Chapter Text
“I want the entire operation gone. Every single drop off the street. Where do we start?”
There was a brief pause as Bruce processed the question. Jason waited him out, not missing the way Dick was glancing between them.
“Taking out an operation is the easy part,” Bruce said, voice low. Sharp grey eyes flicked up to Jason’s face, flaying him bare with a single look. “The hard part is making sure it doesn’t come back somewhere else.”
Jason raised his eyebrows. “You mean like what happened with the original drops.”
“Hey,” Dick said quietly. It was a warning, but Bruce didn’t seem offended in the slightest.
“Yes,” Bruce said, taking the accusation with a shrug. “Getting them off the street wasn’t the goal back then. The mortality rate was significantly lower in that generation. Pushing them out of distribution was a side-effect of taking down the main distributors for other charges.”
“GCPD was involved,” Dick said, not quite a question. Bruce nodded, reaching for the tablet in the center of the table.
“It was before your time,” Bruce said, tapping the screen and pulling up a log of some sort. “Both of you. Most of the drops were off the street by the time you started training. The stronger ones were, at the very least.”
The tablet slid across the tabletop. Jason caught it with one hand, glancing down at the screen.
Steven Carendt dead at 54; Gotham businessman found unresponsive in office after suspected carbon monoxide leak.
Jason skimmed the article, looking up at Bruce. “This says he died last month. So you think he’s connected?”
“I didn’t know how he was connected until now,” Bruce said. “He was a major distributor during the original drop production, but GCPD only put him away for a few years. They arrested him on a few licensing issues, if I recall correctly.”
Dick reached over Jason’s arm, snagging the tablet. “Couldn’t get anything else to stick, huh?”
“Getting Carendt out of distribution was more important than the charges themselves,” Bruce said, flat and clinical like he tended to be during these kinds of planning sessions. “He was a major player back then. If there’s a new drop game in town…”
“...he’d know something about it,” Jason finished, finally following Bruce’s winding backstory. “You think they killed him -- whoever the new distributor is.”
“Either he’s involved, or he knows who is.” Bruce’s jaw clenched briefly, indicating some hidden surge of emotion. “We knew about the bodies, we knew that they were overdoses of some type -- but I didn’t think to test for drops. This new formula is a whole different order of magnitude.”
Jason thought back to the overdose he’d seen in Tesla’s bathroom, replayed in ghostly high-def. If he concentrated, he could still see the bloody, aspirated vomit around the body, slowly leaking into the grout of the shitty bathroom tiles.
What a shame, Martha would say, if she was here. And she’d mean it, not as something embarrassing, but a shame to them all. Shame, to them, to Gotham, for allowing such a preventable death to happen right in front of them.
“Tim’s working on the antidote,” Dick said, looking up from the tablet. He wasn’t wearing his mask yet, and the flash of his eyes seemed to burn in the low light of the Cave. “We grabbed one of your original recipes from the server so we’re not starting from scratch. It should do something, at the very least.”
Jason didn’t like the sound of that. “So we’re not even sure it works?”
“Not without direct application in the target environment,” Bruce murmured, squinting at the monitors over Jason’s shoulder. “Do you have an estimated completion timeline?”
Dick pursed his lips. “Three days, according to Tim. Maybe two if we cut some corners.”
“So we’re better off moving forward on finding the distributor first,” Jason said, waiting until they both nodded. “So why bring up Carendt?”
Bruce crossed his arms, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I want you to interrogate him.”
A hot flush ran down Jason’s neck as he realized exactly what Bruce meant by interrogate him. He stared at the older man, fumbling for words as a heady mix of trust and confusion surged through his chest.
He believes you.
He doesn’t believe you, this is just a test to see if you’re telling the truth.
How the hell are you supposed to get anything useful out of a ghost who isn’t Martha?
“I’m sorry,” Dick said, shaking his head. “Isn’t Carendt dead? What do you mean, interrogate him? Like to talk to his family?”
Bruce gestured at Jason, remaining silent.
Coward, Jason thought in the privacy of his own thoughts. You had your breakdown and now you’re not going to help Boy Wonder through his?
“He means talk to his ghost,” Jason said, clearing his throat. “He wants me to go talk to Carendt and see what he knew while he was still alive.”
“Talk to his ghost -- I thought you were kidding,” Dick said, voice rising. “You can talk to ghosts? Are you shitting me?”
There it was. The reaction he’d been bracing for, with Bruce, and had oddly never received. Bruce had wanted proof, of course -- but he hadn’t gotten angry. He hadn’t, despite his flaws, looked at Jason as some strange thing in his path.
Jason took a breath, focusing on what he could. The feel of his boots against the floor. The helmet on his lap. The feeling of his bare hands on Bruce’s table. The sting of Bruce’s stitches above his eyebrow, throbbing with every beat of his heart.
He was still Red Hood, in enemy territory. Why he’d let Bruce convince him otherwise -- maybe the last 24 hours had fucked with his head more than he’d realized. The respect in Bruce’s eyes mattered even less when Dick’s betrayal and disbelief spilled out before them, undeniable.
For a brief moment, he wished for Martha, putting that out into the universe -- and then he let the breath go.
“I wasn’t kidding,” Jason said, dropping his voice into the same register as Bruce’s. It was still shocking how easily it went. “I can talk to ghosts. That’s how I was able to track down the drop sample. If you have a problem with that--”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” Dick cut in, head jerking around. “I have a problem with -- Alfred slept with your parents? Both of them?”
The latter was abruptly directed at Bruce, who promptly put his head in his hands. Jason bit down on what he hoped was a laugh, strangled emotion tearing up his throat.
“Holy shit,” Dick deflated slightly, looking dazed. “I -- okay. Yeah, you were telling the truth. Oh my God.”
Jason gave him a few beats longer than he’d given Bruce, initially, before speaking again. “So. Back to the case.”
Bruce made an agreeing noise from across the table, head lifting from his hands.
“I’ll go talk to Carendt, try and track his ghost down,” Jason said. “What else?”
“I’ll stay back to continue processing the antidote,” Bruce said, which was a particularly funny way to say I ran for like 17 hours and now I can’t go on patrol like normal. “We’ll work on getting that expedited so you have something to use. Until then, you can take a few syringes of the old formula and some naloxone. That combination might be our only option for now.”
Jason nodded. He had to admit, Bruce wasn’t exactly wasted back in the Cave. Having someone actively working on the antidote -- with Bruce’s level of paranoia and attention to detail -- meant they’d have it sooner than expected, and it would probably even work.
“I think it’s time to check in with Gordon about what the GCPD has on these new drops. If anything,” Dick said, sounding slightly sheepish. His cheeks were still slightly red from exertion. “See if they’ve been doing mutual aid calls in other cities over something similar.”
That was an easy job for Dick. He’d always gotten along with Gordon, in a way Jason had never quite managed, even as Robin. “Great. I think we can all go our separate ways and regroup at sunrise.”
Bruce’s eyes had never dulled throughout their conversation, but they seemed to sharpen even further for a moment. “Where are you starting your investigation?”
“His grave?” Dick interjected like an asshole.
“Where he died,” Jason corrected, resisting the urge to flip Dick off. “The ghosts tend to hang out where they lived, or where they died. Places that were important to them.”
For a moment, both Dick and Bruce looked haunted. Jason swallowed, trying hard not to think about where their minds had inevitably gone, for that brief moment.
“Well,” Dick said, sounding slightly strained. “B, you’ll need to take Gordon. He won’t mind if you’re a little sweaty.”
Bruce didn’t look amused. “Hn.”
“Wait. Where are you going then?” Jason asked. “If Bruce isn’t here helping with the antidote--”
“Relax, baby bird,” Dick said, giving him a smile that was only half-patronizing. “Clearly you didn’t read the full article. He died where he worked -- in his own office.”
Jason’s hackles went up. “What?”
“Carendt ran a strip club,” Dick said, “A nice one. You’re not getting in without me. And not without money.”
Jason stared at him, momentarily speechless. He’d already spent half the night out of his depth in a full-on club. He’d finally gotten back into his armor -- back into something familiar. The last thing he wanted to do was play someone else again.
“We’re going to have to borrow a few shirts,” Dick said to Bruce, ignoring Jason’s minor meltdown with patented, upbeat charm. “And whatever cash you have in the safe. Unless you wanted to go.”
Bruce stood, cracking his neck. He glanced at Jason, looking amused, and then headed for the back rooms where the safes were.
“Two rules for these kind of undercover jobs,” Dick said, stripping off his vambraces onto the table next to his gloves. “Stick to your story, and don’t do any coke.”
“Just coke?” Jason asked, trying in vain to sound casual and disinterested.
“Well. And drops, I guess.”
Dick stood up, restless now that they had their respective missions. Jason watched as he headed for the locker rooms, likely in search of outfits for them.
“Schatz.”
Jason’s head whipped around. Martha was sitting in Bruce’s abandoned seat, hands folded primly before her on the table.
“You look like you’ve seen a--” Martha cut herself off, dropping the teasing tone. “Well. I don’t want to belabor the joke now, do I?”
Where were you? Jason wanted to ask. Why did you leave me with them? Did you hear what Dick said? Why does Bruce keep LOOKING at me like that?
He averted his eyes, painfully aware that Dick and Bruce were still within earshot.
“Oh no,” Martha said, floating closer. Like Bruce, her eyes never seemed to miss a single thing. “What happened?”
Jason wished she couldn’t read him so easily. For a moment, he envied Bruce’s practiced blankness and Dick’s default, guileless smile. They were both masks in their own way.
All he had was the safety of his helmet. And the fear it created in others.
“Don’t pretend like you can’t hear me,” Martha said, though there was a hint of anxiety in her voice. “If you have to pull that silly phone out and pretend you’re taking a call, so be it. This once, I’ll play along.”
Jason almost rolled his eyes, not mentioning all the other times she’d played along with the cell phone disguise.
“Where were you?” he asked, hating how weak his voice came out. It was a far cry from the authoritative tone he’d used with Bruce and Dick moments earlier.
“Oh, schatz,” Martha said, face twisting. She hovered above his left elbow, looking concerned. “I was downtown looking at the new Chanel handbags. I lost track of time.”
“Liar.” Jason shook his head, trying to soften the accusation. “You said you hated them three months ago when we walked by the store. You said Chanel had terrible, overpriced craftsmanship.”
“Well,” Martha said, looking away, “I might have said that.”
Jason reached for his gloves, unsure if putting them on was a waste of energy. Dick and Bruce still hadn’t returned from the back rooms. “Dick wants us to go undercover in a strip club.”
“Well,” Martha repeated, slightly louder. “And you’re not on board?”
“For going to a strip club?”
“This is to help that poor girl, isn’t it?” Martha asked, growing serious. “You know what I’m going to say. It would be--”
“Oh God. Don’t say it.”
“--a mitzvah.”
“I knew you were going to say that,” Jason said. He set the gloves back down, making a face. “That’s dirty pool and you know it.”
“Hey, Jay!”
Jason turned around at the sound of Dick’s voice, on-edge again. “Yeah?”
“What size shirt do you wear?”
Jason turned back to Martha, who made a soft, clicking noise with her tongue. “We just went shopping. You can’t remember?”
“Please?”
Martha rolled her eyes, giving into the un-ladylike gesture. “You were a size 18 in the neck, 36 in the sleeve, and…40, in the chest. But only if you were going for a slim fit. I’d go up to 42 if it was standard.”
Jason balked. “Is that a large or a medium, or…?”
“Right on the edge between large and XL.”
Great. That he could work with. “And Bruce wears a…”
“XL,” Martha said, sniffing a little. “But his shirts are all tailored to his measurements. You’ll need to go try a few on.”
That was the last thing Jason wanted to do. But Martha’s declaration of mitzvot rang through his head, ever-present.
When he remained in his seat, Martha hovered like she did when she was anxious, bobbing up and down.
“Go and try some on,” she repeated, softer this time. “Dick will help you. He’s gotten better about his clothing in the last few years, thank God. Moving in with a woman will do that to you…”
Jason pushed up out of his seat before he could lose his nerve, snagging his gloves and pinning them to his belt. He left his helmet on the table, heading back toward the locker rooms to find Dick.
Martha came with them to the strip club, which helped Jason hold onto the remainders of his sanity as he was flung into yet another unfamiliar situation.
He still hadn’t, explicitly, told Dick about Martha’s presence. After explaining the mechanics to Bruce and Alfred, he almost wished Bruce had just brought Dick up to speed, instead of leaving it to him.
Martha, for her part, took his silence as an opportunity to chatter about what she was observing. Which also included her opinion on outfits and facial hair.
The private town car dropped them off at the front of a building lit entirely in red. Just like Tesla the previous night, the line to get in was nearly a block long.
Dick swung out of the car with a nod toward the driver, heading straight for the front of the line. Jason hurried after him, trying to adopt a similar air of confidence.
The bouncer at the door didn’t ask for a name. He took one look at Dick -- hair pushed back in a loose style, shiny white teeth on display -- and lifted the rope in front of the door.
“They know who you are?” Jason asked as they were escorted into a dark hallway, branching off the main entrance. Martha made an amused noise somewhere behind him.
“Everyone knows who we are,” Dick said, like it was that simple. “They know Bruce, so they know me. They would’ve known you…”
If you had lived. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”
“It’s a blessing and a curse, trust me.”
A painfully thin woman in a black leotard and heels directed them to a medium-sized room full of couches and two poles set in the center. The tiny stages were lit in blue and gold, instead of the red from the front of the building.
“This is the VIP room,” Dick said, sprawling across one of the couches. “One of them, at least.”
Jason sat down next to him, glancing up at the poles. They were well within touching distance, which he supposed was the idea. “So you get private dancers, too?”
“That’s the idea,” Dick said, shrugging one shoulder. He didn’t look uncomfortable, but he also didn’t look entirely at ease, either. “It’s never really been my thing. Especially with Babs--”
“Oh, I hope it’s not your thing when you’re dating that lovely girl,” Martha cut in, eyes narrowing.
“--but yeah, sometimes you have to slum it,” Dick said, gesturing at a room that Jason would never, in good conscience, associate with slumming it. “Anyway.”
Dick made the sign for relax and scene secure against his thigh, half-hidden from what Jason presumed were several cameras in the room. Jason forced himself to relax, leaning back against the plush sofa.
Despite the time and distance between them -- despite the animosity over Dick’s outburst earlier still lingering -- Jason trusted him. A part of him, he realized, always would. It was Dick.
“Champagne!”
Another thin-looking woman dressed in a black leotard stepped into the room. She balanced a tray with a full bucket of ice, a bottle of champagne, and two glasses over one shoulder. Jason watched as she headed straight for Dick, a blinding smile pasted across her face.
“Oy, she’s too small to be carrying that much,” Martha said, leaning forward from her vantage point above Jason’s shoulder. “Jason, help her. She’s going to drop something.”
On autopilot, Jason reached forward to help the waitress settle the tray. She started slightly as he lifted the bucket off the tray, then gave him a slightly more genuine smile.
“Thank you, I’ve got it.”
“Right,” Jason said, awkwardly setting the bucket down on the stage. “Sorry, it just looked heavy.”
“You have a nice friend here,” the waitress said to Dick, full lips pushing out into a half-pout. “Is there anything I can help get you right away, Mr. Grayson? Any specific requests?”
Dick raised one eyebrow, still sprawled back against the pillows. “Whatever you suggest, Miss…?”
“Alex,” the waitress finished. She was clearly too much of a pro to blush under Dick’s attention. “We have some nice options picked out for you. I hope you’ll enjoy them.”
“I trust you,” Dick said, hitting the perfect balance between smarmy and charming. It was utterly Bruce-like, and more than mildly disconcerting. “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
Jason waited awkwardly as she opened the champagne, pouring them both a glass. He took his glass, sitting back as Dick did the same next to him.
Alex disappeared through the same door she’d entered through. As she did, music briefly filtered up from what Jason assumed was the main club.
The VIP rooms were set off to the side of the main club, according to the map Bruce had sketched out from memory for them. The offices -- including the one where Carendt had died -- were only a few doors down from them. Close enough to the bathrooms for them to be mixed up by a well-meaning drunk VIP, he’d indicated.
Of course, their job was to get drunk enough -- and rowdy enough -- for that kind of mix-up to be believable. Which meant champagne, dances, and more than a few rounds of each.
Jason tried not to pull at the collar of Bruce’s shirt, a part of him still uncomfortable with the way it revealed his entire throat and half of his upper chest. It fit, sure, but Dick hadn’t let him close more than two buttons.
“Cheers,” Dick said, tapping his champagne glass to Jason’s. “To male bonding.”
Jason snorted into his champagne glass, reluctantly amused. He sipped it like he did with wine, surprised at the sharp taste.
“Oh, I remember my first glass of champagne,” Martha said, floating closer to examine the glass. “I had three of them and woke up with the hangover from hell. It was truly ungodly.”
Jason took another sip, trying not to make a face as the liquid bubbled on his tongue. It was like a stronger, sourer beer without the yeasty taste. Next to him, Dick swallowed his portion down without any noticeable discomfort, holding the stem between three fingers.
Okay, you can do this. Jason slowly switched his own hand position to match Dick’s, settling as much into his cover identity as he could. Maybe Jay, Dick’s friend from college, didn’t know a lot about champagne -- but he knew enough to copy his friend.
Jason, adopted son of Bruce Wayne, had been far too young when he died to ever learn how to properly hold a champagne flute. Bruce would’ve taught him eventually, he knew.
Two dancers entered the room not long after that, prompting a sharp whistle from Dick. Jason noted he’d used his fingers, even though he knew Dick could whistle -- like all Robins -- without them.
Interesting.
Music started as the two women -- dressed in full length, silky gowns -- took to the stage, heels clicking as they wound themselves around the poles.
“Here,” Dick said, taking his eyes off the stage briefly to hand Jason a stack of money, “Follow my lead. Don’t wanna get kicked out of here for being stingy tippers.”
Jason knew, in theory, the connection between dollar bills and strippers. He’d known strippers, as Robin and as Red Hood. Even just as Jason. But to actually give the strippers money…
His confusion was addressed almost immediately as the dancer closest to Dick pulled her legs up into a complicated looking hold around the pole. The robe she’d had on drifted down to the floor, immediately forgotten.
Dick whistled again, holding out a wad of dollars. “Hell yeah.”
The dancer used her legs to hold onto the pole, bending backwards so she was face to face with Dick. She swayed with the beat of the music, holding the straps of her bra up.
Dick tucked the dollars -- hundred dollar bills, Jason realized belatedly -- into her bra, letting his fingers trail down the woman’s shoulder. She smiled at him, lifting back up onto the pole to move into another pose.
Jason awkwardly diverted his attention back to his own dancer, who was watching him. When she saw him looking, she gave him a wink, undoing the tie on her gown and revealing her underwear.
Martha made an appreciative noise over his shoulder. “Do you suppose those are real?”
Jason was trying very, very hard not to look at the woman’s breasts. Getting hard in front of Dick -- and Martha -- would end him, even if it made their cover more convincing.
“I’ve always wondered how they kept their balance in those heels,” Martha said, gesturing toward the woman’s feet. “Look at them. My God. I’d break an ankle if I tried them on.”
Jason’s dancer quickly seemed to get the message about her breasts, instead winding around the pole so her ass and thighs were on display instead. She did a complicated motion with her legs, clapping the ends of her heels together and creating a sharp sound that reverberated through the room.
“Give her some money, schatz,” Martha said. “That was to get your attention. Reward the woman.”
Jason reached out with a handful of dollars, awkwardly hovering. The dancer, to her credit, swung naturally back around toward him, sliding down the pole and spreading her legs.
“Go ahead,” she said softly, hands braced on her thighs. “Tuck them in, baby.”
Jason felt his face begin to heat up. He folded up the dollars and quickly shoved them into the top of the dancer’s underwear, pulling back before his fingers could touch her skin.
“You can touch,” the dancer told him, almost a purr. She reached back, undoing the clasp of her bra. “I don’t mind.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jason could see Dick holding another fan of bills out to the other dancer as he waited for her to do another pass. He looked utterly at ease, at-home in this world where Jason was painfully out of place.
Wordlessly, Jason reached for another handful of money and held it out to the dancer. She gave him an odd look, sliding back up the pole in time with the music.
“They’re not allowed to take the money with their hands, schatz,” Martha said. “She’s working. Tuck it into her clothing or between her breasts.”
“Why do you know so much about this?” Jason asked, baffled.
“What?” the dancer said.
“Nothing,” Jason said, feeling his face heat up again. “Sorry. So sorry.”
Appeased, the dancer reached up above her head, gripping the pole. Jason watched, impressed as she maneuvered her entire body into a lift that would make most gymnasts jealous, heels splayed out into the air.
“I know,” Dick said from his left, leaning over. “It’s crazy, right? The upper body strength alone...Bruce always said to watch out for strippers. Now you know why.”
Had Bruce really said that? Not to him, at least. Jason took another sip from his champagne glass, nodding along.
He managed to give the dancer money twice more, growing slightly more bold with each pass. The more he convinced himself that it was just payment for services -- putting on a show -- the better he felt. She was working, and he was paying her.
The music ended as both dancers swung back down to the stage, barely winded. Dick whistled again, tossing a handful of bills up onto the platform. Jason did the same with his remaining money, praying it was enough.
Martha clapped loudly, adding her own wolf whistle, to Jason’s horror. He wondered, distantly, if she wasn’t where Bruce, and subsequently Dick, had inherited such ease around strippers.
The two dancers quickly gathered the cash in their discarded gowns, thanking them both. They giggled when Dick blew them a kiss, heading for the exit with their payment gathered between them.
“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Dick said, turning to him. “They’re just strippers, Jay. They don’t bite.”
Jason stared at him.
“Okay, yeah, some of them do bite. But not these ones.”
“Right,” Jason said. Dick reached for the bottle of champagne chilling off to the side, making an inquiring noise. “Oh, I’m alright.”
“No you’re not,” Dick said, pouring more champagne into his glass anyway. “We’re having fun, remember?”
Or, translated: We’re undercover, remember?
Jason nodded, letting out a breath. “Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Dick said, discarding his apology. “Let’s work on your tipping technique before the next dancers get in here.”
“Listen to your brother,” Martha said, hovering over Dick’s shoulder so Jason could see her face. “And drink some more champagne, schatz. You look like you’re about to cry.”
“Right,” Jason said, holding onto his champagne glass like it was a lifeline. “What do I need to know?”