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Tonight is a prowling night. One for hunting, for stalking, for creep-close-hide-pounce. The tiger skull frames its vision in a way that would impede its sight if that kind of thing mattered to it.
It almost wishes it had a bottom jaw for the skull, too, just so it could do a terrifying clack as the mouth shuts. There's something so fun about making prey jump when it's like this. When it's in the mood to toy and play.
Still, even tigers patrol and mark the ends of their territory. It's taking a brief break, stretching out its wings to keep them from tearing. The membranes are whole, tonight, but tender. It has to be careful with them. A quiet rooftop on the edge of the Alley is as good a place as any to pause.
The area does not remain quiet.
Outside of the Alley an explosion booms. It snaps its head towards the sound just in time to watch half of the affected building crumble.
People run. There are screams.
Explosions are badbadbad, but it's more focused on the screams. Outside the Alley, yes, but in visible distance. Some of its people could be there, could be scared.
...It's also curious. Tonight has been quiet, and while that's normally good it also means that it's bored.
('Curiosity killed the cat,' comes a voice in its brain. A memory? Not its own voice.)
Good thing it isn't a cat, then. And that it can't be killed anymore. Those two thoughts linger in its head as it takes a running leap off the edge of the building and half flies, half glides over to the explosion site.
As it gets closer, it can see that the still standing parts of the building have fault lines in them too, recently cracked brick and mortar standing out against the time-dirtied stone. Most of the area around the building is clear by now, but it's possible there could be people trapped under the rubble.
Huffing, it reaches down and pulls a set of heat-vision binoculars from its pant pocket.
What? Just because it's a cryptid, that means it doesn't use tech? Sounds like elitist subjugation.
With a toss of its head, it shifts its skull up and looks through human eyes to use the goggles. It's less disorienting than it could be, because of tigers' binocular vision. Yay, predators!
Through the heat vision, it can see a few areas quickly cooling–heated material from the explosion, bodies don't go cold that fast–and! A group of what looks like people.
When it gets closer, it lets out a whistle. No meaning, merely sound, to get the attention of anyone who might be buried.
There's a returned whistle.
"Hey! Still stuck here. You got a way out?" Unfamiliar voice, slightly raspy, probably from dust.
A sharp nod brings the skull back over its face, and it investigates the rubble carefully. Yeah, it can probably move this fine, and if it seems like anything is going to fall on top of it or the person (people?) it can use its wing to shelter them.
"Stay still," it orders, and starts to shift chunks of building.
"Oh shit, is that a Bat?" someone else asks, and there's a lot of quickened movement behind the barrier of stone.
And then, a familiar call, with a questioning tone. ‘Flamebird?’
‘Nightwing,’ it calls back. ‘Status? Are these enemies?’
Part of it is incredibly offended to be called a Bat. The Bats are pretenders. It is real. Maybe it can remind these people of that. Maybe it can play with them. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
‘Small enemies. Nightwing stuck,’ is the whistled response. It's cut off at the end, though, with a cry of pain. Indistinguishable between human and creature for most, but it recognizes the sound. Nightwing.
Aw. A shame. It can't chase its prey. Another time, then. What's more important is Nightwing. It keeps working, pulling at the rubble. Like digging for treasure, but the treasure is a hurt Nightwing.
"Shut it up," one of the humans whispers, "before it calls the actual Bat."
"Doesn't matter," another says, "we can't beat an angry Robin, either. We need to cut our losses."
Oh, it is so much worse than the Bat. It can't help the grin that grows across its face at the thought. The Bat scares, and breaks, and beats, but the Bat doesn't kill.
It does. Slicing with claws or bludgeoning with wings or goring with horns or biting with fangs. Letting blood stain its skull and sate the hungry, angry thing inside of it.
Maybe just a nibble.
One of them cries out, but Nightwing remains silent.
"Fucking talons," they curse, "long as a knife, I swear to god-"
There's a satisfied hiss, and more thudding and scraping.
"Leave it," one of the others hisses, "can't you hear its buddy digging? We need to get out."
"Hungry," it croons mockingly, dragging its claws across stone for a jarring scraping noise. "Prey," it adds with a slight snarl.
Then, just to make sure: "Run."
"Fuck!"
There's a loud scramble as all of them head for some sort of exit, followed by a snap and one last curse.
It's too late for them, though. It can catch up easily, finally breaking through the rubble into the small opening.
Except. It would have to leave Nightwing.
For a moment it hesitates–it really wants to chase, to play, today has been so boring. But. Nightwing. Ally. Needs its help.
What if...? Today is a good day, and it's not in the Alley but it's close enough, maybe it can...
Darkness flares and grows as it snaps out its tail, the formless shape swimming through shadows and towards the slowest human. A quick dart of black, a swift spike through their ankle, blood and cursing and fear that feels good. Worth the energy drain of summoning its tail. It chortles, loud and long and carrying, watching them flinch at the sound. Still, it doesn't chase. It's satisfied for now.
Now then. It goes to the same opening the humans went through and peers inside, chirping ‘Hello-ally-Nightwing?’
Nightwing manages a ‘Hello,’ but just barely. The not-cryptid sounds tired. Wheezy. Not good. Underneath the disguise, Nightwing is just a person, and people die so easily.
It would know.
Nightwing's leg is trapped under rubble. It's possible that the only thing crushed was the fake-metal talons, but judging by the just barely visible glisten of blood, it's not a lucky night for Nightwing.
Well. That's not good. It searches around for a metal stick and finds one easy enough, using it as a lever to haul the largest piece of rubble up before using it as a brace to keep it up. Smaller pieces it moves with its hands until Nightwing's leg is free.
There is more blood, previously hidden by bits of wall and ceiling. Not arterial, Nightwing would be dead by now if so, but still not good. Add on the wheeze in Nightwing's breathing–broken ribs? punctured organ?--and it is feeling...rather uncomfortable with this situation.
Nightwing needs out and needs medical now. It crouches next to Nightwing and asks, 'Evac medic soon? Soon now? Nightwing bleeding bad.'
‘Roof?’ Nightwing asks, ‘I call Bats from there.’ After a second, Nightwing adds, ‘Thanks,’ voice still too weak for its liking.
It can get them to the roof. Picking Nightwing up is easier than it expects (for some reason, it feels like Nightwing should be heavier than it, which isn't true) and with one large jump and a few wingbeats, it's on a roof right outside the Alley boundaries.
The Bat doesn't come into the Alley, after all.
In the distance, a familiar light flares, distant through the smog: The Batsignal. Nightwing seems to understand what this means and sags slightly in its hold.
No Bats are free. No Bats are coming.
Too late, some small, sad part of it cries. Always too late. Then the angry thing rises up with a bitter, You'd think he'd learn.
Even if the Bat never learned, it has. There are only two places the Bats go to for healing, and like hell it's going to Bristol.
Decisively, it turns to deeper in the Alley. Leslie is good. She'll help. She always does.
Nightwing is very much not wiggly, which means the human underneath is no longer conscious. That's okay. It's carrying Nightwing bridal style ("Like a damsel in distress") so it just tucks Nightwing more securely against its body and starts jump-gliding across rooftops towards that familiar clinic.
It's not supposed to use the front door for identity reasons, so it rounds the corner to the heavily reinforced side door. Since its arms are full, it uses a wing joint to knock knock on the door, waits two seconds, and knock knocks again. To let Leslie know that it's Phoenix here and not someone random.
Only a minute or so passes before the door opens to a very unimpressed looking Leslie, though her expression lightens a bit when she sees it isn't hurt. "J," she says with a sigh, having spotted Nightwing in its arms.
(Leslie is the only one to call it J. Leslie is also the only one that has seen under its skull and to the face below, where it knows it has a jagged scar in that shape etched on its cheek. It would be offended, but the way she says the nickname feels...warm. Nice. Good. So it doesn't stop her.)
"I'll need your help getting the exoskeleton off," she murmurs as she lets them in and guides them towards the Bat-room. "I'd rather not have to get my tools." It nods; her reasoning makes sense. Leslie knows how to take the Bats apart, she needs to in order to treat them, but the fake-metal leg is broken and won't move easily.
That's okay. It's strong enough to help. And it does, pulling when and where Leslie directs and staying out of the way otherwise. It fetches her IV bags and blood, holds Nightwing's arm still as she takes off the wing and puts the tube in his vein, and generally does its best to not be a bother. Leslie is always kind to it, even if she's not nice, and she thanks it and tells it to either put Nightwing through a concussion test or call her back when he wakes up.
It nods, sits, and settles in to wait.
Dick wakes up feeling bad.
Not the worst ever, but this level of pain usually means Bat-related injuries. Ugh. He hopes there weren't any hints of The Secret. Or at least, not any that were his fault.
No, that isn't fair. He hopes there weren't any.
Jeez. Blood loss bad mood?
When he opens his eyes, he figures probably, based on the way he gets kinda woozy when he turns his head to see...
Phoenix.
Oh shit. Leslie's, with Phoenix. Is he–
Nope, human hands.
Shit.
Phoenix has its back to a wall–keeping both Dick and the door in its sightlines–but is clearly paying attention to him, based on how it perks up when he moves. It still looks the same as Dick remembers, so it probably hasn't been that long since he passed out. What sounds like leather scrapes when it levers itself to its feet, a lot like how B's wings squeak when they're rubbed together.
"HeLlo," it greets, head tilting as it steps silently closer. No smoke from the nose holes, not this time. Dick tries not to tense when it gets within grabbing range–
And holds up a finger.
What?
'Follow,' it chirps in Bat-speak.
What???
Dick isn't going to argue against the cryptid, though, so he gamely follows as Phoenix runs him through a concussion test.
"So, uh," he tries, weirdly embarrassed, "you... saw. Right?" Dumb question, it's asking him questions in Bat-speak. "Shit, sorry, I'm... still a little out of it. Are you okay?"
It steps back, shaking its head lightly. 'Unhurt. How feel?' Because yeah, it saw him under a bunch of rubble and then he may or may not have passed out in its arms. At least it knew to take him to Leslie's?
"Decent," Dick says, because nobody believes 'okay' anymore. He has to at least look like he's considering it.
"Is my leg okay?" He asks, sitting up to check it out and swaying slightly (oops).
Phoenix darts forward, a clawed hand catching his shoulder. Not that looking at his leg does much, honestly, because it's just a swath of bandages. Very nondescriptive and incredibly unhelpful. He resists the urge to glare at said leg.
Once it deems him stable, Phoenix lets go of his shoulder and steps away to the door. It cracks it open and pokes just the nose of its skull through the gap. 'Leslie,' it calls. 'Nightwing awake.'
Aw, shit. ‘Nightwing fine,’ Dick calls after it, ‘Not urgent.’ He doesn't want to disturb Leslie if she's doing something important.
"I think I'll judge that for myself," Leslie replies, already stepping through the doorway. "Thank you, J," she says as an aside to Phoenix, who churrs wordlessly and dips its head towards hers. She raises a hand and presses it to the top of the skull, palm briefly covering the crack in the bone and the glow shining from it. Phoenix, for its part, seems delighted by the contact. It even wiggles (in the most tiny amount, but Dick sees) before it steps back.
Adorable. Why is the terrifying cryptid adorable.
Well, Dick guesses that making Robins and Bats 'terrifying eldritch entities' probably shifted his reasonable tolerance of what cute is closer to the 'bloody and toothy' end of the scale.
"Blood loss, Doc?" Dick asks, "Phoenix cleared me of a concussion. Anything else I need to know about what's under the bandages?"
"Just that you're unreasonably lucky," she says flatly, looking incredibly unimpressed. "None of your tendons or ligaments tore, and the brace didn't crush your leg–it actually protected it from the rubble, as far as I can tell. Somehow, you're getting out of this with a scar and two weeks of light weight bearing."
Because she is terrifying and weaponizes it, Leslie steps forward with a hard Look™. "If I or Phoenix see you out and about in the next three weeks, I will send it after your head, Grayson."
'Betrayal,' the cryptid adds in cheerfully. 'Flamebird capture take Nightwing to Leslie, Nightwing suffer. Flamebird laugh.'
Dick rolls his eyes. Betrayal, betrayal all around. Cruel.
"You can't stop me from being about," he complains, "but I won't go out."
Leslie sighs. "I suppose that's the best I'm going to get from you for now. Have someone come get you, Nightwing, and stay off that leg."
Dick's about to give a quippy retort, but she pivots and is at the door fast enough that sometimes Dick wonders if she might have a hint of above-average speed. Phoenix steps forward before she opens the door, ducking its head down again.
Once more, Leslie sets her hand on the top of its skull. "What did I tell you about your 'head bonks', J?" She sounds incredibly fond. "I'm surrounded by enough idiots already, I don't need my own head injury added onto it." Still, she runs her hand across bone like it's still alive and covered in fur. "You keep an eye on him until he's picked up, okay?"
Phoenix rumbles and nods, breaking the contact. Leslie smiles. "Good boy."
Then she's gone, with the door firmly locked behind her.
It's not like a locked door could stop Dick from escaping medical hold. He would be offended, but he knows it's more to keep people out than keep him in.
No, the creature is for keeping Dick in.
Speaking of...
"So, did you just find out about me, or...?" Dick asks, unsure which answer he wants.
Phoenix huffs, tossing its head. 'Knew,' it confirms. 'Nightwing Batman Robin human. Squishy. But strong. Clever.' It inches towards the bed, though it consistently keeps itself between Dick and the door. Damn, seems like it's taking its job seriously.
"I'm not gonna run," Dick sighs, "you can relax." He means it, too (for once). Talking to Phoenix and figuring this out is important, and staying here will help him do it.
A small tilt of its head before Phoenix nods once and turns, pulling a chair closer to the bed and settling on it in a crouch, feet on the seat and hands between its feet. Like a frog, Dick thinks, knowing he's also taken up similar positions before.
"Thanks for the save, by the way," Dick adds. The scene is kind of surreal: a normal recovery bedside chat, but with a strange, skull-headed cryptid who apparently has known The Secret for a while. Although, maybe it could just sense their humanness?
'Ally Nightwing hurt,' it says without hesitation. 'Flamebird help.'
Idly, Dick wonders if it would do the same for B. After all, Phoenix did have...more of a negative reaction to Batman. Would it help Robin? Dick thinks so, hopes so. Tim's just a kid, only fifteen, and Phoenix–from what little information they've been able to get–does seem to prioritize helping kids.
On impulse, Dick asks something he's been pondering for a while. "Hey, would you like a comm? A communicator," he clarifies, just in case, "connected to our channel. In case you wanted backup or a meeting or something."
Phoenix makes a low clicking noise, kind of like one of the predator dinosaurs from Jurassic Park. 'Tracker?' it asks, dipping its head slightly. From this angle, the glow of its eyes seems to shine directly out of its skull, sharp blue flashlights in dark sockets. 'Talk good, track bad.'
"No tracker," Dick confirms, 'just a comm." Usually, trackers in comms are for safety purposes, but he doubts Phoenix will need a rescue anytime soon–and if it does, the Bats will probably be able to tell by the catastrophic damage or magical upheaval.
'Yes,' Phoenix agrees. 'Have now? Later?' It lifts up one of its hands, as if to reach out and receive said comm from Dick, then hesitates, probably thinking he doesn't have it on him right now. Then it drops its hand and snorts sharply, shaking its head and shoulders before settling once more. Dick thinks it's a bit unfair how it manages to make itself cute.
"There are spares somewhere around here," Dick tells it. They keep Leslie's Bat-room semi-stocked (it's been very useful in the past,) and one comm won't be missed. Or, well, Bruce might notice it's gone (paranoid bastard), but it wouldn't be unusual.
With a quick, sharp nod, Phoenix stands and moves to the cabinet they keep non-medical supplies in. The storage unit looks the exact same as the others; maybe Phoenix got lucky?
It opens the door and rifles through a few drawers before pulling out a comm and turning it on, seeming to have no difficulties with the buttons or in switching through the channels. Then it pauses on the main channel–Dick can hear the others chattering–and he gets a feeling that Phoenix is going to do something...not good.
It clicks the transmit button and, before Dick can say anything, brings the comm up and shrieks into it. Not loudly, per se, but piercing and strong enough to spark a flurry of demands from the others.
Phoenix, for its part, lets out a low, rumbling laugh.
Dick sighs, reaching out for his own comm–on the table next to him, conveniently within reach, because Leslie has better things to do than call for a Bat-pickup when Dick can do it himself.
"Nightwing," he says tiredly into the comm, confirming his identity, "I gave Phoenix a comm. It's fine, we're fine."
'Nightwing need pickup,' Phoenix says, because it's a little snitch and apparently won't let Dick call for it on his own. 'Non-urgent. Leslie's.'
Letting out a protesting noise without meaning to, Dick looks at Phoenix, offended. "I'm fine, it can wait. I didn't want to distract them."
"Do you need a car?" Oracle asks as Phoenix scoffs.
"Don't–" Dick starts, but Phoenix ignores him, the little shit.
'Hurt leg,' Phoenix tells her. 'Agent A?' Well, at least it's not mentioning the exploded building (yet).
"Agent A is fine, but I don't want to call him away when someone else might need medical help at the cave," Dick says, exasperated. "I can wait a few hours, I left a spare phone here."
"Do I want to know why Phoenix is with you?" Bruce's voice asks, sounding tired of Dick’s shit. Which, to be fair, is what he sounds like 80% of the time.
"It helped me to Leslie's," Dick tells him. "No weirdness or shenanigans, B, we're fine.”
Well, fine but deeply curious. Sure, Leslie knows what's going on in the Alley pretty well, but being personal friends with its recently manifested cryptid is something else.
That gets him one of B's classic hns, but there's no more interrogation (for now, at least). "Agent A will retrieve you as soon as patrol is over."
"Indeed," Alfred’s voice chimes in. "Please do try to keep yourself in one piece until then."
Phoenix laughs at that. 'Someone's in trouble,' it says, almost sing-song, but it thankfully stays off the comm for that comment.
"Anything that tries to multiple-piece me in Leslie's is gonna have to deal with her and Phoenix as well as me. Not great odds." Seriously, would a little trust be undeserved here? It's not like they even know about the collapsed building yet!
"I don't know," Tim chimes in, because everyone in this family hates him. "Your luck is pretty bad, Wing."
"Focus," Oracle chides, and the main channel obligingly falls silent.
Dick sighs, putting his comm to the side and switching it with his phone. Maybe he'll get a moment of peace, now.
The prickling feeling of being watched disproves that immediately. Dick looks up to see Phoenix staring, probably intently, at him.
"You gonna doubt my competency, too?" Dick asks ruefully. It's not entirely unfair of the others to tease him, given the building collapse and all, but it is (as far as they know yet) unwarranted, and he's honestly a little grumpy about it.
Phoenix shakes its head. 'Nightwing skilled,' it says firmly, 'just unlucky.' It takes a few slow steps forward, almost cautious as it approaches him. 'Teasing fun because Nightwing safe.'
Yeah, it's probably right. "Thanks, buddy."
...Is it smart to buddy an eldritch creature of the night? Eh. Dick's made worse decisions. Plus, that genuinely helped him feel better.
God, he's tired. All this leg-squishing has given him a headache (along with other, more leg-relevant aches, of course).
Another few steps forwards, Phoenix now standing within arm's reach. 'Nightwing first Robin,' it says quietly, a low rumble. 'Strongest. Good job.'
Then, while Dick is still reeling from its words, it reaches out and...pats his head? A quick one-two before it starts carding claws through his hair and damn does Phoenix give good scritches.
Dick nearly collapses into the touch (sue him. He doesn't have an excuse except for adrenalin crash, injury, and then feeling somewhat slighted, but this is... good).
Strongest, Phoenix says. That comment sends a twinge of familiar pain through Dick, because... Phoenix is wrong, but it'll never have a chance to meet the reason why.
Jason and Phoenix would've gotten along, he thinks. Similar support and protectiveness of Crime Alley, similar instincts to be a little shit.
A huff comes from above him before limbs are wrapping around his torso and pulling him against a warm wall. The petting doesn't stop, but now Dick is being held by it, too.
Maybe he shouldn't feel so fragile and safe in the arms of an inhuman cryptid, but...Phoenix is warm and sturdy and gentle, and Dick is tired.
'Flamebird guard,' Phoenix says. 'Nightwing rest?'
"Thanks," Dick whispers. Maybe he can just... let himself have this for a second. Sleep until Alfred comes to pick him up. Be held, in the way that Bruce doesn't offer as often anymore. And, because he should probably offset the vulnerability a little with humor, he adds, 'Flamebird good friend.'
Another huff. 'Duh,' it says, almost exactly identical to how Jason would drawl the word. Dick startles when it half-lifts him from the bed, but Phoenix's hold is firm as it...climbs in? And settles down, sitting upright with Dick pulled against its chest.
Maybe the most surprising thing is how Dick, with his ear pressed against Phoenix, can hear a slow, steady thumping rhythm. Call him prejudiced or whatever, but he didn't really think about Phoenix having a heartbeat. Sure, it breathes, but that mostly seems to be for dramatic effect and communication. This is...different.
It's comforting.
For the first time in a while, Dick goes to sleep with someone right next to him watching his back. It's nice, not being the person responsible for everyone's safety (bar Batman, sometimes).
(Hours later, when Leslie comes to inform Dick of his ride, she opens the door to the sight of Phoenix lying on the bed, wings wrapped around it–and the prone figure sleeping on its front. Dick barely stirs when Phoenix shifts, only briefly blinking awake when set in the car to sleepily greet Alfred before drifting off again. His phone is carefully tucked in his pocket, and his gear is safely stored in the trunk of the car.
All in all, it's a peaceful end to a chaotic night.)