Chapter Text
Dick Grayson does not think in words.
His mind is a canvas: memories painted over memories, emotion bleeding into color, and music that hums even when he’s not listening. It doesn't help that he was raised in music and movement; in love and trust, with his mamí's kind eyes and gentle fingers in his hair, and his tatí's loud laugh and exciting stories.
He has been poured into by hundreds of people with so many different lives and feelings.
He has lost some of these people, too.
People who were blood family, and people who were found family. Not because Dick was related to them, and not because he was forced into it, but because he loves people, and very few choose to love him back.
William Cobb is not a man Dick considers family. Maybe by blood, but this blood is tainted into something non-human. His mind is twisted and haunted, gripped by evil and decay like a rotting log in a river, or a dead deer carcass on the side of the highway.
The Talons he brings with him are too far gone to even be considered human.
When Dick first tackled the Court of Owls a long time ago with Bruce by his side and Tim and Babs behind computers, they had opened coffins of people who were long since beyond reason.
That had been the first (and only) time Dick saw Batman break the no-kill rule.'They aren't humans,' Bruce had said quietly that night when it was just the two of them in the Cave, sounding like he was trying to convince himself. Dick was freshly showered and questioning the necessity of sleep (he was going to have nightmares for weeks after that night) and Bruce still trying to file a report.'They're demons. Beyond reason, made to kill and to obey.'
'It was mercy, B,' Dick had answered.'No different than putting down a horse with a broken leg. It was the best thing you could've done for them.'
It's an unfair fight, even before the second Talon takes advantage of his distraction and stabs a dagger into his thigh. Dick does not have the regeneration ability these Talons do.
Cobb smiles from a across the roof. He hasn't even needed to participate, preferring to give his big Villain Speech (that Dick more or less politely declined) and let his Talons toy with Dick (which is very demeaning). He's sure it's quite a spectacle, watching the Talons match him blow for blow for what feels like hours until Dick isn't moving quite as fast as he was when he started.
Nightwing's blood spills on the rooftop. He's glad the cameras are disabled around here- no need for Oracle or the others to see this. It's- he hasn't talked to any of them in months, and this isn't going to end well.
It's just. Not going to end well.
He's been dealing with a lot, before this night. He can't sleep much in general, so he's been patrolling obsessively. Blüdhaven has only got worse in his year long forced absence, and the city is filthy with scum and crime.
Bruce kept his apartment leased, even paid for the next year's rent. Dick hadn't even protested, even though he's never let Bruce pay for anything before.
He had been too frazzled to deal with another fight with Bruce.
"Last chance," Cobb says. Dick blinks the world back into focus at the feeling of a katana under his chin. He's been doing that a lot lately, losing track of time. Not getting his throat almost slit, although at this point, he isn't losing his shit over that possibility either.
"Chance for what?"
Cobb sighs, long and exasperated. One of the Talons twitches slightly at the sound, and Dick almost feels bad for the creature. To be brainwashed into living a life in terror of a man with false, self-proclaimed authority.
(Dick is tired of bowing to men with authority through fear and control).
"Sorry, I've been having a rough time recently. Mind's all messed up," he spits blood onto Cobb's shoes (when did the man get so close?) and tries to catch his breath. His chest hurts; probably a few broken ribs.
"For the final time, Gray Son; will you submit to your destiny, or will you allow yourself to remain weak like the vermin you save?"
Dick remembers Tim, before everything had gone to shit; he remembers late nights binging Star Wars and drinking Zesti's because both of them have ADHD and the caffeine felt like a blanket for their brains. He remembers sharing cheap six packs of beer after patrol with Jason, when Red Hood and Nightwing could just exist quietly together. He remembers making up musicals with Steph in the kitchen while they attempt to make breakfast, and the dance choreographies he would make with Cass. Taking Damian to the zoo and feeling his heart almost burst when Damian would smile softly at him.
Dick remembers a lot he had to live for. Now...
Now Dick is an outcast in his own family. They have figured out how to exist without him, and prefer it that way.
He's too tired to continue, and he looks off behind Cobb. The Talons are weapons of skill, each limb perfectly controlled and every hit guaranteeing pain.
Dick refuses to become one of them.
"I don't want to be a Talon," he whispers.
Cobb's hand whisks away the sword, and Dick swallows at the absence of pressure against his carotid. He looks up, at Cobb's furious expression, and any hope of survival is washed down the drain.
Dick doesn't feel much of anything as the sword pierces the Lycra of his suit, expertly slipping between his fourth and fifth rib (mid-clavicular line, left side, be precise, Robin). His heartbeat roars in his ears, drowning out any other noise as Cobb mouths something that looks like 'so be it, Gray Son,' and pulls out the sword. It's coated with blood, red and shining in the moonlight.
There's a moment of stillness, and then Cobb is reaching a hand that cups his cheek in a final gesture of kindness. The hand pushes him, and Dick is falling.
He closes his eyes.
And prepares to let go.
Will they notice he's gone? Is anybody paying attention to Nightwing's presence? Does anybody care that Dick has stopped reaching out? Who will take care of Blüdhaven when he's gone?
It doesn't matter, he decides. He'll be gone anyways.
He falls.
-o0o-
Dick breathes in. Breathed out.
Wait, no. That was wrong. He shouldn't be breathing. Not air like this, the scent and heat of Gotham flooding his nostrils and filling his lungs.
Some sort of afterlife? Is he cursed to be in Gotham forever?
Divine punishment? Is Dick never to have peace in life nor death?
'You have a traveler's spirit, Dickie,' tatí says as Dick sits on his broad shoulders, 'just like mamí. Don't let anyone keep you in one place.'
His throat burns as he coughs, curling in on himself. Everything is sore, but not stabbed-through-the-heart sore. It's also cold, which is frustrating because it's the middle of August and he isn't wearing his thermal-lined Nightwing suit.
It is Gotham, though, a cold drizzle mingling with the ever-present smog that hugs the streets. Dick opens his eyes and takes a moment to catalogue everything. How did he get to Gotham?
Why is it raining?
He's lying in a dumpster, bags of trash cushioning his fall. Buildings tower around him, the architecture that specific blend between Gothic and industrial style. Rain pelts the plastic bags under him, and Dick blinks back to himself.
This cannot be the afterlife. Spirits don't feel anything, and Dick's body feels like a gigantic bruise that smarts when he sits up. The dumpster, like any other trashbin, stinks, and Dick doesn't know much about death- his first one was only a few minutes, not long enough to count for much- but surely it's better than this.
His parents would be here to greet him. Ergo, Dick is not dead.
How he survived is a mystery, but Bruce should have some answers. Maybe he's been the subject of a stray protection spell for a while, but he can't think of anyone who would waste magic on keeping him alive. Dick himself hasn't bothered much in that department recently either.
He heaves a massive sigh. He's so tired.
And also, kinda pissed. He was supposed to die. Be devoid of responsibility for the first time since he was eight years old, and wander the earth. Maybe politely haunt his family.
And yet he's alive. None of the wounds he had are bleeding. His hand shakes when he raises it, but when he roughly rubs his chest, his heart beats steadily, like it's unaware it should've stopped completely.
How is this the second time he's come back?
There's a five-inch line of raised, bumpy flesh where his fingers press. It's the shape of the katana. It's a scar.
The Universe sucks.
He should call someone. Maybe Batman- that would suck- but he just wants his dad. Selfishly, he wants someone to hold him like B did after Lex Luthor restarted his heart. Wishes for Batman's gloved hand to smooth his hair down, for a voice, low and steady, whispering,"It’s alright, chum. I’m here."
Things hadn't been alright after Dick got back. Not really. He can't go back to Bruce because Bruce is gone. He's lost so much, the world chipping away at the man until the only thing that is left is Batman.
Things are different now. Dick has not been Robin in ages, and any fondness Bruce had once had for him is gone.
And so, Nightwing carries on alone.
It's a painfully familiar pattern for him. No reason for him to cry about it now, not when the last few years have been shit and Dick can't remember the last time he actually felt happy.
On shaky legs, he rises and crawls out of the dumpster.
Get to safety. Regroup.
Good thing Dick has a private safehouse closeby. One that not even Alfred knows about.
-o0o-
He throws up twice on the way there. Nothing much comes out each time- he can't remember the last time he's consumed something, much less anything solid- and he's guessing his stomach is revolting against the residual panic.
Keep it together, Grayson, a voice that sounds like Damian demands. Quit embarrassing yourself with such displays of nonsense.
The safehouse hasn't been used in a year or two, but it should be well-furnished and stocked with non-perishables. Cans of soup, beans, and granola bars. If he's lucky, a box or two of Crocky Crunch will be sitting in the cupboards.
Right now, all he wants is a long shower and a bed. A few hours of uninterrupted sleep, and then he can just. Breathe, for a bit, before figuring out what the fuck is going on without pathetically running to the nearest family member for help. He can't bother them about this, no matter how much he might want to.
The problem is that there is no security on the window. He slides it open with no issue and takes a deep breath that echoes in the room. This isn't his safe house. It's empty.
The coffee-stained "vintage" yellow armchair Steph and Tim got him (from a garage sale) for his twenty-second birthday is not there. The TV isn't sitting on top of the nonexistent TV table that's close to overflowing with movies and video games his siblings have stashed here for their regular sleepovers. The kitchen, where Jason's presence always shines through, is completely bare. No food, no table, and no fridge with Damian's drawings.
A frantic sweep through the four-room space confirms what he already knew the second he opened the window.
No one lives here.
Dick Grayson doesn’t stay here.
Nightwing doesn’t crash here after rough Gotham patrols.
This isn’t his safehouse.
His chest tightens, his breathing starts to hitch. He's panicking, which can maybe be excused after the day he's had, but he needs to get a grip because he needs to think and to think he needs oxygen and-
A thump comes from the same window Dick opened a few minutes ago.
He whirls, hands trembling as they reach—instinctively, automatically—for the escrima sticks still strapped to his back.
It’s... a cat.
Not Alfred (the cat), so Damian isn't around. This cat isn't gray with white paws. It's black, with deep green eyes that examine Dick from its place on the floor. (Those eyes look an awful lot like Damian's).
"I-"
He winces at the rasp in his voice. It sounds more like his Batman impression than Dick Grayson, and that's who he is right now.
No gravel, no grit, no charm.
His knees crack when he crouches down (in the spot where there should be an oak coffee table), reaching out a hand. The cat tilts it's head, tail twitching playfully.
It doesn't move.
Hi,” he murmurs. “I’m Dick.”
Not Robin. Not Nightwing. Not Agent 37, or Goldie, or Batman, or even Richard.
Just… Dick.
He's too tired to be anyone else. Too worn down to wonder why he’s talking to a stray cat that wandered in through the open window to escape the cold.
The cat pads forward and rubs against his shins, then carefully sets one paw against his thigh and climbs up. He holds it close to his chest, reveling in the solid warmth against him.
Two hearts, both beating together.
He's not dead. But he should be.
-o0o-
There's no better first step to take than to change out of his suit.
His phone was left in his Blüdhaven apartment, so Dick can't call Jason and ask to stop by. He decides that showing up out of the blue and asking for some spare pants and a sweatshirt won't go down well, especially since Jason has decided to make every interaction they have a brutal experience.
Dick doesn't even consider Tim's place. Being looked at with cool indifference is worse than Jason's hot loathing.
The 7/11 at the end of the street has a small selection of clothing. It's open for the day, meaning it's sometime past four in the morning and Dick needs to get out of his suit soon.
Besides the acne-faced teenager at the register, the store is empty. Dick pastes on a smile and waves, but the boy only sighs and rubs his face with his hands aggressively before turning back to the textbook laying on the counter.
Tough crowd. He doesn't remember Nightwing getting an indifferent reception by civilians.
Then again, college is brutal. Working to afford college is brutal.
His watch has a chip that connects to his debit card. Tim invented it, made one for the whole family. It tracks Dick's vitals, can record short segments of time, and messages other Bat members if they have their watches on.
The card reader sitting on the counter does not have the chip reader installed.
It's- it should be nothing. Not every store is mandated to have a chip reader, especially not little gas stations.
Just, Dick has used his chip here. Multiple times.
Sometimes a guy needs a coffee break in between saving people.
It's... odd. But probably fine.
(He has to steal a sweatshirt. He takes a beanie too, and some sunglasses).
(He'll be back to pay the store later).
(Calculus II, the textbook reads. The cashier doesn't look up when Dick leaves).
The cat's still sitting on the curb when he comes out, patiently waiting for him. She follows him into the nearby alley, clawing at an old cardboard box as he yanks the hoodie on over his suit and peels off his domino mask.
The skin around his eyes is dry. How long has he had the mask on?
A homeless man sleeps outside, propped against the wall to the Gotham Public Library with a crate in front of him with newspapers, like this is the early 2000s.
Harvey Dent's Winning Streak: Gotham's Newest District Attorney Wins in a Landslide
Dick blinks a couple times. He must be going crazy; Harvey isn't a district attorney, hasn't been for years. Has been Two-Face since Dick was twelve. In fact, Dick isn't even confident that the man is still alive.
His eyes catch the newspaper date, and he forgets how to breathe.
The newspaper is dated January 2. Eight years ago.
Dick- he's not twenty-six anymore. He's eighteen.
He's eighteen and he's in Gotham and he's not twenty-six.
(He should be dead).
He sits down heavily on the steps leading into the library. Dick closes his eyes and tries to ignore the incoming headache.
It's time travel.
It has to be time travel.
This is a good thing. Dick could be here and be eighteen and have another chance. To do things right this time, to not mess up and ruin the lives of those he loves. He can prevent Spyral, side with Tim and help him find Bruce, save Damian-
Save Jason.
The city is awake now—cars speeding well over the limit, pedestrians in heavy winter coats hustling across icy streets.
Now that he knows what to look for, the signs are obvious: he's not in the right year. The café that opened two years ago in his timeline doesn’t exist yet; instead, the old shoe store is still standing. He used to pass it on the way to meet Tim at that café every week, back when they carved out time to catch up without the stress of patrols and brevity of mission plans.
He heads to the library first—partly for warmth, mostly because he needs to think. If he’s really eighteen again, that means he’s in the middle of his avoid-Bruce-like-the-plague era. No safehouses in Gotham right now, which explains the earlier problem.
He'll borrow someone's phone after he refreshes his memory on this year. He spent most of this time with the Titans, not in Gotham, and he can't remember if Nightwing was an active vigilante in Blüd.
The cat's ears brush his chin from where he's tucked her under the hoodie. She isn't purring anymore, but hasn't made a move to get out from beneath the fabric.
Sorry girl, he thinks as he smiles at the barely-awake librarian at the help desk and slides into a chair at the computer table, just a little longer and we can go home.
To the Manor, hopefully.
Googling Bruce Wayne pulls up several recent articles Dick hasn't seen before. It does make sense though, since most of them are related to Jason, and at the time Dick was fighting with Bruce because of his own insecurity and anger, caught in constant tension that made it hard to pay much attention to the newest son.
It's embarrassing in hindsight, as everything usually is. Time travel could fix a lot of Dick's past problems because he can change how he dealt with things.
There had been a lot of silence and resentment before Jason died, and somehow more after. Dick can fix that now.
The library is mostly empty, so he lets himself zone out and focuses on Gotham during this time.
Jason Todd-Wayne is fifteen years old. The papers are obsessed with Bruce's first son, most of them with a slightly degrading tone towards the 'street rat with a heart.' Dick is very used to the scathing undertones of the Gotham papers- that's why he loved when Clark would visit a gala. Everything Superman writes is honest.
There's a picture of Bruce with a glass of champagne in one hand and the other arm wrapped around Jason's shoulders. His brother looks every bit as awkward as usual, with an unsure smile pasted on and tie slightly crooked.
Actually... Dick recognizes that picture. He was there at that gala, standing on Jason's other side with a hand on the kid's shoulder. They had been bonding, kind of, for a couple of months at that point. Jason had looked awkward because Dick and Bruce had been fighting earlier that night, and even during the gala they hadn't said a word to each other.
Dick is obviously not in the picture anymore.
This prompts some more in-depth research.
The computers aren't a hot topic at... six in the morning, so Dick's confusion- and the slow crawl of panic that follows- are only witnessed by the cat.
Confusion because Dick Grayson is not in any articles. At all. Sure, they were never positive, and he never liked to read them, but nothing is out there about Bruce Wayne's gypsy ward, his tragic backstory, and (rather fortunately) nothing about how attractive Richie Grayson grew up to be.
No articles questioning his sudden leaving of the Manor- of Gotham, and no articles speculating Bruce Wayne's ability to parent. Dick had selfishly really enjoyed those articles when he first left.
The panic comes later. When Dick realizes he never existed.
When he searches for Richard Grayson, he doesn't come up.
John and Mary Grayson died during Haly's circus performance in Gotham, fell to their deaths after a tragic accident with the ropes. They were the only Graysons to exist.
He risks hacking the library (seriously, it's too easy- tech from eight years ago is barely harder than stealing candy from a baby after all the practicing he's done with Babs and Tim) to get into government birth records.
Richard Grayson has never existed.
He died, went back in time, and now he's never existed.
His friends don't know who he is. His family-
His family.
Bruce doesn't know him.
Alfred, Jason, Tim, Steph, Cass, Babs, Damian...
Batman has a whole fan-made Facebook page of blurry photos and secret identity guesses. Oriole, Batman's sidekick here is in a few, and Dick can find a few posts from his account (It's_Oriole_Suckas) that warn civilians of danger streets and occasionally give outrageous quotes from Batman.
It's hilarious, really, if Dick could just wrap his mind around this. He's feeling a little overwhelmed with this knowledge, that Dick just is not here.
He's real. He's alive.
(I'm alive, Bruce!)
There has to be something he can do.
He scrolls through news feeds for another ten minutes, getting a feel for Gotham's current state crime-wise. He hadn't been around much during this time- too busy galivanting with the Titans, too busy fighting with Bruce- so the details of who was active right now and who is coming into power are... hazy at best. He can use this time to prepare. He can help Batman. He can befriend Oriole.
Shit, he can save Jason.
The thought hits him like a bucket of ice water. Jason. His first brother he failed.
The first one who had taken the mantle, and the first one who had suffered for it.
Joker's still out there, but Dick is older now. More experienced, stronger, sharper. He knows how the story goes, and now he has the chance to keep it from happening again. His body might be eighteen, but he has gone to hell and back several times.
Back then, Dick had never killed a man.
He's got an overwhelming about of blood on his hands, now, and for the greater good? For his family?
Well. Dick knows how to take a monster down and how to make it stick.
Luckily, he still has time- Jason doesn't die until April, when he books a flight to Ethiopia, and it's only January.
It would be easy to get into Arkham now, but rushing in and snapping the Joker's neck while he's technically not doing anything (yet) would draw attention. Unwanted attention, and he can't afford to have Batman breathing down his neck while he works on bringing his family together.
Bruce is like a dog with an old bone when something doesn't make sense, and Dick needs time to save his siblings. He has the chance to spare them the pain they haven't been through yet. Who would he be if he turned down the opportunity?
He's... he's going to make a list.
Cass. She shouldn't be with David Cain right now. Her father was abusive, violent, and he molded Cass into a weapon that couldn't recognize the kindness of the world. Right now, she's probably on the streets somewhere in Europe- starving, alone, scared.
Damian is barely six, and still with the League. His heart aches at the thought of his boy- his baby brother- being led by Talia and Ra's into a life of pain and fear.
They'll both need a plan of extraction; he'll have to be careful, and have several escape routes. Especially since Dick will be working alone. And lots of trust building, specifically for Cass. He can't just walk in and ask them to come home. At this point, neither of them will understand such a place.
Stephanie should be okay for now. From what she's shared during late-night conversations, her mom had always done her best. Cluemaster, Steph's dad, was never someone Dick had to deal with, so that might take more research.
For now though.
Tim might be more or less safe, besides the obvious neglect. He is, however, the easiest way to start, and deserves so much more than Dick could give him the first time around.
He leaves the library with a new sense of hope.
Time Travel.
(But he's lost everyone)
(But he's supposed to be dead)
Dick picks a couple pockets on his way to the supermarket. He buys a bag of cat food, a gallon of milk, and a box of Crocky Crunch.
Everything is so wrong, here, now. It's not exactly Time Travel, but Dick doesn't exist, Robin doesn't exist, Nightwing doesn't exist here, and it's not like Dick can call Wally up and ask about the time-space continuum because Wally doesn't know who he is.
Doesn't matter, though. Dick will change enough to set this life on a better course. He's not going to get involved, because that's a rule no matter what is happening, but he can fix everything and then finally, he can rest.
-o0o-
They return to his old safe house, the floor covered in dirt and the kitchen counter cracking. It isn't much, but he's always done well when starting over from nothing.
The difference is, this time he has nothing. He has no family he can go back to.
Even when he was in Spyral, Dick could hold out because his family was expecting him home. Only Bruce had really been expecting him, and not even that lasted. He came back. He persevered, just like he was going to do now.
His family was always worth it.
"Well, Aisha," he set her on the floor before dropping down with her, "you ready to start this thing?"
Aisha, an Arabic word for alive. (Dick is alive).
The meow he gets in response sounds confident, loud, and supportive.
Dick Grayson doesn't exist.
Dick Grayson shouldn't be alive.
But he is. And for now, that's enough.
"Alright then," he takes a deep breath, already mentally preparing himself for this crazy, insane idea, "let's do it."