another terrified gasp leaving him. He's in a wooden box; a - a coffin. He's in a coffin.

He shuts his eyes against the overwhelming terror, a rough, gravelly sound leaving his burning throat. Something distantly, faintly, chirps. It doesn't sound anything like a bird, and he - he probably couldn't hear birds if he's in a coffin.

He can feel his heart pounding inside his ribcage, though, so he's not dead! Why is he in a coffin if he's not dead?!

The entire thing shifts, and he thinks he makes another noise, from the way his throat burns. It feels like he's swallowed hot rocks, a faint tugging at the back of his mind sending the faintest of embers scattering across the inside of his eyelids like a distant flame. If he follows it -

The wood above him disappears, and a voice speaks.

"Gray Son."

Chapter Text

There's screaming.

Talon scrambles, a screech ripping from his throat unbidden. Its Target was right there, it was right under its claws, and it missed. The Target ran, small and fast and scurrying like a mouse, but yelling for help in a voice that's far too familiar. The entire building is full of noise now, loud in it's cacophony. The Owls are going to be furious, it failed, it failed, it failed. They're going to lock Talon away, away from the little owlets in the caves underground and back into that small wooden box. Talon needs to kill the Target before they find out. It can smell blood. Talon doesn't know if it's its own. It's too dark, Talon can hear its own heartbeat, thundering and loud and -

Dick opens his eyes, shooting upright in his bed and gasping in a lungful of air. The sheets are twisted around him in a way that feels suffocating. He scrambles, trying to get free, and there's the sound of ripping, before he flails onto the floor.

The shock of his back meeting hard wood makes the breath leave his lungs, and he struggles for more breath. Tears are running down his face, thick and furious and soaking into his cheeks. His eyes burn in a way that lets him know he's been crying in his sleep again. He struggles through another pained gasp, pressing his hands over his eyes and running them through his hair. His entire head pulses with the faint beginnings of a headache.

The nightmares have been getting worse since he left the Tower. He should have listened to Wally, he should have stayed there, but - but Robin had been going to come over, and Dick still can't face him. It's been three weeks - almost four, and he's still avoiding Batman and Robin. He's still in Bludhaven, learning the ins and outs of the city and ignoring Bruce every time he tries to contact him.

He can't want him back that badly anyway, because Dick knows Bruce could have easily found out where he lives by now. If he really cared.

His phone buzzes quietly, and Dick lets his hands fall to the floor, staring listlessly up at the ceiling. There's dim dawn light coming through the small window above his bed. It's the same colour as washed-out stone that he used to trace over.

His phone buzzes again, and Dick lurches up from the floor. He has to scramble a little, detangling himself from the sheets he pulled down with him in his fall, and additionally struggles to grab the phone from behind the heavy boxes he's been using as a bedside table.

There's two new messages from an unknown number.

A set of coordinates, and three letters.

Hlp.

Dick has never moved faster in his entire life.

The bite of fresh dawn air almost shocks him as he hurtles out the window in the lounge, onto the fire escape, and leaps the rest of the way down onto the street. Nobody pays him much attention as his feet - bare, he's still in his pyjamas - pound against the pavement. The safehouse with his gear, half-hidden in a dilapidated building has never seemed so far away, even though it's only five minutes on foot.

He barely registers how quickly he changes into his gear, pressing a mask over his face, and races back out. It's instinct, fast and almost frantic, and a cold feeling settles deep inside his ribcage as he checks the coordinates again.

Gotham City Harbour.

It'll take him half an hour to get there, at least.

——————

The warehouse is - not new, but Nightwing is certain it hadn't been here the last time he was in Gotham. It's small, tucked away in the darkness, half-sinking into the water. Tilted and warped, and held together with what seems like sheer spite from the building itself. There's noises coming from inside, muttered voices.

Nightwing slips inside through a small window at the top, blinking and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside. It's worse on the inside, rusted metal jutting inwards from the walls like it's been tugged away by a toddler with a potato peeler. The rafters are unsteady and waterlogged somehow, and he can already smell the water that covers the sloping concrete floor.

His breath catches in his throat when he sees the slumped-over brightly coloured figure in the chair. A bead of blood rolls down Robins' temple and plops into the murky water sloshing around the chairs' legs. From this distance, he can't tell if he's breathing, and a tiny panicked chirp falls from his throat, iciness filling his ribcage.

The men below don't take any notice, but he sees Robin's chest stutter, a weak whistling noise escaping the small figure. Relief floods through him.

It's quickly drowned out by rage.

Talon moves quietly through the rafters, head tilting and watching with narrowed eyes. The Bat should be here. The Bat had stolen-taken its Fledgling, and made Hatchling into The Robin. The Bat is responsible for The Robin.

"Still awake?" One of the men move closer to The Robin, and Talon waits. Digs its claws into the sodden rafter and makes itself still and quiet. The man reaches froward and grasps a handful of black hair, wet with water and blood, and jerks The Robins' head up. There's a knife held in his other hand. The Robin makes a breathy, pained noise as its head is forced back. Urgency buzzes quietly in the back of Talons' skull.

"Good."

Talon sees the glint of the blade as it moves through the air. Talon keeps still as The Robin jerks, a ragged choked noise from its throat. The quiet rage burns away at its bones as it makes itself observe, scan the men below. Make a plan. If it acts too soon, it'll give away its advantage.

Nine men. Nine Targets. Two near the doors, five scattered around and seemingly just watching as the man with the knife twists it, and The Robin screeches. One directly below. All with guns, except for the Target with the knife.

Its hand twitches, closing around the sharp bladed metal in a pocket in its belt. It has different gear now, a different outfit. No claws, though. It will have to rely on other things to eliminate the Targets.

The blade withdraws from The Robin, and Talon lunges from the rafters. The metal spins away from its hand, striking the knife as it lands on the Target below it. Talon moves, pulling sticks from its back, striking one-two quick to the Targets' head and leaping free.

Two, three, four, five, six Targets taken out before the first sounds of gunfire even start.

The water splashes around them as they fall. There's the sharp loud burst of gunfire, and Talon twists, hurling another stick towards the figure near the door. The darkness lights up with crackling blue as it connects, and Talon leaps. Water streams from it as it seizes one of the twisted rusted pieces jutting out from the wall, twists and throws itself towards The Robin and the other Target.

The noise that echoes as its stick hits the hollow of the Targets' throat echoes slightly, a snap and crunch followed by a gruesome gurgling choke.

Talon ignores it, the air moving around it whisper-soft, water splashing as it lands and another burst of gunfire rings out. One Target left. Talon clicks twice towards The Robin, and lets itself fall into the deeper water on the sloped floor. It knows how to draw Targets closer.

For a moment there's silence, murky water shifting around it as it floats, and the ripples that echo outward from the Target splashing towards it.

Metal pokes its side, a mumbled noise above it, and Talon surges upwards. There's a startled yell, the Target stumbling backwards. The gun goes flying, and Talon spins, kicks, seizes the Target by the throat. It's voice is rasped, dark and mocking and the Target's face pales.

"Mistake."

Metal glints in the light, and Talon shifts, grabs the knife swung towards its head and twists the blade to plunge into the Targets' shoulder. A strangled scream echoes around the warehouse, and Talon yanks its Target properly upright, sending an elbow into the side of its head.

The Target falls like the rest, splashing in a crumpled heap into the water.

Dick. The rasped, pained chirrup comes from behind it, and Talon blinks. The Robins' head is lolling, blood still joining the murky red of the water around it, and it licks its lips, swallows, and utters the chirp again. Dick.

Talon pauses, the water cold around it's legs. Something in him burns, twisting through his chest as he looks down at the bodies. A sudden sharp spike of anxiousness, but - no, he can still - he can still - he can -

Bat doesn't kill. Robin wheezes behind him, and Talon shudders, thick cloying anger at the back of his throat. He is not Bat, he is - he's - He's Dick. Dick Grayson. Nightwing. Nightwing, not Talon.

Nightwing doesn't kill. He never wants to kill again.

Which means he needs to get these people out of the water before they drown. Before he can take care of Robin.

Robin called him for help, and not Batman.

His mind is a whirlwind as he moves, hauling men out of the covering of water on the floor. He carelessly tosses them onto crates, or the table with the instruments - and thick, heated anger burns in him as he sees the sharp glinting metal objects. Object that were used on his baby brother.

His skin burns with his own memories that he pushes down.

Nightwing drags in a sharp breath, the water splashing and swirling around his calves as he finally hurries over to Robin. Blood starts soaking into his gloves, as he tilts Robins' face up. Nightwing swallows, his own voice hoarse. Here, I'm here. I'm here now.

Even that feels like too much right now, and Nightwing hisses out a breath. "It's okay Robin. It's over, you did so we-ll." His voice stutters on the words and he drags in another breath, already cataloguing the injuries. "We'll be back at the Cave before you know it."

He's going to kill Bruce if he finds out that - no, no, focus on the task right now. Think about Bruce later.

Robin sags into him, turning his face into Nightwing's shoulder as he shakes with barely-there sobs. A deep swirling rage swells in him, and he has to fight to keep his voice soft and soothing, the sounds almost burning his throat as he soothes his little brother. The ropes are taking too long to come undone and in a fit of impatience, Nightwing digs into his belt and withdraws a Birdarang.

The flinch that goes through Robin at the sound of the ropes hitting the water - splashing like someone running towards them - makes fresh anger burn in his throat. Nightwing pulls Robin up, and the younger makes no protests as he lifts him; instead just tucking his face into Nightwing's neck and shaking with sobs.

"It's ok-ay Robin, I've got you." Nightwing feels like he's forcing the words out, making his way towards a large door on the sloping-upward side of this small, dingy warehouse. He has to shove his shoulder against it to get it to creak open. He tries to keep up a steady stream of words, even if he wants nothing more than to listen to his burning, aching throat and stop talking.

He can speak, for Robin. Anything for Robin.

Anything for his baby brother.

"Where was that when I needed you?" Jason scoffs off to his left, and Nightwing barely controls his flinch. He can see the tattered bloody cape from the corner of his vision. He breath stutters when he sees the same state of Robin's clothes. Jason grins widely, floating next to them as Nightwing ducks into the shadows along the side of the warehouse and plucks Robin's comlink out of his ear. "He won't come, you know that. If he was going to, he'd already be here. He never comes when we actually need him."

There's a slight crackle in the comlink, and Nightwing sucks in a breath, feeling white-hot anger race into his chest, ready to spill from his aching throat, and -

"Robin, thank goodness." The sharp, but no-less-relived tone of Alfred cuts through his rapidly surging anger. "You missed your check-in, dear boy, what on earth-"

"Pen-ny One." His voice cracks, and Nightwing swallows, pushing forward. "Robin's hurt. Bad-ly. We need an ex-" His voice breaks further, and he has to remind himself to breathe, to focus on the small puff of air he can feel against his neck from Robin. "Ex-trac-tion. Goth-am Docks. I'll-"

"I've already located your position, Nightwing." Alfred sounds as steady as ever, not even the merest waver in his voice. "The Batmobile is en-route as we speak. Can you inform me of his injuries?"

A report, he can do that. Nightwing swallows down the trembling in his chest, ignores the way Jason tilts expectantly in the air with an almost malicious smile - Jason would never smile like that if Robin was hurt. Nightwing crouches down, resettles Robin, and takes stock as best he can. He's grateful his hands aren't trembling as he swiftly conducts a primary survey. Robin barely protests, his breathing shaky and his head titled against Nightwings' chest.

"Head injury, possible concussion as well, possible broken left wrist, slight lacerations to both upper arms-"

His skin prickles and burns under the effects of the serum and he's screaming louder than he ever has in his life. There's sharp light off a razor edge and he chokes as the skin of his arm splits under the blade.

"-stab wound to the left shoulder, and grazes along the knees."

His mouth is dry, and Jason whistles softly, a smirk painted onto his pale face. Still bruised, still bleeding. "That's a lot of injuries 'Wing, who knows if he's gonna make it."

He's not losing another younger brother.

"-wing? Nightwing?" Alfred's voice cuts through his rapidly-spiralling thoughts, sharper now, and he sucks in a breath.

"Here, here, yeah. Yeah, I'm here."

"Very good." Alfred's voice doesn't betray any emotion other than crisp efficiency. "The Batmobile should be at your location in less than a minute. The first aid kit has been moved to the middle compartment instead of the glovebox. If you could start taking care of the more severe injuries, and I shall prep the med-bay for your return."

"Of course," Nightwing's voice is barely more than a breath, his heart thudding in the hollow of his throat as he sees the dark sleek shape flashing towards them.

He's scrambling into the back seat almost as soon as the Batmobile skids to a stop, still cradling Robin close. Robin makes a pained noise as he's settled down on the length of the seat, but Nightwing doesn't bother with apologies. He's already ripping open the fully-stocked field first-aid kit and applying pressure to the stab wound - something he should already have been doing before now, and please don't let his Tim have lost too much blood.

"You know, he doesn't look half as bad compared to how the last Robin died." Jason peers down at the barely-conscious child as Nightwing tries his best to ignore him. "'Course, he's already lost too much blood. Guess your Mission might soon be completed, huh, Dickie?"

"Don't!" Nightwing can't help snapping at the hovering Robin, a painful twist going through him. His hands tremble as the engine roars, fixing his gaze on the way the white gauze stains red. His voice is thick, his vision blurring slightly. "I don't have any Mission."

"Sure." Jason rolls in the air, kicking his legs up and reclining backwards. His torn cape flutters wildly, even though there's no wind in the car. The air is almost unbearably still. "That's why you just kept holding Timmy there, instead of treating him. Don't you have an emergency field kit in your utility belt? Why did you wait?"

"I was - it's -" Nightwing drags in a breath, feeling the car skid around a corner, streetlights flashing past the tinted windows. There's a dull roaring in his ears, and he grits his teeth. Robin twitches under his hands, a slight whimper escaping as his breath tremors. "It's not like that, I was -"

"Talon wants him to die." Jason chirps his designation, his eyes narrowed. Talon wants Robin dead.

"No," Nightwing's voice rasps painfully through his throat, and he clicks sharply. Jason hums, and a hiss slips past Talon's teeth. Its hands curl slightly, and Talon shuts its eyes. It can feel the subtle throb of blood under its hands, and Jason chirrups at it.

Always be Talon.

"The Court-" Talon rasps the words, staring down at The Robin. The rest of the words are right on the tip of its tongue, and the Dead Robin to his right chirps softly, glee in every note. The Robin twitches under its hands, rasping through bloodied teeth and pale skin and wounds that Talon did not have to cause. A laboured breath is dragged through weak lungs, and The Robin reaches up. Peels off its mask, and pale blue eyes gaze blearily up at Talon. Watery and pale and familiar.

Talon freezes again, bloody gloves pressed down onto a barely white gauze pad. Its last orders from the Court almost ring in his ears, and Talon shuts his eyes. The car rumbles under them, and he chirps weakly. He can't.

Nothing will hurt his Tim-Chick.

Including him.

Chapter Text

"He'll be alright, Master Richard."

Alfred's voice is carefully gentle, the butler not-quite-hovering at the edge of Dick's vision. He finds himself nodding, still not moving from his self-imposed vigil at the side of Tim's bed. His throat doesn't want to form words. Tim's woken up once or twice since they got back, but for barely longer than a minute. He asked for Bruce, before the painkillers took over and dragged him back down into a semi-restful sleep.

Dick's throat trembles with the hiss that slips out from him. It burns. Bruce isn't here. Bruce is off-world. Bruce is never here when they need him.

Dick forces himself to breathe calmly. He's distantly aware he's being irrational; unfair towards Bruce. It's hardly the mans' fault that Tim disobeyed orders. He wasn't supposed to go after this group on his own.

"Yeah but he should have known that would happen." Jason scoffs, leaning casually against the headboard and blinking down at Tim with an unreadable look on his face. "When have any of us ever actually listened to him? I mean," Jason grins with a mouthful of blood. "You didn't, and neither did I, and look what happened to us. It's only a matter of time before something happens to Tim, right?"

Dick's hand tightens around where it's loosely holding Tim's. He hears Alfred moving about, the sounds of whatever he's doing fading into the background as Dick continues to watch Tim carefully for any signs of change. His eyes feel dry. How long has it been since he's blinked?

Talon. Jason chirps, that bloodied grin still on his face as Dick jerks slightly. Remember.

——————————

It's dark and it's cold, and he doesn't want to be here. The tunnels stretch out for miles, and he feels like he's walked through all of them. The cold makes him move slowly, forces him to pay attention to the way his limbs ache and his stomach twists in hunger.

He doesn't know what he's looking for, just that he has to find it.

And maybe then he can leave the tunnels.

He thinks - thinking is hard still - that he should be more scared about the fact he can't remember his own name. If he even had one. He must have had a name at some point, though. He thinks that maybe he's just used to being scared. He's been down here for so long, at some point it just seemed unimportant in terms of everything else.

He's all alone in the dark and the quiet and the endless, endless tunnels, and that fact scares him more than anything else ever could.

Sometimes he thinks he hears the sounds of claws on stone, small skittering sounds that make his throat ache and burn. A few times he's heard quiet chirps, faint and distant. Leading him onwards, but he never finds anything. Just more cold, more damp, more stone. More darkness.

The Gray Son belong to the darkness.

At least, he thinks that's who - what he is. The Gray Son. It's definitely fitting, here in the darkness and the stone and the cold. He's never felt more grey. He remembers someone calling him that. Gray Son. Grayson.

The faint echoed thing that was almost a memory slips away from him, and he shakes his head. He has to find the - the thing. Something. He has to be down here for a reason.

He walks.

He doesn't know if he's made any progress, as he presses himself into another small tunnel. Something faint and distant, like panic, claws at the back of his mind at the close squeeze and press. He ignores it. He's encountered smaller, tighter tunnels that he had to bend and contort his way through. One had lasted forever, although - if it had been forever he would still be stuck in it, right? And he's here.

His breath comes shallow, and he pauses. The sound of his quiet panting fills the space, and he wriggles a hand forward, clasping it over his mouth. The faint skittering sounds are back, closer than he's ever heard them before. Something thuds rapidly in his ears, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Another skitter, another scratch, then a sound he's only heard far off in the distance.

A chirp.

He opens his eyes and finds two golden circles, flicked through with pale silver, staring back. His breath catches, his throat trembling at the swamping fear that fills him. His throat burns, a snarling hiss filling the space like a trapped animal. It takes a moment to realize it's coming from him.

The eyes unblinkingly stare. He hiss-snarls louder, his shoulders hunching and his hands curling into claws defensively.

The eyes move, and his voice chokes off abruptly. There's a deep noise, a clicking shuddering sound, and claws descend into his hair. A strangled sound rips from him as the eyes disappear, and he's yanked forward.

Rock scrapes and burns along his arms, his hands as he scrambles for a grip. The crushing press of the rock all around him disappears, and pain scrapes and bursts again along his knees and palms as he's tossed forward and down.

He rolls, trembling limbs forcing him up into a splayed half-crouch, and his throat burns in pain as his frightened hissing fills the larger space. His eyes meet the golden ones again, and he twists his head, keeping them in sight as they circle him.

Another chirp, another clicking shuddering rumble.

A voice rasps.

"Owl-et?"

He hisses louder, still not quite daring to move as the eyes dart closer. The claws tug and pull at his hair again, and he shrinks back, baring his teeth. Something fragile and worn and painful trembles deep in his throat. The eyes narrow slightly, a clicking hiss filling the air. The claws grip his hair tighter. Another clicking hiss.

Fire burns in his throat, and he twists, lashing out and hissing. The claws jerks back, scraping slightly against his skull. The eyes rear back, narrow further, and a sharp snapping sound fills the air. He lunges forward.

Claws catch him on the shoulder, dig in, and he's sent tumbling over stone. His forearms burn, and he shoves himself up, turning and lashing out again as the eyes flash forward. Something bodily crashes into him, and stone presses hard against his side, his shoulder. He twists, hitting out with a curled fist, hissing louder.

The weight disappears briefly, and he turns. Listens for the slight scrape of claw against stone, and lunges towards the sound.

He crashes into something solid and weighty, a loud screech coming from it.

Pain flares along his shoulder as claws rip through skin, and his back hits stone. The thing hisses back at him, and he opens his mouth and screeches, clawing at it. The smell of blood is thick in the air, and he pants as air shifts around them.

They tumble, screeching and clawing at one another until his back hits stone again. He hisses up at the glowing eyes, pain making his vision blur. Weight presses down on him, and the eyes draw closer, squinting at him, a dark hiss echoing through the air. His throat burns as he hisses again, narrowing his own eyes.

He can feel blood sluggishly leaking from his shoulder, and the press of cold stone against him is making his body feel stiff.

He suddenly wants to sleep and never wake up.

A tiny warble leaves his throat, and the eyes blink. After a moment something equally soft-sounding echoes in the small space around them. A rumbling, deep cooing noise, and the weight shifts. The eyes move, drifting to his side as the weight disappears off him.

He pants, lurching to his feet, then stumbling as his legs protest and dropping back into a crouch. Something skitters close by him, and he turns his head. Stares at the golden eyes blinking back at him, and a coo fills the quiet stale air. The eyes drift closer, and something tangles in his hair, clammy skin pressing against his cheek, his forehead, the top of his head.

The claws tug in his hair, and the other thing chirps. He blinks, his shoulder throbbing, and hisses slightly. The eyes squint again, seeming almost amused, and the claws in his hair tug again.

"I, Tal-on. You, Hatch-ling. Fol-low."

——————————

Talon wakes up with a jerk and a croaking noise. His throat burns, and he scrabbles, pressing an open palm to the front of it. His skin is scarred, slightly clammier than usual, but no blood. No blood.

He hisses softly, letting his hand drop and blinks hard. He still feels the ache and pulse of his dream, shaking his head to get rid of it, and looks around. His neck hurts, echoes from having fallen asleep in an awkward position next to the Med-Bay cot. Fledgling-Tim is still asleep, and something eases in Talon's chest.

A small shiver goes through Fledgling-Tim's frame, and his eyes narrow. It's cooler down here. Fledgling-Tim is asleep, and cold, and vulnerable. Talon blinks against the echoes of freezing rain and howling wind through a high place with a moon that never fades, and unsteadily stands. Fledgling-Tim is cold, and there is no Nest.

The small, dark-haired boy shifts slightly in his sleep as Talon coos softly, and unclasps their hands. He will go and fetch blankets and warm things for Fledgling-Tim, so that he isn't cold. He remembers this place, distantly. Fledgling-Tim is safe here while Talon goes to find Nest materials.

He moves swiftly, exiting out the brightly-lit space into the more softer, darker cavern. The slight ache in his limbs and chest ease ever-so-slightly as he moves. His throat still pulses slightly with pain, and he shakes his head. Talon isn't supposed to feel pain, not when there is a Fledgling-Tim to take care of, and - and a - a Bat...

He stops, his footsteps still light, and his arms full of the fuzziest, warmest blankets he could find, staring blankly ahead. Talon is in The Bat's Cave, and The Bat is not here. The Bat is supposed to be in the Cave. Talon is… in The Bat's Cave, and he hasn't been swallowed-destroyed.

"Master Richard?"

He blinks again, turning slightly and staring at the elderly Owl. At least, he assumes it is an Owl, from the way it's dressed in a sharp tuxedo suit and clean white gloves. Talon suddenly feels awkward - Talon isn't supposed to feel at all - in its light blue-and-black uniform. It cannot feel its mask… Is Talon Unmasked in front of an Owl? That's not allowed -

"Ah." Something flickers over the Owls' face, and it turns, gesturing lightly. "This way please. Bring the blankets with you."

A small shudder runs through it, and Talon obediently follows the elderly Owl back to the bright-looking, sterile-smelling place set up in the corner of the Cave. It's gaze flickers over to - to… a figure, small and fragile-looking on one of the cots. Something trembles in its throat, and it suddenly itches to hurry over, bundle the small thing up, create a Nest for the Fledgling, protect-

"Master Richard," the Owl is speaking again, gesturing to a metal bench and looking at it expectantly. Talon pauses, blinks hard, lets out a slow breath. The Owl waits, and he hesitantly sets the armful of blankets down and walks over. His head throbs lightly, and Talon presses a hand to his face as he sits down. His throat aches.

"What-" His voice cracks, and he almost flinches at the harshness of it. It sounds like he hasn't spoken for years. His breathing shakes. "Alf-red. H-How do I - how do I st-st-op this?"

"Oh my dear boy," Alfred's voice is gentle, and Dick catches the small gesture out of the corner of his eye as he stares down at the clean-sterile floor. He shifts, half absent-mindedly stripping off the top part of his uniform so Alfred can check there's no injuries.

"I - I forget who I am, Alfred." His voice is barely there, his hands digging into the side of the bench as he shuts his eyes. "I don't even realize when it's happen-ing, I - I'm just suddenly no longer me, but - but I am. There's no…" He chirps miserably, his throat pulsing softly with pain. "I just forget, and I - I can't stop it."

"Healing takes time, Master Richard." The touch of a sterile wipe along the back of his shoulder isn't startling, but Dick can't stop himself from tensing up briefly anyway. Alfred pauses slightly, before continuing. "It's neither linear, or simple, as we'd like it to be. Relapses in high-stress situations are understandable. I-"

"It's been time, Alfie." Dick can't stop himself from making the displeased snapping sound in the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut tighter in frustration. "It's been two years. And I still - I still turn into a monster, I-"

"None of that." Alfred's voice is sharp, and Dick stiffens slightly, before the butler speaks again. "I wish as much as you do, Master Richard, that The Court of Owls had never gotten hold of you. But listen to me, dear boy, you are not a monster. The Court couldn't change that."

"I'm a Talon, Alfie." Dick stares down at his greyed hands, curling them, and claws shudder behind his eyes. He blinks, his voice wet. "That's about as monstrous as you can get."

A soft sigh escapes the butler, the sound echoing a small fragile thread of disappointment. "Monstrous perhaps, Master Richard, but you yourself are not a monster in the slightest. Not as Dick Grayson, or Nightwing, or Talon."

"It's still a part of me," Dick waits until Alfred makes a small affirming noise in the back of his throat before hopping off the exam bench. He keeps his eyes low, shame welling up inside him that feels more like a snake burrowing under his ribs. "I just - why - why won't it go away? I want it to go away, and I don't want to - to be this thing. I just want - I want to be normal."

He shuts his eyes as Alfred steps around the bench, helplessly gripping the elderly mans' wrists as his gloves hands cup his face. Alfred sighs softly as Dick shudders through a wet breath, just on the tail end of a sob. "I wish I could give you all the answers you seek, dear boy. Unfortunately I know as much as you do about the recovery of a mind. It's not as simple as we would like it to be. You never should have had to go through what you did, and I wish every day we could have somehow prevented it."

Dick opens his eyes, breathing shakily as tears trickle down his cheeks. It makes his throat ache as he swallows, shame twisting through him at how suddenly old and fragile the butler looks. He can't help feeling like he caused it.

"It wasn't your fault, dear boy." Alfred's voice is soft, certainty in every word as he wipes a tear from Dick's face. "And no matter who you are at times, you will always belong with this family. There is nothing you could do that would make us turn you away. Surely you know that?"

"I know that, Alfie." His voice cracks as he whispers the words, the lie curling behind his teeth with the taste of cloying poison. From the way Alfred's eyes grow a touch pained, he wonders if he hears the way Dick doesn't quite believe it. He swallows softly, dropping his eyes. "I know."

He can practically taste the sadness as Alfred releases his face, and Dick reluctantly lets go of his wrists. He steps back, swiping a hand over his face and clears his throat. He ignores the way it burns more, edging towards the entrance of the Med-Bay. "I'll - uh - shower. I'm a bit -" He forces a weak chirruping laugh, still not quite daring to look at Alfred. He can't help feeling that he's disappointed the butler. "-Bit gross."

He doesn't wait for Alfred's reply as he hurries out, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to the shower stalls. He doesn't look in the mirror when he enters, instead turning the shower to the hottest setting he can handle and kicking off the rest of his Nightwing uniform.

It burns as he steps under the spray, and he shuts his eyes, letting the water pour down over him. Maybe if he stands under the hot water for longer enough, he can convince himself that's he's not some sort of half-dead half-alive thing.

He's always colder than he used to be.

The space is full of steam when he finally manages to unfreeze himself and give himself a quick wash. He's almost grateful for the way the heat from the water lingers as he dresses in the spare sweats and hoodie he keeps in a locker. They smell fresh, clean, so Alfred must have replaced the last ones.

Tim is still asleep when he edges back into the Med-Bay, loosely wrapped in the thick blankets he'd gathered before. Dick can't stop the ever-so-slight smile that flickers over his lips. He knows Alfred tried to make an approximation of a Nest, other than simply putting the blankets over Tim as he usually would.

A small coil of guilt goes through him as he carefully clambers onto the cot and rearranges the blankets around Tim. The small boy murmurs something in his sleep, curling into him as Dick wraps an arm over his younger brother. His face tucks into the small space above Dick's collarbone, and Tim subtly relaxes, still deep in sleep.

Dick presses his face into the slightly greasy hair and tries his best not to cry.