Chapter Text
The moment Dick opens his eyes, alarm ringing shrilly in his ears, he can tell it's going to be one of those days.
When he tugs back his half-broken blinds, it's a rare sunny day. A few white clouds drift high above the tallest of Bludhaven's skyscrapers, buffeted by the wind.
But there's something in the air that sets Dick's teeth on edge, like ozone on the edge of a storm. It's a familiar feeling, one that usually means the universe is about to screw Dick Grayson over in one way or another.
He forgoes his usual eggs (more often Lucky charms these days, sorry Alfred) and flips on the coffeemaker, fingers tapping his unease against the worn linoleum countertop.
It hums as he quickly pulls on his uniform and checks his phone, fully expecting a message that one of his brothers is missing or the world is expected to end within the next twenty-four hours. Again.
But there's no unusual chatter over the Bat-channel, nothing at all but a long thread of Tim and Jason arguing over the imagery in Moby Dick for five hours straight before Barbara finally threatened to ban them for real. A quick scroll of the news shows many alarming, depressing stories, but none more alarming than the day before.
His coffeemaker dings as he finally finds it.
There. In his messages. An innocuous text from Amy Rohrbach, the one of the few detectives at the precinct not only tolerable but good at what she did. They'd been partners, back as rookie cops, and joined forces for several cases since. He was glad she was on their team. Watching Amy throw herself out of a moving bus to tackle their suspect had taken two years off his life. And put the guy in the hospital. But he was an abuser, so.
He hesitates, trepidation filling his chest, and opens the text.
"Get to the precinct ASAP," it reads, "Big news." At the end is a winking emoji face.
Dick drops his head to the counter, can't help but bang his head lightly against it. The winking face emoji was on omen not unlike a crow congregating near a sick person. The last time he'd seen it, he'd been assigned a month-long case canvassing the sewers for a secret hideout that didn't, and had never, existed. His nose had only just recovered.
He lifts his head, send a longing glance at the window. He can still make it to Europe before Amy even gets worried. It's easy enough to become a different person, if you're a good enough actor (and Dick is nothing, if not an actor, he thinks bitterly), never to be seen again.
A ding as another text comes in.
"Already put a BOLO out on your bike. See you soon!" An overly happy face emoji.
Dick huffs. "How am I supposed to go mysteriously missing with that kind of foresight?" he texts back.
"Oops!" she cheerfully replies. "Now hurry up, he's already been waiting an hour and a half."
Dick narrowly avoids spilling coffee all over his shirt.
"Who?" he texts his friend, "Amy?!?! who's been waiting????!!" He immediately tries to call her twice.
Predictably, she declines both calls.
He grabs his keys from an only slightly lopsided handmade bowl on his counter (it was perfect to him, Tim) and books it for the shitty parking garage across the street.
Shit, it could be any number of people at the precinct waiting for him, but only a few Amy would text like that about, and none of them like to be kept waiting an hour and a half.
The precinct is a fifteen-minute drive away, but he can make it in seven on his bike if he bends the laws a little. Dick skids to a stop next to his beautiful lady, throws off the cover, and hops on the bike- Amy has a BOLO out on.
Dick curses, out loud this time, colorfully enough that Jason would snort and give him a nod of approval if he were here. And if they were on speaking terms, right now.
He scuffs a frustrated hand through his hair. How the hell is he supposed to get to work, now?
* * *
Lieutenant Hammond, the pretentious asshole, smirks at him as Dick hurries past to his desk.
Dick doesn't let his feet falter. "Good morning." he calls cheerfully to his coworkers.
"Not for you." Hammond huffs.
A few snickers rumble throughout. Zak Edwards sends him a vaguely sympathetic look.
Dick shifts more energy into keeping his smile in place with all eyes on him. This, he is practiced in, learned from many, many galas of too white teeth and twisted words. How to walk with a confidence you don't feel even when the whole world is watching.
What the hell is going on?
He tosses his jacket into the back of his chair, beelines as casually as he can for Amy's desk.
She looks up from her computer, raises an eyebrow. "Took you long enough."
"You're paying for my bus fare." he hisses, jabbing a finger at her.
Her brown hair is pulled back into a neat bun, but a few strands slip free as she leans back in her chair. Huffs. "Didn't realize the heir to the Wayne fortune would be this stingy." she drawls.
Dick can't help giving her a sharp look. She raises her hands. "Sorry. Forgot. Sensitive topic. I was just teasing."
"$3.20." he insists, after a moment, tapping her desk. "I expect it by the end of the week."
Her eyes widen. "$3.20?" she argues, "For one ride? That's robbery! You should have dodged the fare-"
"Amy."
"Fine." she grumbles, rolling her eyes. "But I stand by that we're being robbed. In New York it's only $2.90, and our transit system is way shittier-"
"I'm leaving now." he says firmly.
"Good," she tells him, "Cause apparently he's been here since seven. Who arrives a whole hour early-"
He throws up his hands. "Who, Amy?"
"Grayson." the captain's voice booms across the bullpen, rough from several decades of heavy smoking. "My office. Now."
Amy sends him an apologetic look and a weak thumbs up.
All eyes follow him as he crosses to the closed office door. Dick really, really, hopes he isn't getting fired right now.
Or arrested. His mind whirls, trying to figure out if someone could have put the pieces together, but no- he would have heard something. He has systems set up to alert him if anyone searches his own name or Nightwing's in the police database, just to be safe, and there's been no more chatter on the streets than usual. He's been careful these past few months, more than careful-
There's a man in grey suit and a tie sitting stiffly across from the captain. He's around Dick's age, mid-twenties, and has a manila folder in his hands.
On first glance, it looks like he's from another agency, maybe the FBI or DEA, looking to exchange information on a case, and no wonder everyone was looking at him like that.
Other agencies always treated them like shit, too proud of their acronyms for their own good. As if the BPD wasn't going to end up doing all the legwork anyway.
But the man's suit is clearly secondhand, a bit rumpled like it's been in a suitcase recently. It doesn't quite fit at the shoulders, too snug, and the pants are just a smidge too long, though the worn tie is tied impeccably.
Dick keeps his expression carefully level.
Shit. Are they being audited?
"You asked to see me, Captain?" he says.
Captain Sutton waves a hand at the stranger.
"Grayson, I'd like you to meet your new partner." he says, abrupt.
Dick's eyes widen despite himself. The stranger stands and offers a hand.
"Connor Anderson." he says, eyes flicking away. "Former Miami PD."
"Detective Dick Grayson." Dick returns and manages a polite smile even though he's reeling. "Nice to meet you."
Connor's handshake is firm, innocuous. He doesn't try a ridiculous show of strength like half the people in this precinct. His hand is... cooler than Dick would have expected from someone walking into their first day at a new job, especially one meeting the person they'd be working alongside the next few months, but he doesn't seem phased at all.
They reclaim their seats and Dick doesn't hesitate to pin the captain with a questioning look.
Sutton shuffles through a few files. He opens one, signs at the bottom with reading it, and moves on to the next.
"Anderson just transferred here from MPD. He needs someone to get him acquainted with the city, fill him in on our..." The captain scowls, "Nightlife, and make sure he doesn't get killed before his probationary period is up."
He looks up from the files to give Connor an extremely skeptical once over. "Cause no offense, kid... but you look like you graduated the academy last week."
"None taken, sir." Connor says, and Dick is surprised he actually seems to mean it. "However, I assure you I'm more than capable-"
"Bludhaven's a lot different than sunny Miami." Sutton interrupts, as if living near the ocean keeps people from breaking the law. God, Dick wished. Maybe Gotham wouldn't be so much of a dumpster fire. If a half-polluted and likely cursed stretch of ocean even counted in this scenario.
Sunshine and beaches aside, Dick is pretty sure Miami's violent crime rates were abysmally high.
Connor shifts, but he doesn't speak up. A wise choice. Sutton does not like being contradicted.
Dick forces himself to bite the bullet and speak up. "Captain, I'd like to help, but I'm heading up the Mercer bust this weekend."
And it has been a painful five months and a thousand dead-ends in the making. It had taken befriending Mercer's housekeeper's girlfriend to finally nail down a morsel of a lead.
Dick hasn't been this excited to close a case since he was a kid.
"I'm sure Rohrbach could help out-" he offers.
"Hammond can take over the Mercer case." the captain says.
Dick is a professional, goddammit, so his expression doesn't change, but his blood boils.
"I'm more than willing to help Anderson out after the bust." he says, firmly, "But I've been gathering evidence on Mercer for months now-"
"Then Hammond should have no trouble arresting him." Sutton snaps, leveling him with a look. "We're getting a criminal off the streets, Grayson. It shouldn't matter who makes the actual arrest."
But that won't stop Hammond from shoving it in their faces for the next year all the same. He'll probably even get another raise for it.
Dick grits his teeth and forces himself to nod.
Connor glances back and forth between him and the captain. He looks distinctly uncomfortable. Dick's not mad at him. It's not his fault Sutton's an asshole.
"Hammond could use something to do." the man says, "He just finished up with the press circuit from last week's bust." The captain fishes a newspaper out of his desk and tosses it over to Connor with a satisfied grin.
"40 pounds of fentanyl taken off the street in one night." he says, tilting his head at the paper. "We even made national news."
And hadn't that been a lovely surprise, showing up the next day at work, nursing a fresh bullet wound, to find Hammond claiming credit for Nightwing's work. Not that Dick could say anything.
"Very impressive." Connor says, quietly. "The BPD must be very skilled."
Dick flicks him a glance but catches no hint of sarcasm.
It seems their reputation doesn't precede them, then. Dick almost feels sorry for the guy.
He doesn't think he can sit in this office a moment longer without lunging across the desk, so he stands, a bit abruptly. "We should get out of your hair, Captain. I'll go take Anderson to do the rest of his paperwork, get his uniform sized, maybe do a quick drive of the city so he can start learning the streets."
"Just don't get him killed." Sutton replies, brusque. "Too much paperwork."
Connor stands to follow Dick out but hesitates. "Looking forward to working with you." he says.
"Get out of my office." the captain snaps back, eyes already focused on his computer.
Dick winces. When the door has shut behind them, he assures Connor, "Don't worry about him, he's just like that."
But Connor doesn't seem phased. If anything, he looks more at ease than before.
* * *
Dick subtly studies his new partner as the man fills out his forms.
He has carefully cut dark hair, intelligent brown eyes. No visible scarring, no facial hair. Dick revises his earlier assessment to early twenties.
Connor Anderson sits with excellent posture in the chair next to Dick's desk, even ten pages into what Dick knows are some of driest forms on the nearest five planets. Every so often, when he reaches a difficult question, Dick can tell because he reaches up to straighten his damn tie knot.
He looks, unfortunately, like the kind of detective with a stick up his ass and far too grand an opinion of himself.
Dick wonders why he's here of all places. How badly he messed up that his best choice for a transfer was Bludhaven.
"You have access to my file, detective." Connor says, without looking up.
Dick blinks. He had thought he was being subtle. "Files don't really do anyone justice." he huffs, "Always better to speak with the source."
The look Connor sends him is unimpressed. He flicks the department pen between his fingers. It spins artfully.
"Ask away." he says, with a shrug.
Dick leans back in his chair, ignoring the squeak as he studies the man. "So, Miami PD?" he asks.
"I joined out of college." Connor explains. "I got my degree in criminology at the University of Miami, ended up landing the job a few months after graduation. Made detective about a year ago." He nods his head at the computer. "You can look over my service record, detective. I will not be a danger to you in the field."
Dick waves a hand. "Just Grayson or Dick is fine. We're partners now."
Connor's eyes narrow. The pen stops spinning abruptly. "Please know that I am more than familiar with hazing protocols within police departments," he says, voice frosty, "I don't plan to be written up in my first week."
Dick raises his hands. "It's not a trick." he says, firmly. "It's my name. My parents weren't native English speakers. Dick's short for Richard."
Connor tilts his head. "And you've retained the name?"
"It's my name." Dick repeats, letting a bit more sharpness enter his voice. He's been ragged enough for it his whole life, and if Connor decides to give him shit for it too, Dick isn't going to go easy on him.
But Connor just studies him for a moment longer and nods. "If you could fill me in on the major players in Bludhaven, I would appreciate it." he says, abruptly, "My clearance hasn't come through yet and-"
"Hold your horses," Dick says, lips quirking up, and points at the forms. "Finish those up first. We have to finish processing your transfer before we can put you to work."
Connor's expression is almost mulish, but he returns to his paperwork.
Dick lets the hum of the overworked HVAC unit and the bustle of the rest of the bullpen fill the silence for a few minutes.
"So why Bludhaven?" he asks, casually.
Connor's pen pauses for a moment, before resuming its rhythmic scritching. "I wanted a change of scenery." he says, like it's that simple, and doesn't look up from his clipboard.
Dick nods as if ten red flags didn't just pop up in his head.
People don't come to Bludhaven for a change in scenery. In fact, people don't tend to come to Bludhaven at all. It's a place you're born or it's a place you end up.
He runs the possibilities in his head. They'd had a couple of people who'd transferred here after they'd fumbled a big operation, another handful who got caught doing things they shouldn't, but the captain would have given him a heads up if that were the case. It could be the opposite, a shitty captain, a shitty precinct, forcing Connor to take a spot here out of desperation. Maybe money trouble- Miami was expensive- or family troubles- needed to get away. Dick understood the latter quite intimately.
And of course, it could simply be stupidity. Not everyone did the proper amount of research before accepting a position and moving across the country. It was completely possible he didn't know about Bludhaven's place on Top Five Shittiest American Cities for ten years in a row.
"I'm done." Connor says, handing over the clipboard. "Can you answer the question now?"
Dick can't help his laugh. He flips through the form to make sure they won't get sent straight back for a single missing signature and blinks hard at the perfect font scrawled across them.
"You write like a typewriter."
"Legibility is important." Connor returns. "The auxiliary staff waste nearly a fourth of their time trying to decipher messy handwriting. That time could be better spent elsewhere."
Oh my god, he sounds just like Bruce.
"Fair enough." Dick says faintly. "Let's go get you sized for your uniform."
* * *
Dick does end up looking over Connor's records at lunch, mainly because talking to him only gets Dick vague, well-rehearsed answers that have alarm bells honed from sixteen years of vigilante work ringing in his head.
Detective Connor Anderson's service record is perfectly average, like a hundred others Dick has seen. No disciplinary actions, no criminal record, just a couple speeding tickets to his name. There are only two minor citations on his MPD file, both about going against orders, but Dick would have been more concerned to see no citations at all.
The file is perfectly palatable, unobtrusive. Ideal for hiring quickly and filing the gap left behind by Detective Rashid's retirement. It's all a little too convenient.
In the breakroom, he pours himself another cup of terrible coffee and pauses just inside the doorway to study the new hire.
Most of the precinct has disappeared for lunch, off to their favorite spots or (in Zak's case) to eat leftovers in their cars. Connor is working his way through a homemade sandwich from a stained tupperware at his desk. Every bite he takes is precise.
"One week." a voice says.
Dick turns his head to see Amy standing there, filling up her mug that says, "I'm not saying I'm Batman, but have you ever seen us in the same room together?"
She jerks her head at Connor, immediately taking a sip of her coffee even though Dick can see it steaming from here. Her coffee order is, frankly, an abomination. Black, no cream, no sugar. If Dick wanted to suffer like that he'd just go out for lunch with Bruce.
"One week." she repeats.
"Amy."
"You saw the tie." she insists. "They're going to eat him alive."
They both look at Connor, who is standing now, studying the crime board on the McKunes between his and Dick's desk with a concerning amount of focus. His sandwich, half-eaten, lies forgotten on his desk.
"There's no way Sunshine boy can handle this city." she says, shaking her head. "Fifty bucks he'll be gone in a week."
"I'm not betting on a partner." he says, firmly.
"Come on, we all bet on you." Amy complains. "I lost a hundred bucks."
"Amy!" he gasps, mock-betrayed, as if he hadn't fully aware of the bets and gone in with Seoyeon in Records to make bank.
If no one else believed he'd make it this long, that was their problem. Victory was crisp and green and paid for an amazing dinner at the best Korean barbecue place in town.
"Pretty boy straight out of Gotham high society? I didn't think you'd last two days."
"And yet here I am, four years later." Dick says, pointed. "Maybe you shouldn't judge so soon."
He empties another two sugar packets into his own coffee in retaliation for Amy's accursed drink and turns to go, but Amy makes a stifled noise of amusement.
Connor is now staring a photo on the crime board from an inch away. He shifts his feet, and his forehead bumps the whiteboard. It screeches as it begins to turn on its hinges and he draws back, looking startled.
Amy barely muffles her laugher. "Come on." she says, elbowing Dick. "Come onnnn-"
Dick grimaces and dodges the next poke of her bony-ass elbows. He sighs.
"A month." he concedes, studying Connor. "No one transfers here unless they're desperate." He hesitates. "He'll need time to apply to other precincts."
Amy crows in victory, pulling out a small notebook and jotting it down. Dick catches a glimpse of a long row of names and numbers before she flips it closed again.
"That's the longest yet." she tells him, and raises her mug to clink it against his with a grin full of teeth. "Hope you're not a sore loser."
* * *
Dick brings a second mug of coffee back to the bullpen, sets it on Connor's desk. He tries to ignore the hum of guilt in his chest for betting on a colleague's failure.
"The McKunes have connections all over the city." he says, nodding at the map Connor's studying. "Some say those connections go as high as City Council." He huffs, leaning against his desk. "I'm starting to believe it. We've been trying to take them down for two years now, but they're always one step ahead."
Connor's eyes find the coffee on his desk and his brow furrows, like he's confused, like he's surprised.
Like in his three years of service no one ever even filled up a chipped mug for him from the department coffee machine.
Another point ticks towards Dick's shitty precinct theory.
"Can't promise I got your preference right." Dick says, with a shrug, "But there's more milk and sugar packets in the break room if you want em."
He focuses on shuffling through the stack of files on his desk and pretends he's not watching Connor blink at the drink on his desk.
Connor picks up the mug slowly. He takes a very small sip.
"Thank you, Detective Grayson." he says, tone just a tinge too sincere.
"No problem." Dick returns, casually.
Connor goes for another sip, eyebrows raising, and then a third sip.
Dick returns to trying to make sense of the haphazard pile of files someone (read: Hammond) dumped on his desk while he was out. He takes a sip of his own coffee, reveling in the rare quiet.
"The McKunes are working out of the old distillery on 15th." Connor says, out of the blue.
Dick chokes on his coffee.
* * *