Origin Story 2: Electric Boogaloo

Jason regrettably wakes up with the sun. Tragically, even. One would think that years of working with a man who religiously models himself after a bat would turn someone strictly nocturnal, and Jason would tell that ‘one’ to shut the fuck up. His circadian rhythm made the executive decision a long time ago that sleep is less important than seeing cotton candy clouds turn violent shades of reds and oranges with the rising of the sun. That is, if he could even see anything at all through the inevitable blinding of his retinas because the sun is a bitch.

He groans, entirely too fucking done with the day before he’s even started it. Jason shoves himself up off the couch just enough to reach for the painkillers lying on the coffee table, elbows digging into the worn-out and overly plush black leather cushions like he's sinking into quicksand straight out of Sunday cartoons. He slumps back down as soon as he manages to snag the bottle from the table, neck grinding against the arm of the couch as he wrestles it open. The way he struggles with the childproof cap only acts as a testament to his unadulterated exhaustion while he curses under his breath. Patrol the night before was nothing spectacular: a few drug busts on the outskirts of the Alley because some idiots still haven’t gotten the hint, a stop by the local fence for some intel on one of Replacement’s cases, followed by some of Black Mask’s False Facer goons giving him a hard time. Really, the fence would’ve been the most annoying thing of the night, a title generously awarded purely due to the guy's outrageously bad breath and even more outrageously outdated fashion sense. He would have been the most annoying part if it weren’t for the absolutely obliterated kid he found on that roof.

Not to say that the kid was annoying to help, he just had ridiculously annoying timing. Jason was two — two for fuck’s sake — blocks from home when he noticed the fresh not–quite–corpse steeping in a pool of its own blood. He drags a hand over his face, desperate to physically pull the ache of lackluster sleep from his eyes as he chokes down four pills dry after he finally manages to wrench the damn cap off. That puddle of blood was gonna haunt his dreams if the brat didn’t make it through the night. Jason has seen his fair share of shit, partaken in a fair bit of the more gruesome memories himself, but something about the way the kid was all twisted up twists his stomach right alongside him. Sympathetic pain is bullshit but that doesn't make him heartless. Though he'd prefer that to losing his breakfast before he even eats it.

With the bottle of pills blindly tossed back to its home on the coffee table, Jason gropes the floor until he finds his phone where it landed next to the couch. “Not even seven in the morning. Yay.” The press of the hard arm of the couch against his neck has gone and surpassed uncomfortable by the time he rolls off the worn leather. He knows it's gonna be stiffer than Bruce’s in his dumbest prototype suit later in the day but can't bring himself to give a damn. So long as he can turn his head he's still better than the old man. Giving into the hunger aches that are making themselves known among all the other aches, lumps, pains, and bumps, he goes to head for the kitchen.

Only to immediately trip on his helmet. The same one he threw to the floor as soon as he walked in the door. The same one that can take a bullet. Also the same one that just stubbed the ever-loving shit out of his goddamn motherfucking toe. Because, of course. It completes the scene.

After the obligatory stumbling and clutching at his foot, he finally shuffles to the kitchen. Cold floors soothe his aching foot as he swipes his phone open. At some point in the gross hours of the morning, Leslie texted him. ‘Call me.’ Not at all vaguely threatening. Presumably about the kid.

“Great.” Coffee. Caffeine would be necessary for whatever conversation she wanted to have. Maybe alcohol.

Probably alcohol.

He snags a slightly overripe apple from the basket on the island and stuffs it between his teeth as he types. He taps out a quick, ‘That bad, huh?’ as he sets the coffee maker in motion. The first bite of the apple proves it is in all actuality well beyond just overripe, forcing Jason to toss it into the wastebasket with a huff and betrayed glare. As the coffee machine starts its whirring, stirring to life on his counter like background music, Jason slumps into one of the stools behind the island. By the time he sits down the doc has already responded with an ever-pleasant ‘Call me. Brat.’ Ah, Leslie. Never change.

Counting five slow drips of coffee, he breathes, and presses call.

The line crackles when Doctor Thompkins answers. “Good morning.” Good is certainly a word for it.

Jason closes his eyes, absorbing the smell of probably expired coffee and the static of the choppy phone call. “What’s up? How’s our patient?” His head spins from the lack of sleep and a possible (read: probable) concussion, so Jason lets it drop to press his forehead to the cool counter-top.

The phone wedged between his cheek and the counter vibrates minutely as the doctor talks. “‘Our patient’, he says as if he’s the one with the degree,” Doc Thompkins mutters before sighing. “I stitched up what needed it and managed to staunch just about everything else. Problem is more the kid’s internal injuries. Broken bones, concussion, probably internal bleeding; you name it he’s probably got it.” Jason knows how that feels. Well. Kind of, considering he died immediately and didn’t exactly have to live with the injuries for very long — but he’s been injured a lot since too. “I set the bones that were possible to fix without opening him up, but his ribs are definitely more than just bruised and his ankle will require a lot more help than I can provide here.”

“That’s all well ‘n good Doc, but I’m not the one who can transfer him to the hospital through the righteous and proper channels.” At this point, Jason is a little confused why the doctor was so keen on having Red Hood call her at the ass crack of dawn. Not to say he isn’t glad to hear the kid is at least alive but this is out of his jurisdiction.

At first, all he hears is metallic scraping followed by a tinny thud from the other line. Then, Leslie heaves another exhausted sigh before replying, “Well, neither can I. Kid is gone.” Shit. Maybe he is dead. Jason lifts his head off the counter, tapping the speaker button and glares at the screen in a futile effort to push the rest of the morning haze from his brain. “Ran off as soon as he woke up. That’s why I said we needed to talk as soon as possible.” Well then. Her voice clearly says that there's more to it than that but he knows from experience not to push Doc Thompkins. Hell hath no fury like a pissed off doctor.

Also, the kid probably isn't dead, which is good. Maybe dead? Maybe the not-quite-yet-but-probably-soon kind of dead?

He slips off the stool, walking to grab the carafe full of coffee that finished brewing. “So, now what? I mean, I can put an APB out through some connections. Catch a name?”

“No. No APB. And I didn’t get his name, but even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. I’ve violated enough laws telling you as much as I have but this seemed worth it. No, I just need you to find the kid and double check he’s alright. Best case would be to get him to go to a hospital – or hell, even back here would be better than nothing.” Jason can only imagine the exhaustion on the older woman’s face after the evening she obviously endured. “Either way,” he pours himself a mug of the brown sludge while he listens, “I’m betting the kid isn’t gonna get the help he needs on his own.” He grimaces at the sight in his cup and sets it to the side, not even willing to attempt putting that in his body. As much as he wishes he had milk or something to add he doesn't think even that could save it.

Caffeine forsaken, he asks, “How can you be so sure?”

Doctor Thompkins scoffs. “I’ve dealt with you all for long enough. Call it a hunch based on experience.” 

He remembers the costume the kid was wearing and all the doc has told him so far. “Fair enough.” Jason walks back over to the phone, settling in to lean against the island counter with his chin resting on his palm, contemplating what the doc has laid out for him so far. “I still don’t get why you’re bringing this to me and not the police. It’s a kid; Gordon’d help in a heartbeat.” Sure Jason thinks the GCPD is a corrupt sad sack of an excuse for a justice system but that doesn't mean others aren't allowed to fool themselves into thinking otherwise.

Another thud on the line, the doctor’s voice growing a little more faint. “Please, as if I'd ever send a kid to the cops. And we both saw that suit. This isn’t just another street kid. Giving this to the GCPD with any details at all is just as bad as directly asking to put a bounty out on him like they did when the Bat was new. I don't think the kid deserves that.” He hates it when other people are so annoyingly right, especially when that makes it his problem. “Look, the way he ran off has me concerned in more ways than one. Just keep an eye out – but, be careful not to scare the poor kid.” Her voice is stronger, louder again before fading back to some distance like she’s pacing. Can’t really blame her.

He sighs, trying again to will the sleep deprivation from his system as he leans further against the island. “Yeah, I gotcha. I'll keep an eye out for the kid and try to make sure that he's not dead in some alley.” Jason hefts himself off the counter, rounding to the fridge to see if there’s even the remote possibility of scrounging together a breakfast. “I get it, trust me, I’m just surprised you would loop me back in like this. Wing, sure, he’s better at the whole ‘follow-up’ thing. But, me?” Nothing but booze and fuzzy peppers in the fridge so he abandons that particular quest, shutting the door a bit too hard as he thinks. Jason feels his face scrunch into a grimace as he mutters, “I’m amazed you didn’t just go to Nightwing directly to protect the kid from my sorry ass.”

Doc obviously doesn’t take to this too kindly when she tuts and hisses at him, “As if you aren't the biggest softie for down and out kids like him. Whole Alley knows it too so don't pretend. And I wouldn’t have saved your sorry ass as many times as I have if I didn’t have at least a decent amount of faith in you. Every single one of you bats gets on my nerves in a different way. Don’t go thinking it makes you special.” Her huff signals the end of the argument.

That being said, Jason has never been one to let sleeping dogs lie. “Uh-huh. ‘Cause your whole brand isn’t based around saving even the Alley scumbags that would just as quickly mug you.”

“Are you saying you’re one of them?”

“Worse.”

Her tone shifts, entirely too exhausted, and he remembers again that she probably hasn’t even gotten the few hours of sleep that he did. “Shut up and go find the kid.” Silence follows. She said her piece and he’s left stumped. Thompkins is probably right. He sorts through the photos he took last night in his head, dropping sideways back onto the same stool in front of his phone still sitting on the island counter-top. A kid running around in some suit of that quality probably isn’t just another gonk on the street. He hasn't seen anything resembling it too close before but his loop is a bit more closed circuit so it might be something he's missed. Though the question then would be is he a newbie or some underground type? Good or bad? And the kid definitely isn’t gonna want to go to a major hospital if he dipped from Leslie's. Suspicious enough he fled a small-time clinic. Concerning enough, too. Injuries like that aren't something you just casually wind up with after a hard day at work. Leslie interrupts the quiet with a hushed, much softer, “We both know this gonna keep bugging you as much as me so don’t pretend as if you’re going to just drop this.”

So, so annoying when people are right. “Fine. How long ago did he leave?”

“He already left probably over two hours ago wearing just a hoodie that isn’t gonna be enough for a Gotham winter.”

No fucking kidding. It was barely November and the wind was already brutal even when there were no storms. “Why didn’t you run after him?”

“I don’t coach track, I run a clinic, you ass. A busy clinic full of scumbags who would just as soon mug me. So if you'll excuse me, Hood, I need to get back.” A heavy yawn follows. “Do what you have to: go it yourself and find the poor kid or loop in the others. I don’t care, so long as your drama doesn’t affect any of my patients.” Her voice is closer than before, deadly as she says, “Call me when you have something. I mean it.” And with that, Thompkins hangs up and the call beeps out.

Jason slides his phone away from him across the counter. “Bye to you too.” His skin feels hot, stretched. His head feels like it's burning. Damn doctor just had to fucking bring up the fucking bats. Sure, he brought up Dick-face but that’s different. He may be an ass but he’s less so than the rest of the clan, only one of the bat brats who doesn’t grate on him every single second they’re in the same room. Instead, it's just most of the time rather than the whole time. Little victories and such, or whatever. ‘Cause that fucking matters in the grand scheme of things. Green slowly seeps into the corners of his vision, tinting his phone screen as his knuckles go white atop the counter. He doesn't need their goddamn help to find some fucking kid.

Except for when he fucking does.

He pushes the stool out a little too fast, the screech of the legs against the wood as it nearly topples. Jason's probably sending Dubbs into another hissy fit, the plush little egotistical, anal bastard. The ‘coffee’ gets unceremoniously dumped into the sink on the way back to the refrigerator where he snags a beer and fully slams the fridge door shut this time, much harder than he has to. Fuck propriety, see if he cares when the stove says it’s barely seven in the morning.

He could actually use some help, probably. “Fuck.”

Normally, he’d figure this out on his own. To that point, however, normally he doesn’t have to fight back Black Mask encroaching on the Red Hood’s territory at the same time a string of murders puts the whole of the Alley on edge. And of course all anyone can tell the murders aren't even related to Mask, two and two never quite coming up with four. Puts Jason's own damn people on edge even more than they already are. Not to mention, Replacement has been trying to slink through Crime Alley, looking for something and Hood doesn’t trust that B doesn't have him out on some futile hunt for something to finally hold over Jason. Intentionally finding that last damn straw for the camel's back. Even if he isn’t, Replacement certainly hasn’t earned the right to traipse around Red Hood like the weirdest game of hide and go seek whether B’s involved or not.

Even without a missing kid manhunt on his plate, Hood has been stretched thin.

And, best guess, the kid’s clock is ticking.

“Bastard.”

Because Dick would be better at all this. Would probably have better luck approaching some scared kid in civvies even if the kid isn’t actually just a civvy. He's got ‘approachable idiot with the best intentions’ down to a science and all that time teaching gymnastics or whatever has made him unbearably good with children. Golden circus boy and his freak charisma. Jason grits out another, “Bastard” under his breath while swiping the metal cap off the top of the beer bottle. He downs half of it before slamming the glass bottle onto the counter and trading it for his phone once again. Before he could change his mind he scrolls to Dick’s contact and presses call.

It barely rings twice before it connects. “Jaybird! Good morning baby brother!” And just like that, Jason hangs up. It is seven in the morning. No amount of circus freak charisma can make someone that much of a morning person. Richard Grayson is a monster from whatever depths of hell the city of Gotham can conjure. Jason was a fool to think that anything would change and Dick-Wing could act sane in the early morning hours like every other exhausted adult this side of the Mississippi.

His phone buzzes in his hand. The picture of Dick in his horrendous ‘Discowing’ suit stares back. For that affront alone he denies the call. Sure, Jason set the contact photo but Dick put the suit on in the first place. That’s a crime that can never be forgiven, even if it makes prime blackmail.

This repeats two more times before Jason finally picks up. He growls out, “Are you done being an oppressively cheery bastard, or do I need to block you?”

A dramatic gasp crackles from his phone speakers. He probably needs a new phone but whatever. It’s lasted this many shootouts, it can last another or ten. “I’m hurt! My own baby brother! How am I ever supposed to recover from this? How will my heart-” Jason promptly hangs up again. God he seriously wishes that coffee was less of a bio hazard. He isn’t even much of a coffee person and it is still so tempting to risk dying for the second time just for some solid caffeine.

The next time the phone rings he picks it up right before it goes to voicemail. “You done?”

“Yeah, I can be done.”

“Thank fuck.” He drags a hand through his hair, nearly gagging at the dried sweat from the night before. Helmet hair doesn’t fuck around. “You got time this morning?” There’s a long enough pause that Jason double checks the call didn’t disconnect. He almost starts to get worried, that constant green tinted anxiety rearing its head before Dick speaks up.

Hesitantly, he asks, “... Are you okay ‘lil wing?” Of course this is where this goes.

“I’m fine. Get over yourself. Free or not?”

“Yeah, yeah! Do you wanna do breakfast? There’s this cute place Stephanie keeps talking about and I wanna stake it to see if I can see what th-” Dick has the whole golden retriever impression going again before Jason cuts him off.

Sighing through it, he tells Dick, “No breakfast, just get your ass to the docks safe-house soon as possible if you feel like making yourself useful any time this century.”

Jason can practically hear the pout in Dick’s voice, the same one he always wears when the Demon Brat goes a little too far and he almost feels bad. “Hey, I’m useful.” It shifts to a grinning, shit eating tone just as quickly. “If I wasn’t then you wouldn’t have called! But yeah, I gotcha. I’m in Blüd so it’ll be a bit but definitely before nine if that’s cool?”

Of course he’s back in Blüd, not like that town could stay standing without the bird in blue. “Yeah, whatever. See you then.”

“See you baby broth-” And just like that peaceful silence. Maybe he can take a nap before the circus boy gets there.

Update: he cannot squeeze in a nap before the aforementioned circus boy gets there.

Jason is barely out of the shower when his door slams open with the sheer force of a kick from a giddy Dick Grayson, who apparently managed to turn a forty-five-minute to an hour long drive into something closer to barely scraping thirty. “Good morning! I brought coffee!” In his hand there’s a cardboard carrier with two plastic cups. Jason would be excited, maybe even grateful, if it weren’t for the fact that both are clearly iced.

“Hey, bird-brain?”

“Yes, dear? Dearest baby brother who I’ve missed so dearly?” Gross.

“It’s November. It’s supposed to snow tonight. It’s max 38 degrees outside.” At Dick’s nodding he continues. “Why in the fuck would you drink iced coffee right now.” He’s not even gonna comment on the fact that the only thing slung under his arm is a motorcycle helmet, not a coat in sight.

Dick just chooses to laugh like Jason is the ridiculous one. “Because how else would they make an iced mocha with a double shot of espresso and three caramel pumps with extra cream?” Jason begs the heavens to end him now.

“Shoot me now.” He’ll beg Dick too if he has to.

The other man simply cackles as he drops his helmet onto the coffee table, snagging Jason’s Red Hood helmet off the ground to sit next to it. Dick strides over to where Jason is frozen in the entrance to the hallway, still dripping hair punctuating every single one of the other man’s steps. Like a king gracing his people with his presence, Dick gently deposits the disgusting concoction straight into Jason’s hand before turning on his heel to skip into the kitchen.

Dick’s voice echoes from the kitchen — at least about as much as any voice can echo in an apartment with less than 600 square footage to its name. “So, what’s the scoop? I’m guessing this isn’t a cry for help and ice cream and hugs, though I’d definitely be down.” Jason worries very much not for the first time whether or not Dick is okay in literally any sense of the word.

Not that he’d voice that. “Fuck off,” he says instead as he joins Dick in the kitchen, knowing fully well his glare falls closer to tired and exasperation than true anger. The green has long since faded and just replaced itself with a new level of bone-deep exhaustion. “I’ve got a job for us from Leslie.” At that, Dick’s face falls a little more solemn, the grin slipping away slowly. He moves a bit slower as he opens one of the cupboards. Like a bloodhound, he immediately knows where Jason is keeping the cereal this time without even having to look around. “Last night there was a kid I brought up to the clinic. Real mess.” Jason dives into recounting the night: the injuries, the kid’s appearance, but he leaves out the suit. Something eats at him, telling him to keep this quiet and he promises himself he’ll tell Dick if push comes to shove. Trusting his gut is how he’s made it this far, can’t hurt to do it one more time. All the while, Dick slowly munches on dry cheerios from a box that may well have been opened for a century, probably not even noticing they’re stale as he absorbs the information.

“So I’m guessing the current working theory is a dump by some kind of underground or seriously heavy handed abuse case where something went wrong? Don’t really get those injuries from just a mugging, let alone end up on a roof. Any marks to good or bad for the kid?” Dick never did take Alfred’s lesson about ‘no talking with your mouth full’ to heart.

“Nothing concrete. Only 'good' thing is that he ran off seeming more anxious than angry. The kid didn’t do anything to Leslie so I’d mark that as a positive in my book.” He’s scrolling absently back and forth across the photos from last night, taking in every detail of the bloody and bruised teen on the roof. He absentmindedly takes a sip of the drink from Dick, gagging to the point he nearly retches. The evil bastard just laughs as Jason croaks out, “It isn’t much, but Leslie wants to find the kid and at least double-check he’s okay, kosher or not.”

Dick finally sets the box of cereal to the side, noticeably lighter in its drop onto the counter. With an obviously fake lightheartedness to his tone, he asks Jason, “And is there anything else you want to tell me?” If he means the fact that Leslie was hiding something from him, then no. This is already a weird enough situation as is. Whatever the doctor wanted to keep secret can stay that way for now, she’s been a part of this as long as any of them and deserves her share of trust. And if he means how Jason is choosing to tell a little white lie of omission then he can fuck right off. Not like he’d know. Though the sigh that Dick lets slip shows he at least knows he’s being held out on even if he doesn't do anything about it, which Jason is actually grateful for.

“I’ll let Babs know to put a tab out on him in the system. Just send me the picture and I’ll pass it over to her.” Dick is already pulling up his phone, slipping into Nightwing mode right there in the kitchen when Jason replies.

He cuts in with a terse, “No.” When Dick looks up to raise an eyebrow at him in questioning, he explains. “She’ll run to Bruce like usual and generally make this a bigger clusterfuck than it needs to be.” Suddenly, it might as well be Nightwing there in full regalia in the middle of his shitty kitchen in his shitty apartment. Deep blue eyes stare at him and Jason feels ready to lash out, hating the tension. Hating the way Dick is obviously mad, angry, confused, disappointed, because he doesn't trust him because why would he. But whatever because it doesn't matter because this is a hard no. “I'm not kidding. No one else. You can help or get out, and don't think you can go looking in my part of town on your own either.”

He crosses his arms across his chest in that way that he hates because it's so obviously defensive. It's not tough. It's stupid and he hates Batman for pointing it out because he does the same goddamn thing, the old bat is just a hypocrite.

“Fine. Just you and me.” Dick sighs, relaxing against the counter and running a hand through his own ridiculous helmet hair. “What's the plan?”