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Duke jumps down from the fire escape, landing silent as a cat. A red bat is painted haphazardly on the door frame in front of him, still dripping with fresh paint. It’s not spray paint – it reminds him of Damian’s acrylic paints. It makes his stomach twist. It’s not the first red bat he’s seen around, but it’s the first time he’s seen one so fresh and not sprayed as part of some mural. It tells him he’s in the right spot, though.
The streets are ghost town-quiet. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, can hear blood roaring in his ears. The adrenaline is taking its sweet time fading completely, but he’s grateful for it right now. Over that, is the terse back-and-forth between the Bats, which just makes him even more anxious. He doesn’t tell them what he’s found. Not yet. Not when he can see the phantom after-images of Jason staggering down this very alley, someone meeting him halfway.
Instead, he creeps closer to the door and knocks every-so-softly. He waits for a long moment, tension rising to unbearable levels. If he were in their place, he wouldn’t answer so he gets it, but also –
The door creeks open and an eye peers out. Duke smiles comfortingly, half-hero and half-Narrows born. Their gaze flickers to the bat on his chest then squints. He can practically hear aren’t you a daytime hero ? – and it’s two in the morning and there’s not even a hint of sun.
But they step back anyway, giving him room to enter the cramped entry way, and letting him see who the assessing gaze belongs to – a fourteen-year-old dressed in a ratty hoodie and threadbare jeans. They’re worn and wane, hands shoved into her pockets, shoulders hunched. There’s a streak of blood on their cheek like they’d tried to wipe it away – it’s brown and dried now, a single clear line through it from quickly dried tears.
“He’s in the front with my mom,” they say whisper-soft. Now that he’s in the room with them, they’re looking away, curling in on themselves. “It’s real bad but…but it’s not as bad anymore.”
He nods and offers them a better smile, something a little more hero-like. He doesn’t pat them on the shoulder or the head like he wants. “Thank you,” he says as sincerely as possible. Their cheeks flush pink before they hurry towards the door that presumable leads to the aforementioned front.
Duke follows, bracing himself.
Inside is an older woman that looks enough like the twelve-year-old to obviously be their mother. She leaps to her feet, brandishing a can of pepper spray before she clocks him – and then she slumps in relief. Duke sees boots behind her on the bed, unmoving and slack – and he shifts around her to find –
Well, it’s definitely not the worst Jason’s ever looked, he can say that at least.
Jason tracks him from under his lashes, his focus visibly dipping and wavering. His face is pale and drawn, blood mats his hair, streaks from his temple down the side of his face, curtaining a spreading bruise across his face. He’s holding a red drenched washcloth to his stomach even though there’s not enough strength behind it for the pressure to do anything.
The mom’s arms are red to her elbows, her hands red and brown and shaking. And even though she knows him, knows him as Signal, knows him as a hero, her finger is still primed on that trigger, ready to pepper spray him in the face for one wrong move against Red Hood.
“Can I take him?” Duke asks quietly, hands out, palms up. “We have supplies back home.”
She shuffles to the side, but still in front of Jason defensively. Jason swings out a hand, grabs the hem of her sweater and silently tugs on it. She glances at him for a long time, as if searching for something, before she finally sighs and steps away from the bed to give Duke room.
“Got him to stop bleedin’,” she says quietly. “But he’ll need stitches and whatnot. I don’t got that on hand here.”
“You did great,” Duke says earnestly – then worries he’s sounding patronizing, but all she does is droop and move to drag a hand over her face before she remembers there’s blood on it.
“Only because it’s you,” she says instead. She gently uncurls Jason’s grip from her sweater, lets her hold linger before she just as gently sets his limp hand over his other. His head lolls, looking up at her, and Duke swallows thickly. “Take care of him.”
That sounds like a threat more than anything else – and Duke glances at the hoodless, domino-less Red Hood, the blood flecking his face, the way he can’t quite lift his head. He presses his lips together and nods sharply.
“Of course.”
Duke moves in, hooking an arm under Jason’s, holding onto his belt as he works to heave him up. Jason wraps an arm around his shoulders, his grip weak on his armor, but he’s at least trying to help. But really, it’s Duke’s augmented strength that’s going most of the work.
“C’mon, big Red,” Duke murmurs. “Let’s getcha home.”
Jason whines quietly – he’s been distressingly quiet this entire time and Duke has to swallow again, his eyes burning.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just a little longer, ‘kay?”
The kid hovers on the sidelines as Duke carefully walks Jason out – well, ‘walk’ being a nice way of describing the slow stop and shuffle they’re actually doing. It takes a couple seconds for Jason to get his feet under him on every step and Duke really doesn’t want to drag him so even though it pains him to move at a snail’s pace, that’s what they’re doing. Moving at Jason’s pace.
“Is he gonna be okay?” the kid asks.
Duke smiles at them. “Of course. He’s Red Hood.”
That makes something spark in their eyes and they nod decisively. “Right. Right. Yeah.” They smile, small and just shy of bright and he sees a little bit of Jason in that smile, a small crooked thing like they’re half used to it. He sees it sometimes when Jason thinks no one is looking. “Keep us, uh, keep us updated?”
“You got his helmet?” Duke asks. The kid’s eyes flicker to the corner where Duke spots a flash of red half-hidden by a blanket. Smart. “Nice. He’ll come pick it up when he’s better. So, keep it safe.”
They square their shoulders, standing straight. “You can count on it!”
—
“Look, you can’t be out here, kid. Let me get you somewhere safe, okay? I know the perfect place.”
The kid stares up at him with big round eyes that drift to the bat on his chest then back to his helmet. “They talk about you,” he whispers. Red Hood crouches down to his level. There’s a quiet hissing sound as he pulls off his helmet. “They say you’re nice.”
Red Hood smiles something small and a little pained. “So I’ve heard.” He holds out a hand. “I care more about getting you somewhere warm to sleep than how nice people think I am.”
He might be young, but he catches the implication. “I know you’re nice,” he tells Red Hood, as seriously as a kid can manage. He takes Hood’s offered hand and it’s warm through the glove, gentle when he folds his fingers over.
Hood barks out a quiet laugh. “Kid, you just met me.”
“Like I said,” he says even as Hood guides him out of the alleyway, arm wrapped around his shoulders to keep him warm. “They talk about you. I trust you.”
Red Hood doesn’t quite flinch, but it’s close.
—
“ Hood !”
Stephanie watches in amusement as Jason ducks his head, shoulders scrunching to his ears at the sound of his name. He freezes, like he’s a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and if he just doesn’t move then ob-vi-ous-ly they can’t actually see him, right? It’s a freakin’ hilarious sight, especially all geared up as Red Hood instead of slouching around Wayne Manor with Alfred scolding him for that exact scenario.
“ Hood! Don’t ignore me! I saw you!” the voice comes again followed by rapid fire Italian that has Jason going from frozen to resigned, letting out a huff, then to amused. He pulls off his helmet and his face is flushed pink under his domino – it takes Steph a second to realize he’s blushing . “I will come up there!”
“With that hip? I don’t think so!” Jason hollers back, going to the edge of the roof they just climbed onto. He leans over it, laughing for real this time. He says something in Italian that Stephanie still doesn’t quite catch, but she hears sit and down and minute . The response to that sounds scolding and threatening all at once.
He turns to her, and she raises an eyebrow. His blush gets a little darker as Steph lets him stew for a second before she shrugs. “We’re not in any rush.”
“Wasn’t askin’ for permission,” he says with an attitude-filled nose scrunch and curl to his lip. She immediately lunges for him, and he dodges, sticking out his tongue as he dances out of range. “Gotta be faster than that, Spoiler .” And he lets himself free fall off the roof, grapple going out at the last minute to soften the landing. What a dramatic asshole.
“You’re such a child!” Steph shouts at his back. He flips her off without looking as he walks towards an older woman sitting on a chair on a stoop. The woman smacks his arm scoldingly and he laughs out loud. She just scolds him even harder.
Steph grapples down in time for Jason to lean over and for the woman to gently grab his face. She turns it every which way as if she’s looking for injuries or something. When she’s satisfied, she pats his cheek fondly, leans up to kiss his forehead in a wholly familial gesture. Jason murmurs something low, hand wrapped around her wrist, not straightening up even though the inspection is seemingly over.
“ Domani ,” Jason is saying when Stephanie is within earshot. “ Scusa non sono riuscita a vederti ieri.”
“ Ti sono perdonati ,” she tells him and pats his cheek again. She forgave him for something – he missed meeting up with her yesterday? Is that why she was calling for him? “Don’t scare me like that again,” she says, expression somber.
He murmurs his apologies that she takes with a smile and finally releases his face. Stephanie is suddenly pinned with a piercing brown gaze, age and weariness making it heavy. She moves closer at Jason’s encouragement.
“Spoiler, meet María Carmen. María Carmen, meet Spoiler.”
“Nice to meet you,” Steph tells her sincerely.
“Come closer, cara .” She obediently steps up onto the stoop, shoulder brushing Jason’s. “I’ve seen you around. You do good work. Grazie di cuore .”
Oh. Oh . Steph squirms a little, face heating up. Jason laughs unsubtly at her blush, earning an elbow to the ribs that doesn’t actually do anything, but he hunches over and whines anyway.
“Be nice, fragola ,” María Carmen says sternly. Strawberry . Stephanie’s expression brightens, absolutely delighted at the new teasing material she’s been so graciously handed for free.
Jason pouts. “ Nonnaaaa ,” he whines. “You said you wouldn’t.”
María Carmen cackles. “I never said such a thing. You need to bring your friends around more often. I have so many stories.”
“And that’s exactly why I don’t ,” Jason says, but he’s smiling so big his cheeks have to hurt. Stephanie can’t help but stare – she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him smile so much in such a short amount of time. Even with the whacky shenanigans they can get up to when Bruce is at his most brooding, he’s never smiled so big so much.
Their comms crackle to life, Oracle calling them to an incident down by the docks.
Jason ducks down to brush a kiss on María Carmen’s cheek. “We have to head out now, nonnina . I’ll stop by tomorrow for your list, sì ?”
“ Sì, sì .” She takes Stephanie’s hand and squeezes it gently in good-bye. “Stay safe.”
“We will,” Steph assures her.
When she turns to follow Jason to their original roof, a flash of red catches her eye. Dangling from the doorknob is a decoration of butterflies and birds of different colors, and a one singular cut out of a red bat. Yeah, that tracks, she decides. She’s seen a few Spoiler purple ones around East End, but the ones in Crime Alley and the surrounding blocks are always Red Hood red.
“What’s the list for?” she asks Jason when they’re safely back on the roof.
He doesn’t answer for a long moment as they leap across gaps and alleys, until, finally, he says, “She makes batched food to hand out, but she can’t shop on her own and professional services are too expensive or too flighty. I do the shopping for her. Help her cook it sometimes.”
There’s something weighty in his tone. Stephanie hums. “That’s nice of you.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugs, not looking at her. His helmet is still off, gripped tight in hand, so she can see his grimace. “Her food’s pretty damn good. Win-win.”
She takes the redirection and goes with it. “If you’re saying it, then I believe it.” He’ll eat almost anything, even if other people turn their nose up at it, but he’s also kinda snobby about what’s considered good food.
Jason grins. “I’m probably headin’ over around ten-ish. Got any plans?”
Hanging out with Cass, but she’s pretty sure Cass would be overjoyed to help out and Jason wouldn’t mind. “Now I do.”
His grin gets bigger, almost on par with how it was when they were talking to María Carmen. “Hell yeah.”
—
A shadow looms over her homework and she has two seconds to brace herself before a weight leans on her and a chin digs obnoxiously into her head.
“Hey, Yo-Yo, that looks like fun,” Red Hood drawls. She shoves him and he tumbles off to sprawl out next to her instead, starfishing like a goof.
“It’s not ,” Yo-Yo snaps, scowling. She shakes the book like that’s going to make the words fall out and finally make sense. “I hate this damn thing.”
There’s a moment of silence before he holds out his hand, making a gimmie motion. She hands it over easily, grateful to finally stop looking at it for a second.
She watches him inspect it. He flips through the pages, pauses on her notes in the margins. On post-it stickies because it’s not her book and she’s not about to risk tearing a page trying to erase anything. She can’t see his eyes, but she can hear him hum.
“You got the gist of it,” he says. Yo-Yo perks up. “What’s the problem?”
She deflates. “The essay,” she mumbles. “I can’t – .” She makes a frustrated sound. “I can’t put it all together.”
Hood rolls up into a sitting position with envious grace. She makes a face at him for it. He just smirks and taps her on the head with the book in reprimand even though he’s only, like, two years older than her. He’s got this old air about him, like he’s seen more than any of them can imagine.
“Want help?”
Yo-Yo’s jaw drops. “Uh – really? Don’t you have, like, shit you gotta do?”
She can definitely see the eyebrow raise. “If I had shit I had to do, I wouldn’t’ve offered. Do you want help?”
Yo-Yo looks at him to the book to the skyline then back to him. “Please,” she says, grateful and ecstatic all at once though she tries to tamp it down juuusssst a bit. Don’t want to see too weird about it. But, well. This is Red Hood.
Red Hood
helping her.
With her homework! Holy shit!
—
“Papa! There’s a bird outside.”
“Which one, dear?”
“The one we like.”
He wipes his hands and goes to the living room where his daughter has her nose pressed against the window, bouncing on her tiptoes. The sky is dark and grey, as usual, and he sees just the faintest flash of red. The window itself makes no noise as he opens it, but the subtle red bat taped to the corner crinkles just a bit as it passes the seal.
“You got someone comin’?” he asks the curled figure of Red Hood. The vigilante flinches in surprise, but he doesn’t go for his weapons. “We got a phone tree for this sorta thing if you don’t.”
Hood coughs out a rough laugh and pulls down his actual hood, leaving him in just a domino. It’s torn on the corner, one of the lenses is cracked. He’s got a mighty fine bruise shadowing his jaw all the way to his ear. Concussion, then. Explains why he’s not bouncing around the rooftops.
“Yeah,” Hood says all gravel-like. “I got a pick-up on his way.”
He nods and lets his assessment drift downward. Hood’s got a hand pressed to his side just under his ribs, but more bracing than pressure. No blood. Good. Good.
“Can I come out there?” she asks, practically halfway out the window already, her feet kicking behind her. He sighs in fond exasperation – and doesn’t miss the way Hood stiffens in surprise. “Can you tell me a story?” She shakes her head. “No wait. You sound bad . Can I tell you a story?”
Hood’s mouth opens, then closes, indecision visible on his face. His chin tilts up, indicating he’s looking at him for permission. Or waiting for him to take his daughter away from the rough, dangerous , loose-cannon Red Hood. He snorts. Yeah, sure.
“I’ll bring you a blanket,” he says. The lens of his domino stretches wide to accommodate his shocked expression. “You’re not bleedin’ anywhere we gotta patch, are you?” Hood shakes his head. “Thought so. Hang tight.”
His daughter lets out a delighted noise and wiggles her way through the window, nearly falling onto the metal grate if not for Hood swooping in to catch her with one of those oh-shit-child-falling! sounds. He smothers a laugh, but doesn’t hide the smile, as he gathers supplies, keeping one ear out for any indications Hood’s hiding some other wound.
When he comes back, his kid is tucked up against Hood’s side and he’s got an arm around her. Her hands gesture wildly as she tells her tale in hushed, excited tones – and he knows exactly which story she’s telling, she’s been obsessed with those weirdly violent cat books lately. He’d been reconsidering their appropriateness but then remembered they live in Gotham – and Hood’s nodding along, making interested hums and shocked gasps at just the right moments.
They both barely pay him any attention as he drapes a blanket over them and hands Hood a sealed water bottle. His hands are shaking when he takes it, some fingers swollen, but he cracks the bottle open easily. He’s kinda jealous, he once smashed his finger in a drawer and was out for the count for at least a week. This guy’s got two blue-purple, unable-to-bend fingers on his (presumably) dominate hand and he just…opens a sealed bottle that has one of those cheap, shitty caps?
Maybe the Bats really are metas.
When Hood just sits there, staring at the water, his kid reaches over and squeezes it crinkling the plastic. “Drink,” she orders with all the seriousness of a seven-year-old.
The corner of Hood’s lip twitches upward, but he says “Yes, ma’am,” and dutifully takes careful sips.
“I gotta keep workin’ on dinner. You two good out here?” he asks – Hood jerks like he’s been slapped, grip tightening around the bottle hard to spill some of the water. “What? You said your ride should be here soon…wanna come inside instead? Probably warmer.”
Hood shakes his head. “Uh. No – no thank you.” He bites his lip in an unexpectedly nervous gesture. He’s been jumpy this whole time, but he’d chalked that up to circumstances. Does he not know what the red bat means?
His daughter doesn’t give him a chance to explain because she gasps excitedly, hands flailing in lieu of slapping his arm. “You have fangs!”
“I have – oh. I do.” He’s grinning big, putting them prominent in his smile. “Cool, right?”
“ So cool ,” she whispers, so overwhelmed by this grand discovery. “You’re like – like one of the warriors from my books! Can I give you a name?”
“…sure?” Hood says hesitantly, obviously well-versed in not being able to say no to a request like that from a kid and also apprehensive of what he might get saddled with. She gasps and bounces and launches into a rambling argument with herself about the perfect and best name for their favorite vigilante.
He leaves them be to check the stew he has warming on the stove – then stops for a second, thinking, and then goes looking. There should be a…ah-ha. He cleans the thermos out and ladles some of the stew in it before he can second guess himself. The chances of Hood accepting the stew – homemade, not in a pre-sealed container, it’s not that hard to figure out – is low, but he wants to try anyway. His grip tightens around the thermos. He has to try.
“Can’t name you Fireheart,” his daughter is saying. Hood is holding back a laugh, shoulders practically vibrating. “Because, like, even though it totally works for you, that’s not creative at all and it’s stealing . Oh. Oh! How about Fire bird – cos you’re a bird, get it?”
Hood lets out a little huff, like his laugh just couldn’t be held back anymore. “Thought most of you guys called us Bats.”
He holds out the thermos. “Not you guys,” he says. Hood doesn’t take the offered stew, but he doesn’t let that deter him and sets it on the windowsill in easy reach. “Not the kids.”
“Not a kid,” Hood says.
Not a kid. At most he’s maybe in his early twenties. That’s at least a decade and a half difference. That’s a Bird to him. Even Black Bat and Batgirl are Birds. The Bat and the Birds – could be a good band name.
He doesn’t continue it, just taps his nail on the lid of the thermos. “This is from our dinner,” he tells the vigilante. “Promise it’s not poisoned. I owe you anyway.”
Hood twists his mouth. “You don’t owe me nothin’.”
“Uh-huh.” He smiles. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”
“ Hoooddd ,” his daughter whines. “Firebird? Do you like it? Can I call you Firebird?”
A clang, deliberate and attention grabbing, and Nightwing comes out of the dark-gloom of Gotham’s shadows, perched on the railing. “What about Flamebird?” he suggests with a charming smile.
There’s a moment of surprised silence then she squeals, hands clapping together. “Nightwing is the perfect warrior name .” His fond smile falters into confusion for half a second before recognition dawns and it ramps back up into fondness when Hood laughs out loud – not those quiet huffing laughs he’s been doing, as if he’d been trying to hide it, but a loud genuine laugh. “How’d I never see it before? Oh my gosh.” She huffs and crosses her arms, though, as serious as she can be. “Flamebird is good. But Firebird is better ,” she says with the kind of adorable arrogance only a kid can manage. “Can I call you Firebird? Pleasepleaseplease – pleeeasseeee ?”
Nightwing poorly hides his laughter behind a hand. Hood looks a little gob smacked.
“Uh, sure. If you like it so much.”
“I love it!”
Hood hugs her gently with a soft smile. “I like it, too,” he admits, if only to not lose that delighted and pleased smile on her face. “Thank you.” He stands carefully and sways when he straightens. Nightwing hops off the railing to brace him, arm wrapped around his waist and pulling Hood’s arm over his shoulders. “Thanks for lettin’ me perch on your fire escape….and for the soup.”
“Any time,” he says firmly. “Seriously.” His daughter tucks herself against his leg, clutching the blanket he’d brought out to her chest. “Take care of yourself, Firebird .”
Nightwing grins, gives a little salute, and holds Hood close as he grapples them both down to the street. Faintly he hears:
“I can’t believe she went with Firebird.”
“She just has better taste than you.”
—
knock-knock .
A woman with a kid on her hip and another clinging to her pant leg opens the door, hair in disarray and exhausted shadows under her eyes. When she spots who’s on the other side of the door, she lights up. Red Hood smiles back, groceries tucked in his arms. Another kid stumbles out of the apartment and throws himself at Hood’s legs, hugging him tightly.
“Special delivery for one Miss. Karanda,” he announces like he doesn’t have one of her hooligans tangling himself between his ankles. “Set them on the table?”
“Please,” she says, heavy with relief. “Thank you so much.”
He shrugs. “Was in the area,” he comments casually.
She doesn’t believe it for a second. Being in the area? Yes. The casualness? No. But she doesn’t care, she’s just thankful for whatever circumstances lead to fresh groceries on her table and the local vigilante picking up her son, who laughs and smacks Hood’s mask with both hands. Hood bounces the kid once, twice, before swinging him up over his shoulder in a monkey cling.
“I’ve got some time,” Hood tells her. “Need anything else?”
“I…” Should she really ask? Surely he has other things to do. Crime to stop. Cases to solve. The bat on his chest is practically screaming at her, telling her that he for sure has better things to do. But she also – “Our old mattress. I can’t get it downstairs.”
“Say no more.”
—
Dick waffles on the sidewalk, checking his phone yet again. Jason’s message ( running late ) stares back like it’s been doing for the last ten minutes. Finally, it dings! with Jason’s drink order and an apology. Dick lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and texts back an acknowledgement. Okay. Good. Just normal lateness.
The café he’s at has no decals on the windows so he doesn’t know what it’s called – Jason’s directions were literally “ two doors down from Sal’s Bakery. It has windows .” Which you’d think would be a weird way to describe something, but no, actually, it very much does have windows. Huge, pristine windows that anywhere else would’ve been smashed by now, but the sealing on the edges isn’t fresh. There’s counter-tables up against them and barstools occupied by patrons reading or on computers.
When he opens the door a bell rings merrily. He glances at it – a purely automatic response – and grins. There’s a little red bat on it. He snaps a quick picture of it and sends it to Cassandra. Immediately he gets a string of emojis ranging from exclamation points to hearts to smiley faces. Cute! she says as a final send off before her icon goes idle.
The place itself is sparse, like the owners still aren’t sure what theme to go with. A smattering of mismatched tables and chairs. Different genres of posters here. A handful of paintings there. They all have little plaques with the title and the artists and a price – low, compared to some of the shinier galleries in the richer part of Gotham, but still pricey considering the location of this place. Dick inspects a long horizontal one and decides it should probably be priced higher.
It’s a beautiful panoramic of Gotham’s skyline at various parts of the day. Deep night on one end and then all the way through to late evening on the other. Each section has a different version of the batsignal shining in the sky, from Batman’s in the deep night to Signal’s in the high noon day, and then Red Hood’s at the end, the rest of them making up the other points.
Dick kinda wants to buy it. He takes the offered card next to the plaque and pockets it for later before he turns back to the rest of the café. A bookcase sits against the far wall, stuffed full of books with several titles across a wide range of genres. It barely hides a boarded-up window. A lazy fan circulating. Potted plants on various surfaces.
And then the main attraction:
A fancy espresso machine. A plethora of syrup choices. A bake case with seemingly homemade goods. A couple sodas on display. A special menu written by hand; the main menu printed. A card swipe attached to a tablet.
All in all, this place is cozy. He can see why Jason likes it besides it being a block from his apartment.
“Oh! Hi! Sorry, I was all the way in the back, I didn’t hear the bell.” The barista smiles sunnily at him – her name tag says Nila ( she/her ) with a rainbow flower sticker and yet another red bat. “Which, yanno, defeats the purpose of the bell, I guess. Oh well. What can I getcha?”
He has Jason’s order, but Dick has no idea what to get. He scans the menu as he idly comments, “Unusual place to set up shop.” This part of the city rarely gets shiny new cafes or boutiques or chain and corporations. Here is for generational stores and small mom-n-pops that are just enough to keep the lights on.
Nila shrugs. “Someone always needs a comfortable place to hang out for a bit. We’ve got free Wi-Fi and water. And a pay-it-forward.” She gestures to a container with strips of paper – Dick squints and swears he sees a smudged scratchy version of Jason’s name and then another that just says RH. “And, plus, this is literally one of the safest areas in East End right now. It’s, like, the perfect spot.”
Really ? Dick doesn’t say out loud. He knows the statistics of East End have improved drastically since Jason came home, add in the efforts of Spoiler and Signal, and you have an entire trio of vigilantes who’ve made it their sworn duty to protect their home come hell or high water. But the safest area ?
“Yeaahhh, weird, right? But this whole area is patrolled by the Red Hood. He’s regularly spotted on this street alone. Well, not the street cos, yanno, he’s actually on the roofs. But you know what I mean.” She laughs. “It’s the only reason we opened here in the first place. Besides the low rent.” She ducks down under the counter for a second and comes out with a shoe box. “He’s a regular too.”
Dick snorts when he gets a look inside the shoe box. Hundreds of strips of paper for the pay-it-forward. Jason must’ve just thrown a wad of cash at them and said, “have at it.” There’s a couple of those prepaid generic gift cards at the bottom too.
“The gift cards are from a different regular.” The bell rings again and Nila smiles over Dick’s shoulder, brighter and more enthusiastic than the one she greeted Dick with but no less sincere. “In fact, here he is now. Jason! I didn’t think you were stopping by today.”
It’d started drizzling outside without Dick noticing. Jason shakes out his jacket over the rug, grimacing, before he just strips it off altogether and hangs it on the coat rack near the door. The bruise from patrol last night is a gruesome watercolor of black and blue. He still has a scab on his bottom lip, swollen and red. But he brightens when he sees Nila, the split preventing him from smiling wide enough, but it’s all in the eyes.
“Yo, dickhead,” Jason shoots him, all crooked smiles and glittering eyes and Dick can’t help but smile back, feeling warm. Even though it’s been a couple of years, it still amazes him that Jason is here, alive, talking to him, reaching out to him.
Nila makes a noise of recognition. “Oohhhh.”
Suddenly, Dick doesn’t feel as warm anymore. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Really?”
“He talks about you a lot!” Nila says cheerily. “All of you. It’s actually really cute.”
Dick cuts a sly smile towards his blushing brother. “Does he now?”
“You, shut up,” Jason snaps, shoving a finger against Dick’s forehead. Dick rocks back on his heels at the pressure, grinning unrepentant. “And you – .” He steps closer, lowering his voice to murmur something to her. Dick cocks his head. They’re not speaking English and her voice is just as low when she responds, so he deliberately turns his attention away from the conversation back to the menu. He probably knows whatever language they’re speaking, but obviously it’s private and Dick isn’t going to take away the security this place gives Jason by being a snoop.
Now that he’s actually reading the menu, he can see the handwritten side of specials has Jason’s exact order at the bottom.
He snaps another picture. Smiling softly. The order’s signed off by a little red bat.
—
“Hey.”
He ducks down, chin tucked into the collar of his sweatshirt as Red Hood climbs up the fire escape. “How did you find me?” he mumbles.
Hood settles next to him. A rustle of plastic. The radiating warmth of food. He risks a peek to see two Styrofoam containers stacked on each other in a plastic bag. His stomach growls, reminding him it’s been a full day since he last ate. Hood stays silent as he digs out the containers, passing one over with a pair of chopsticks, and then popping open his own to eat a mouthful of stir-fry.
He realizes Hood isn’t going to answer until he eats something. So he does, eyebrow raised pointedly. Hood snorts, rolling his eyes – and….he’s not wearing his mask. His eyes are blue, and he has freckles and a faint scar that hooks from the corner of his mouth that goes up to his hair line, wide and raised over his cheek bone where his domino normally covers; and he can’t help but stare until Hood grins toothily, fangs and all, and he flushes, averting his gaze back down to his food, shoving enough into his mouth he almost chokes.
“Your dad’s worried about you,” Hood says quietly. He glances over, but Hood’s not looking at him, focused on his food. “Tracked me down and asked me to look for you.”
That makes his stomach squirm, a heavy weight of guilt and regret rolling around. “It’s better this way,” he reasons.
Hood huffs. “It’s not,” he says. “Your dad loves you very much. One mistake isn’t going to change that.”
He hunches over his food, slowly nibbling on a piece of chicken. “How do you know?” he asks miserably.
“Well, first off. From experience.” His head jerks and he stares wide-eyed at Hood. “Second, your dad was crying and tried to pay me to find you.” His jaw drops. Hood grins. “Yeah. It’s pretty obvious he was desperate.”
His eyes burn and he lowers the container of food, his nose already running even though he’s not crying yet. An arm wraps around him, holding him tight against Hood’s side, and he sniffles, rubs his nose on his sleeve.
“I thought it would be better,” he whispers. His dad wouldn’t have to deal with his slipping grades and his night terrors, and the straw the broke the camel’s back: a suspension for fighting.
Hood hums. “We always think that. Sometimes it’s nice to be proven wrong though, right?” He lets go to nudge the hand holding chopsticks towards his food. “Finish that then let’s get you home, okay?”
He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He hesitates – then, “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid.”
—
They’re both stuck in this tiny, awful, dark room together. Something’s leaking in the corner –a dripdrip drip that got tuned out a long time ago.
Red Hood sits against a wall, legs sprawled out in front of him, chin tilted up as shallow breaths wheeze out of him. He’s shivering – and occasionally those shivers are interrupted by involuntary spasms of pain as residual shocks spark his nerves – and soaked to the bone from both water and blood. There’s a hole in his shoulder and his thigh and the only reason he hasn’t bled out is because he’s lucky and Olive was wearing a t-shirt under their sweatshirt. Amateur bandages are the best they can do at the moment, but at least it’s something.
Olive leans against his not-as-injured arm, breaths soft and teary, hands shaking. They always wanted to meet the Red Hood but not like this. Not while kidnapped. Not while being the reason Hood has those injuries.
“I’m sorry,” they whisper not for the first time.
Hood huffs – and it shatters into a cough that turns into these terrible hacking things that sound painful . Olive holds onto his arm tightly as if it can hold him together, waiting for it to end. When it does, Hood slumps back against the wall, breaths wheezing and sucking. They’ve seen enough movies and read enough books to figure out what happens every time they drag Hood out of this room. They’re twelve, not stupid. The Falcones are a Family. A Family like that means torture . Olive’s eyes burn and they sniffle.
Slowly, carefully, like they’re a cat trying to ease into an owner’s lap without them noticing, they creep under Red Hood’s arm until they’re tucked against his side, heartbeat faint through the thick pieces of his suit their captors let him keep, but it’s still strong under their ear. They think, for a moment, as the silence stretches on, that Hood passed out, or maybe doesn’t want them so close but doesn’t know how to stay it, but then his arm wraps around their shoulders and cuddles them closer.
“Not your fault,” Hood rasps out also not for the first time. His words are slurring.
And it’s – that’s not true . Because the men who did this to him wanted to do it to Olive . Something’s gone off the rails outside this room. Or maybe they were mad that Red Hood showed up – or maybe they go hand-in-hand – and even though he got shot twice doesn’t mean there isn’t another Bird close behind.
They wanted to hurt Olive. Hurt the kid to show they mean business or because they’re bored or for something .
But Hood wouldn’t let them touch a hair on their head. Of course .
It’s horrible every time. The men barely bother threatening Olive anymore.
Olive sniffles again. They’ve heard stories about Red Hood. Saw the little bats that started popping up a few years ago. And they always dreamed about meeting him, like all kids dream about meeting a hero. They’d taken the rare field trip to the Superman museum in Metropolis and they’ve seen Spoiler up close before. But Red Hood is a completely different story. Mom says that if it weren’t for Red Hood, then she wouldn’t still be here, healthy and whole with pink cheeks and shiny hair and bright, bright eyes.
This can’t go on anymore. They can’t stand it. They can’t have it happen again. Hood dragged out, too quiet, too docile, no energy, no fight left in him because it’s been hours and they’ve taken him so many times . Hood thrown back in, hitting the floor with a broken grunt, unable to move for a really long time, re-soaked to the bone, teeth chattering, a scary, painful moment spent wondering if he’s going to wake up again.
Red Hood saved their mom. Red Hood is saving them every time he takes a hit for them.
Olive takes a deep breath. They have to stop it. Somehow.
Hood tilts over for a second, cheek pressing to the top of their head, his breaths hitching, but then there’s footsteps sounding outside in the hallway – the precursor to the very thing Olive is trying to prevent – and he sits up, arm loosening from around them. He pats their back, silently urging Olive to go to the designated hiding spot that’s not much of a hiding spot. It’s just the shadows behind where the door opens, angled in darkness that they’re not immediately noticeable.
It’s a joke, because these men have to know Olive is there, but they never look at them.
Olive moves, because Red Hood asks them to. Because Red Hood begged originally, when they tried to protest, and how could they say no to that?
They tuck behind the door, heart hammering in their chest, their nerves wavering between tempered steel and these gooey weak things that make them feel sick. Hood's breaths, weak and – dare they say – getting weaker, are the only other noise above the roaring in their ears.
They can do this.
The footsteps pause. Tension rackets up to unbearable levels. Shadows pass through the thin line of light. Metal against metal. A soft series of clicks. They fist their jeans in a death grip before forcing themselves to let go. The lock thunks out of place. The knob turns. Olive holds their breath. The hinges creak. They shift up, getting ready.
A shadow walks in, slow and quiet as a cat. Different than the other men who have been coming in, loud boots and louder laughs and even louder jeers. Olive shoves down the anxiety this sudden change causes. Not the time . Focus .
They get the brief impression of a head and shoulders and a bulky outfit shadowed by the light in the doorway. The light switch clicks but nothing happens. Olive crouches low, waiting.
A whisper of fabric. The sight of boots and knees .
Got you! Olive tackles his legs with a bloodcurdling war cry, bowling the man over as all one-hundred-and-two pounds of them crashes into him. He yelps as he goes down. Something flutters over their head. Olive doesn't give them the chance to recover, flinging a fist towards his face.
"Hey!"
They don't register the sound, the surprise, the non-threat. Their wrist is caught gently but firmly, and Olive just slams their free hand against his chest over and over again, nails scrabbling over his…his suit. They freeze. Staring at the illuminated red and black and gold under them.
"It's okay. I'm a friend. You're safe now."
They sob and shake their head, trembling as everything crashes down around them. They try to yank their fist back – he doesn't let go for half a second and the panic surges . Their wrist is released, and they fall back, scrambling away.
" Olive ," Hood rasps out, there's the sounds of him trying to get up and failing, thumping back to the ground with a whimper. Olive echoes him. "Olive. It's okay. You're okay. Please."
They crawl over to Hood, making a wide berth around Red Robin – who's sitting up now and looks way less intimidating than he did as a shadow. The bulk they saw before ends up being his cape and they feel so stupid .
Hood catches them, pulling them into a tight hug that's uncomfortable for both of them, but neither of them care. They tuck their face against his shoulder and shakes.
"Thank you," he murmurs against their hair. So stupid . "That was so brave of you. Thank you. But never, ever do that again." They let out a sob in agreement. That had been terrifying.
All three of them sit there for who knows how long waiting for them to calm down. They pull back reluctantly from Hood, face tear swollen and eyelids drooping from exhaustion. And if they're exhausted then they can't imagine how Hood feels.
"You guys ready to blow this joint?" Red Robin asks lightly. They can't see his eyes beyond the mask, but there's a delicate balance of nonchalant and concern in the curl of his mouth.
Hood lets out a rattling laugh – and chokes back the resulting coughing fit to say, "I can't believe you – got taken out by a – twelve-year-old." Olive giggles, half embarrassed and half delighted and half satisfied. "I'm so telling everyone ."
"Not if I get to the cowl footage first," Red Robin says with a snooty air.
A beat and suddenly his expression is comically horrified, hand going to his ear. " Oracle ," he hisses frantically. "Don't! "
Jason cackles breathlessly even as he slumps over, holding his stomach. "Nice job," he tells them sincerely, his smile beaming . "My new favorite – person."
Olive beams back and decides that everything's going to be okay now, if Red Hood can smile like that towards them.
—
A nice, hearty granola bar. Right at waist-level. Right near the door. Just out of sight of the cashier behind the counter. Just begging to be taken. And her stomach – growling, begging her to take it. She bites her lip, thinks about the next time she’s going to get paid, and slips two into her bag.
And walks right out the door.
Or….tries to.
“You little rat!”
She tries to hurry, but something yanks on her hoodie, and she goes careening back, arms pinwheeling to keep herself upright. Her bag slips and crashes to the ground. The granola bars and her personal belongings clattering out.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry !” she shrieks, already feeling tears prick her eyes. Pathetic rings her in her and then But I’m so hungry .
The door suddenly slams open. There’s a rush of air and then “Knock it off!” – the grip on her hoodie disappears. She collapses to the ground, sobbing hysterically, hands covering her face. A scuffle sounds behind her, angry shouting from the cashier and an even angrier growl back, low and dangerous.
“Hey, hey. You’re okay.” The second voice says, still low but now soothing. She peeks between her fingers and watches with blurry vision as this guy starts shoving her stuff back in her bag, including the two granola bars. “Did he hurt you? You good?” She nods silently, breaths still hitching. He sighs. “That’s good.”
He tucks her bag between their knees within easy reach, his hands on his thighs in perfect view. She looks at it then at his face, sliding her hands down a little. He has pretty blue eyes and freckles and the biggest scar she’s ever seen on his face. His eyebrow is notched, not for looks but because of another scar. He smiles and something…clicks in her head, but she shoves it away for now to pick up her bag.
“T-Thanks,” she murmurs, cheeks burning.
“Bars are paid for,” he tells her softly. She rummages around just to…just to make sure everything’s there and finds a… Is that a fifty-dollar bill? Her head jerks up, jaw dropping, her throat tightening. No . “There’s a card in there,” he says. Doesn’t say too or also , just completely bypasses the money . “Places to grab food when funds are low. There’s a great place two streets down for free Wi-Fi if you need a place to study. Run by a nice woman named Nila.”
“I c-can’t,” she says, hands shaking.
His smile is soft and understanding. “That’s fine. They’re there when you’re ready.”
And then he’s helping her up and guiding her out the convenience store, throwing a glare towards the cashier on their way out. His touch is light and unobtrusive, and he steps back as soon as they’re on the sidewalk. She shifts – finds her bag heavier than it was when she’d restrung it on her shoulder.
Inside is an entire box of the other flavor of granola and two large water bottles. She glances up at him through her eyelashes and he winks, grinning cheekily.
“I can’t say for sure if those were paid for or not.” He puts a finger to his lips in a little shushing motion then shoves his hands in his pockets and just…
Walks away.
She immediately shoves a granola bar in her mouth – decides it’s the best tasting granola bar she’s ever had.
—
Cassandra leaps ahead of him with a taunting back flip that has entirely too much flourish to be practical. Damian responds with an elaborate routine not meant for something as crowded and uneven as a rooftop, but that just means he has to incorporate a HVAC unit into it – and it works perfectly . He grins, making note to download Batgirl’s cowl footage to show Richard and Father later. It was quite impressive. Cassandra claps for him before she takes off again, her wheezing laugh drifting behind her, egging him on.
They race each other, free running across East End. They don’t normally patrol together, but it’s not practical to partner with the same person every night (he had explained patiently to an amused Bruce Wayne like the man didn’t already know). It’s a joy each time he gets the opportunity to patrol with someone as skilled as Cassandra. She’s just as acrobatic as Richard, but there is enough of a difference to be meaningful.
And then – well, this is less of a patrol and more of a…fun time out with his sister. Patrol can be fun. But this is just pure fun. Gotham is quiet. All the Bats are in the city for once, scattering around and covering more area than normal. All is calm and – Damian finds he likes it. A lot.
His smile blooms and he lunges for his sister, trying to tag her. She dances away. Literally. Spinning with a elegant curve to her leg.
They play for a while, but at one point Damian backtracks to inspect an enclosed cat patio someone built in a roof alcove. He glances up to call Cassandra over to show her, only to find her leaning over a waist-height roof edge one building over, illuminated by cold moonlight from above and warm orange lantern light from below. She watches whatever is going on, bouncing on her toes in the way she does when she’s happy or interested in what she finds.
Now that his heart has calmed from their game, he can hear it – faint music and laughter drifting from below.
Damian abandons the empty cat patio to make his way over, hopping the alley to make it. He crouches low as he creeps over, and peeks over the roof edge, squinting through the orange glow.
It’s a party.
On a low-rise rooftop – only one floor lower than the one they’re on – a crowd of people laugh and dance and eat together. There’s two groaning tables piled high with food in Tupperware and glass containers. People are clustered around two smoking grills, trading stories, slapping backs, and clinking drinks. Paper lanterns are strung from pole to pole along with brighter lights.
A live band is set up on the far side of the roof. The music is lively and heavy with bright beats – drums and guitars and people singing along when a song starts up that earns cheers at the opening rift. The dancing is even livelier. Fast, with swirling skirts and quick feet.
Groups and couples. Children and adults. All dressed in colorful clothes. Multiple languages flying fast but most prominently Spanish.
Everyone looks so happy .
Without realizing it, he’s leaning up and over the roof’s edge, shoulders brushing Cassandra. She’s completely enthralled. He finds himself equally enthralled, eyes following one of the groups that have dissolved into a twirling line dance, head bobbing with the beat. It reminds him of the dances he learned when he was a kid. Arms looped together, following the lead placed by one. It makes him think of dabke and a wave of homesickness washes over him. Gotham is his home – and people keep assuring him he can have two homes – but it’s been…many years since he could spend more than a few days with his mom.
He misses her.
As if she can read his mind – and she practically can – Cassandra wraps an arm around his shoulders. He doesn’t jump, just leans into her and tries to shove those melancholy feelings away. It’s not hard to do so, when faced with all the happiness and excitement below. It’s infectious.
They watch in silence for a long while, swaying in time with the dancers without even realizing it. Cassandra’s feet shuffle as she mimics some of their footwork.
Then – she gasps and shakes Damian almost-frantic. His head flops back and forth before he gets her to stop. She points down, finger tracking someone specific, but it’s not until a loud, excited cheer goes up, that Damian registers that someone as Red Hood .
Not just Red Hood. No. Damian watches with wide eyes as Jason Tood, dressed in his suit with only a red domino instead of his half-mask or any of his helmets, throws his head back in a loud laugh, speaking rapidly with two people dressed in bright, eye-catching colors. The party has been deferring to the couple this whole time, which tells him this is a celebration of some sort. Jason leans in close, a mischievous smile on his face, looking the sort of happy Damian realizes he very rarely sees.
One half of the couple grabs Jason’s hands, tugging him towards the dance floor. He lets himself be pulled, leaning back for one last parting shot to the laughing second half, then he goes willingly, already twirling the woman with practiced ease. Cassandra and Damian watch, mesmerized, as the dancers clear a space on the floor, and the two step together in quick, muted movements – testing the waters – before the music kicks up faster, the beat bouncy, and then –
Jason and the woman burst into a flurry of beautiful, flowing steps, hips twisting, twirling and spinning, laughing joyfully. They get engulfed by the rest of the dancers as the rhythm takes over and everyone dances around and with each other. They sing along, off-key for some and on-key for others, and it merges into that collective voice that sounds nothing but beautiful.
He spins the woman under his arm, pulling her close, and when she spins back out, she passes to another partner. Jason hops from person to person. Some he dances with. Others he ducks to the sidelines and tucks close, speaking quietly (or as quiet as one can be with the music and laughter drowning it out) with a person here and there.
Jason looks at ease. Like he belongs down there. A stark difference to his appearances at galas. There, he’s casual and nonchalant and doesn’t look like he’s hating every moment. But he never looks like he’s having fun either.
He looks like he’s having fun down there.
When he’s on the sidelines, two children approach him with flying leaps. He catches them easily in either arm, hoisting them up like sacks of flower, and spins around until they’re squealing and laughing. Damian can’t help but smile. One of them shoves at him until Jason sets them down, crouching as he lets the other down as well. The boy – brother and sister, Damian guesses – whispers something in Jason’s ear and the Damian can’t see his expression, but he can see him nod then shoo them away. They slink into the crowd, holding hands.
“We could go down,” Cassandra says, quiet and soft and a little bit longingly. She knows ballet and a little bit of hip-hop and something waltz-adjacent for galas, but this is something completely different. Damian – hasn’t been able to dance like this since before Gotham, and that homesickness is almost enough to convince him to just jump down and join the festivities. But almost because –
Jason is. Jason is their brother. Their family. He has been for years now. And Red Hood has been a Bat for even longer. But this…this is different. Damian doesn’t know if they’d be welcomed in this aspect of Jason’s life.
(and the universe laughs and says oh you adorable thing)
The roof top access door slams open behind them. They whirl around as one, readying for an attack that never comes.
The two children from the party stand there with bright smiles and flushed faces and flyaway air. The girl bounces close, hair decorations clicking together.
“You’re Hood’s brother and sister!” she exclaims, not a question, but a known fact. She sounds a little distraught and Damian frowns – why ? But then it's made clear when she cries out, “What are you doing all the way up here? Come on .”
Damian is rooted in spot as the girl takes Cassandra’s hand and leads her to the roof access even though they should be perfectly aware of their capabilities of getting down by other means. The boy approaches him – he’s around seven or eight, but he’s puffing himself up to seem bigger and older – and he takes Damian’s hand hesitantly. Not because he’s afraid of Damian, but because he’s concerned Damian won’t appreciate the contact with a stranger.
But he doesn’t take his hand back or flinch or lash out, or anything the boy might gear. He’s too busy watching Cassandra follow the girl, the two of them already having a low conversation. Hood’s brother and sister is on repeat in his head. He hadn’t – He hadn’t realized the connection had been made.
Or, more likely, proclaimed .
He lets the boy lead him downstairs, excitement bubbling in his stomach. And a little bit of trepidation.
Does Jason know they’re being invited into his space?
Jason’s nowhere to be seen when they finally make it to the party, but that doesn’t seem to bother Cassandra as she just throws herself into the dancing crowd, picking up the moves as easy as breathing. Damian is a little more cautious, taking in the dancing up close for a few minutes before he braces the dance floor.
He doesn’t have to approach anyone because immediately someone steps up, taking his hands and spinning him. Damian comes face to face with Jason’s laughing expression. He tries to scowl, but Jason just dips him dramatically and the scowl is traded for a laugh that bubbles and bursts and doesn’t stop even when Jason pulls him back up and works through a dance with him, a lot of trading hands and shuffling steps and hips twisting. Cassandra butts in and takes Jason for herself, ruffling Damian’s hair on her way, and he doesn’t even mind, high on adrenaline and joy and –
Damian dances and laughs and the crowd ebbs and flows around him. He doesn’t know the names of any of the people he dances with – they don’t attempt conversation, but they trade smiles and laughs and stepped-on toes. And it it feels like a conversation.
During a break from one partner to another, his hand is taken by one half of the couple – the one that danced with Jason – and he sneaks a look at his brother. Jason doesn’t notice them.
For a moment he thinks they’re going to dance, but she leads him to the tables of food where her partner waits. He’s sweaty and breathing heavily. The other woman hands him a drink that he takes gratefully. His Robin suit is made for excessive physical exertion – but that doesn’t seem to mean anything in light of this.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Robin,” the dancer says, eyes flickering to the dance floor then back to him. She has an accent, soft and worn away by New Jersey. “He talks about you all, all the time, but we only get to meet Signal and Spoiler.”
Damian doesn’t know what to say to that. “He seems…familiar with you,” he says – then internally cringes. Obviously , if he talks about his family. The atmosphere is making him drop his guard, making him feel like he's dressed in those colorful colors instead of his Robin suit. Tongue loose and heart surging. It's a nice feeling, but makes for embarrassing words.
The partner giggles behind her hand – girlfriend? Fiancée? Wife? “He’s the reason I’m alive to be here today,” she says, kissing her partner’s cheek. It’s loud and gross and obnoxious, on purpose to the make the dancer giggle. “He’s a good guy. Inviting seemed like the least we could do.”
“You talkin’ bad about me?” Jason suddenly looms over Damian, Cassandra hanging off his shoulder with a mischievous smile. Damian glares at her for the lack of warning and she just sticks out her tongue. “We talked about this. You talk bad about me when I can hear it. How else can I make sure you get it right?”
“Oh shut up,” the dancer says, jabbing him in the shoulder. Jason winces and pouts as if it actually hurt, making her laugh again.
“Make me.”
Damian exchanges smiles with Cassandra and sips his drink, basking in the glow of contentment. The partner comes around to them, making entertaining commentary as the dancer and Jason snipe back and forth. Cassandra climbs down from their brother and uses Damian’s head as an armrest even though she’s not that much taller then him so it cannot be comfortable, but every time he tries to move away, she follows even though he scowls and tries to shove her off. She just smiles cheekily and drapes herself over him –
Leaving room for Jason to start using him as an armrest. Oh hell no.
—
She hears the squeak of boots on metal and sighs. She flicks her cigarette to the sidewalk, grinds it under her heel, and taps out another. Silently, she offers the carton behind and up. It’s taken and returned in a blink. When she offers the light, he doesn’t take that. She glances back to find Red Hood content with just fiddling with the cig instead of smoking it – which she’s perfectly fine with. His legs are threaded through the broken railing of the fire escape, feet kicking childishly.
“Where ya been?” she asks following a smoky exhale. From the corner of her eye, she sees him shrug. There’s a scabbed-over wound on his chin, like he took an uppercut from some studded gloves. She sucks her teeth, tsking.
“Out’n’about,” he mumbles. She twists around to face him better, eyebrow raised. Out’n’about , really underselling it. “ How ya been, Darlin’?” he asks.
Darlin’ mimics his shrug. “Good days ‘n bad days. No real complaints – Not anymore,” she adds pointedly Even in the dark she can see his cheeks pink. She doesn’t bother covering her smile. She glances down at the cigarette burning between her fingers and puts it out prematurely. The girls are laughing quietly, having some conversation about a new celebrity. “You ready to finish that discussion?” From months and months ago, she wonders if he even remembers it.
Red Hood hums, twisting the filter between his fingers. Normally she’d grimace at the waste of a good cigarette when they’re not so cheap anymore, but she knows he’s good for it.
“Nah. I think I figured it out.”
“Is that so?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Pretty sure.” They lapse into silence. Her cigarette burning down and his slowly being destroyed. “You guys need anything?”
Darlin’ pats his knee. “You’re a good kid.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Nah,” she says in the same drawling tone he'd said it in earlier. He laughs and it's a bright little thing. “I think I should. C’mon. Ruby wants to say hi after that stunt you pulled yesterday.”
He climbs to his feet and hops over the railing, landing as silent as a cat. “She okay?”
She shrugs. “A couple scrapes here and there, but she’ll heal. It woulda been a lot worse if you hadn’t shown up.”
“Just the right place, right time.”
“Uh-huh, sure. I hope you don’t expect me to actually believe that?” He laughs, shoving his hands in his pocket. More than enough money for the single cigarette is going to show up somewhere in the house without anyone noticing before he leaves, and one day she’s going to figure out how he does it. Slight of hand was never her forte. “Hood – Jason.” He stops at the threshold to the house, not turning around. She thinks back to their discussion, how he's figured it out, and asks, “You okay now?”
He turns to her, his smile so bright and true for a moment she sees a tiny ten-year-old in his place. All young and angry, kicked down by an unforgiving world, yet still tries his best to be kind.
“Took a while, but yeah. I think I finally am."
—
Bruce finds him exactly where he'd expected. He stands off to the side even though his chest aches and his feet itch to move in. Jason doesn't acknowledge him at all, just continues to gather the trinkets and crafts lovingly arranged under the wings of his favorite gargoyle. They go in a box with no lid, piled high enough bits and bobs spill out.
Jason sits with his back against the gargoyle, facing Bruce. He grins at him, crooked and real, just wide enough to show off his elongated canines. He's not wearing a domino tonight. He's not even dressed as the Red Hood. A paint splattered sweatshirt advertising a café Bruce knows he frequents, ripped jeans, biker boots. He looks like any other college kid with the freckles and the windswept curls.
"What’s that?" Bruce asks lightly.
Jason laughs. "Like you don't already know."
And he does – already know. But he likes the fondness in Jason's expression when he looks down at the box, how the roughness of the years fade away. Jason pulls out a little clay pot. Wobbly and lopsided, the glaze uneven and the red bat's wings are two different sizes. He holds it out and Bruce takes it as permission to finally move in, sitting on the rooftop and cradling the pot carefully.
There is a child's name carved into the bottom in that mix of lowercase and uppercase and completely unintelligible letters that's more endearing than anything else. Tyricia, age six.
Jason snorts as he pulls out two more pots. "The community center had an arts'n'crafts night," he explains as he lines them up. Bruce sets Tyricia's in the line next to an all red pot that's more a plate than anything else. "Seemed like good timin', apparently."
All in all there's six pots, four cards, a necklace made out of marker colored ziti and rigatoni, two bracelets – a friendship bracelet with colorful pony beads, letters that say RH and OV, and another that's a leather cuff with a bat (the actual animal) charm.
A build-your-own plush bear with a red shirt and a mini black motorcycle helmet that won't actually fit on its head. A dried and pressed dandelion. A lopsided crochet hat in an eye straining mix of neon pink and neon light blue. An embroidery hoop, two inches at most , with a single red bat in the middle.
A burned CD that Jason laughs fondly at and passes over for Bruce to read the playlist – a smattering of Kidz Bop and Disney
And then last but not least: a wooden carving of a panther mid yawn (or roar, Jason tucks it in his pocket too fast for Bruce to be sure).
"A good haul," Bruce says and he earns one of those shy smiles Jason sometimes gets when he's embarrassed or in a spotlight he's not prepared for.
"I was busy so it's been collectin'," he admits roughly, carefully packing everything back in the box. "I come up here every now and then and all this is just here . I don't know how they do it, but they do."
Bruce watches him carefully for a long moment. "People will do what they can for those they care about." Jason ducks his head, shadows hiding his expression, the tips of his ears red. "Happy birthday, Jaylad."
Jason smiles. "Yeah, happy birthday to me." And it's a very happy one indeed.