Chapter Text
One evening after a mission gone well, Arsenal pointed at Red Hood with his beer and, apropos of absolutely nothing, slurred, “Whassup with ya and Nightwin’?”
Taken aback by the question, Red Hood took a sip of his beer. He swirled it in his mouth once, then twice, taking his time to appreciate how cheap and watered down the shit was. They had bought it at 3 AM in a small corner shop before bringing to his safe house. The longer he took, though, the wider Arsenal’s shit-eating grin got. His friend knew exactly what he was doing.
“No idea what yer talkin’ about,” Red Hood said eventually, proud to have slurred his words only a little. He wasn’t drunk, no sir, he was not. Just a tiny bit tipsy. Not enough to wriggle any drunken confession out of him, so Arsenal was sorely mistaken if he thought he would get him to talk.
“C’moooooon,” Arsenal groaned. “Gotta be blind not to see how into him ya are!” He waved his bottle around in exasperation. “Izzz not only ‘bout how obviously you’re checkin’ him out. Ya go outta your way to accidently,” he made finger quotes with his free hand, “run into him. If there’s so much a whisper of Nightwin’ or his team’s in trouble, ya drop everythin’ and run to the rescue.”
Red Hood had no good comeback to that, so he took another sip and looked to the side. Ever since Arsenal hooked up with Kory, he’d gotten it into his thick head he was an expert on all things romance and seemingly made it his life’s mission to fix Red Hood with someone – namely Nightwing. And yeah, okay, Red Hood was stupidly into Nightwing, but it was just…complicated.
“Oooh, and don’t think I didn’t hear ya on the phone, tellin’ off that li’l assassin club of yours. Do whatcha want with the Bat, but paws off Nightwing!” Arsenal did a piss-poor job imitating his menacing growl.
Red Hood felt rather offended. “And since when d’ya speak Arabic?” he asked tersely, raising a doubtful eyebrow.
“Since speech-to-text online translation apps got better, duh.” Arsenal huffed, pointing at his beaten up cell phone, cracked touch screen and all. “C’mon, Hood. Spill.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. He put his beer down, not in the celebratory mood anymore. “There’s nothin’ to talk about. I dunno if he’s even,” he trailed off, cursing himself for the heat he could feel rising on his cheeks. “You know.”
“What, GAY?” Arsenal practically shouted the last word because wow, they haven’t heard him in Nanda Parbat, halfway across the world. That, plus the bastard had no subtle bone in his body.
Why was Red Hood friends with him again?
“Nah, Nightwing swings both ways.” Arsenal seemed a hell of a lot more sober all of sudden. “And he’s got rotten luck whichever way he goes, first landing himself a controlling bitch of a girlfriend, then a string of sleazy assholes who dumped him after a romp in the sheets.”
Red Hood frowned, his palms closing themselves into fists.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re an asshole too,” Arsenal was quick to reassure. “But you’re not that kind of asshole.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I think you’d be good for each other.” Arsenal was nodding to himself, as if the action would lend credibility to his words. “But once bitten, twice shy and all that jazz. He’s not gonna make a move on you, my friend.” The shit-eating grin reappeared. “Despite regularly checking out your ass. And your thighs,” he added, a mockingly thoughtful look on his face.
Had he got more alcohol in his system, Red Hood would be lifting Arsenal off his feet by the throat, demanding a solemn oath that his words were true. Seeing as he wasn’t there just yet, he looked down at his feet and mumbled, “You shut your goddamn mouth.”
“But seriously, Hood. You could totally get your man and you’re not doing shit about it.” Arsenal huffed. Then he narrowed his eyes with a dawning suspicion. “Is it about the rich boy again?”
Red Hood very carefully said nothing.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Arsenal groaned. “Nothing’s gonna come out of this, you said so yourself!” Red Hood was mumbling something unintelligible under his breath, his mouth making an unhappy downturn, so he made an executive decision to press the issue. “Why would you pine away for…some air-headed rich boy, who’s goin’ all hipster for old Russian - ”
“Romanian.”
“- movies, when you got a real shot with Nightwing?”
Why indeed. Red Hood – or rather, Jason Todd – had asked that question himself, helpless but to stare longingly at a cashmere-sweater-clad back of this guy in one of his classes at college, lightyears out of his league. The answer, though, was as simple as it was embarrassing to admit. “It's not like there's an off switch,” he offered, a hot blush spreading all the way to the tops of his ears.
(And to think that half of Gotham trembled before him.)
“Oh, I know!” Arsenal brightened up at whatever his tipsy brain had just farted out.
Red Hood felt it was his right to be wary.
“How about ya write a letter to the rich boy? Like, a love confession? Oooh, and to your past crushes too, if you had any!” The longer he talked, the more enamoured Arsenal seemed with his idea. “To get them, you know,” he waved his beer bottle around, and no, Red Hood didn’t know, “outta ya system, and you, my friend,” he pointed at him with his beer again, “will be all set to tap. That. Ass.”
Red Hood was actually speechless for a second. “Did you watch another teenage chick flick?” he demanded, because he had his suspicions and there was no use asking if Arsenal had lost his goddamn mind – that went without saying. “‘Cause it sounds like a plot of a fucking teenage chick flick.”
To Arsenal’s credit, he didn’t let this less-than-favourable response curb his enthusiasm. “It's gonna be cathartic!” He waved his bottle around again, spilling beer to the floor.
“Big words, Harper,” he snorted.
“Shut it, college degree.”
The quality of their conversation only deteriorated after that. More alcohol was consumed. Creative insults were exchanged. Arsenal fell asleep on the lumpy couch, so Red Hood decided to leave him be and call it a night.
That could have been the end of it, had Red Hood shrugged his and Arsenal’s little heart-to-heart off and gone to sleep. But he kept turning in his bed, unable to catch a wink.
Maybe Harper’s stupid idea wasn’t entirely without merit, he reasoned, frowning at the ceiling. He had never acted on his past crushes and got helplessly tongue-tied and weak in the knees whenever he caught sight of Richard Wayne’s vivid blue eyes, so yeah. Maybe allowing himself to embrace those feelings, put them into words even, would help him cleanse himself or – whatever, he wasn’t a fucking therapist, nor was his civilian persona studying to become one. But the point stood.
Besides, it wasn’t like anyone would ever read any of those letters, would they?
Oh, to hell with this shit, he thought, throwing off his blanket. He switched on the lamp at his desk, then went through his drawers in search for three envelopes. With them ready, he cracked his notebook open and got down to writing.