Chapter Text
There’s blood on the floor, horrible splatters originating from a lone figure tied to a chair. It’s a scene Dick frequently sees in his nightmares – even this iteration of it, with Tim the one covered in so much blood he can’t tell where his injuries are, isn’t new.
The tang in the air, the way he can feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck, the shivers running down his spine, that's new.
The incandescent rage pounding through him, narrowing his vision onto the cackling monster twirling around in the center of the warehouse, taunting him with stories of how Jason had screamed, in the end, how this new birdy had been so much more fragile, that’s new.
Dick can’t remember falling asleep, but he must have. Otherwise, that means this is all real. That means his little brother is in the Joker’s clutches again, that he’s too late again. That the Joker has won, again.
This has to be a dream.
“Oh, Robin number two really clung onto that stiff upper lip of his, but your deal ol’ Uncle J ended up breaking him of that habit when we had our heart to heart. I must say, you’ve certainly moved on to more polite birds, Robin! Can I call you Robin? I wouldn’t want anyone to get confused, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem, if we give it another minute!”
Hysterical laughter fills the air, drowning out Tim’s rattling breaths that have been echoing through Dick’s head ever since he stepped foot into this nightmare.
Heh.
Heheh.
Oh, he thinks that he’s funny? Thinks that he can joke about killing Dick’s brother? Twice?
Hah! Hahah!
Baring his teeth to mirror the Joker’s delighted smile, Dick charges forward.
The next five minutes are a blur of violence and blood – the nightmare of a man goes down, still fucking laughing, refusing to fight back. It’s like he thinks that having Dick snap, having Dick on top of him, raining down blow after blow after blow, is the best thing he’s seen all week.
Well, if he feels that way, who’s Dick to keep him from getting what he wants?
He’s not sure if he’s laughing or screaming. He can’t hear anything other than fucking laughter – not Tim’s harsh breathing, not the faint echo of Jason’s carefree giggles, not Bruce’s stern warnings against letting himself get consumed by his need for revenge, not even his own thoughts.
He’s going to make it all stop.
He has to.
There’s nothing else he can do.
This motherfucker has taken one brother away from him, and is trying to take away another.
He has to stop this; he has to end this.
He has to... he has to!
He... Hands grab Dick’s shoulders, yanking him back harshly. Dick falls, limp, against the ground, heaving for breath.
Blinking hard, he shakes his head, trying to get rid of that awful laughter. It’s – it’s quiet. There’s the sound of rattling breaths from Tim, a low stream of words from Bruce, and nothing else.
No more laughter.
Dick jerks back to himself. His hands hurt, his knuckles no doubt bruised, maybe even fractured. He’s covered in blood, splatters covering his front from head to waist. It’s not his blood, it’s – it’s the Joker’s.
Oh god, Dick just killed the Joker.
Numbly, he pushes Bruce out of the way, not listening to a word he’s saying. He has to know, has to know if he really did it, if the nightmare is actually over.
The Joker lays on the floor, his face beaten into a bloody pulp. He’s not moving. Inching forward, Dick reaches out a hand, hesitating for a second before grabbing a pasty white wrist. There’s – fuck, there’s no pulse.
Dick killed him.
Oh fuck, Dick killed him.
He, he wanted to, right? It’s what’s best – this maniac has killed so many people, he killed Dick’s brother, tried to kill Tim. Gotham would be better with out this monster, the world would be better without this monster.
Pitching to the side, Dick throws up.
He can’t breathe. He wants to be relieved. The threat is gone, but it’s only because he killed him. Oh, god, it’s like –
Dick retches again, only producing bile.
Distantly, he can feel the detached pressure of a hand touching his shoulder, only briefly. As though underwater, he can make out the words, “It’s okay, Dick. I’ll take care of this. You’ll be okay.”
The world goes on, but Dick is stuck kneeling, his knuckles throbbing in time with the pounding in his temples, covered in blood, a murderer.
There are sounds coming from behind him.
Dick should probably turn around, check that out.
His limbs feel like concrete, but he has to. He’s Nightwing, he’s a vigilante. He has to move, people like him don’t get the luxury of ignorance.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Dick manages to turn his head, looking at the rest of the room.
Tim is tied to a chair, covered in blood. Dick can see his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
In front of him, Batman is kneeling on the floor, performing CPR on someone. On the Joker. On the person Dick killed.
Rage sparks in Dick again, warring with the cold dread twisting his stomach. How dare he? The Joker doesn’t deserve to live! He’s taken so much from them already, he needs to die!
But, Big Bird, should you be the one to kill him?
Dick freezes.
Pale legs streaked with blood, one crooked and painful to look at, stop in Dick’s line of sight. Like a puppet on a string, Dick raises his head, taking in the bright colors of the ripped Robin costume, scorch marks singeing the torn material, until he’s looking at him. At Jason, one bloodshot eye staring at Dick, once bright blue now murky and dead, the other still covered by his cracked domino.
Sure, you’re an asshole with more rage issues than freaking Bane, Dickie, but are you a killer?
Jason tilts his head, blood dripping off of him and evaporating before it hits the floor.
He already killed one Robin. Why would another one make any difference, on a record like his? If you really wanted to do this, Big Bird, you would have done it three years ago. When he killed me.
You’re not a killer, Dick. You never had it in you.
Dick sobs.
Coughing erupts into the silence, interspersed with frantic laughter, but Dick can’t move. Staring up with eyes blurred by tears at where Jason stands, fading into nothing, he’s paralyzed.
Jason’s blank face disappears completely, leaving his view of the broken warehouse window unimpeded. There’s a flash of red, almost indistinguishable from the blood dripping into his eyes, and the crack of a gunshot explodes around them.
The stuttering laughter cuts off.
Darkness encroaching on his vision, Dick falls.