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Working for the G.C.P.D. meant encountering strange things.
Tom thought he had seen it all—Gotham is a cesspool of weird and her citizens know it—but nothing could have prepared him for this.
Seeing one of Batman's villains at a crime scene isn't surprising.
But this still burning building in Crime Alley has two. Together. With no Batman.
It's an unprecedented situation, and in no way a good sign.
Except the Red Hood and Harley Quinn were sitting on the curb, the former hunched inward as if in pain and the latter casually twirling a revolver between deft fingers.
Tom's brain, against his will, draws parallels to seeing misbehaving teenagers waiting to be picked up by parents or guardians. And Gotham's insanity must have really gotten into him, because Tom's only thought is:
But they haven't misbehaved.
In fact, the crime lord with a notable bias for firearms and the colour red had actually rescued at least one person from the fire. Tom had seen him stagger out of the building with a little girl held carefully in his arms; Red Hood had passed her to the startled paramedics without a word, his signature helmet cracked enough to expose dark hair matted with blood. He'd pet the child's sooty hair with a large gloved hand in gentle reassurance before Harley Quinn had nudged him away.
And even though the first responders have arrived, both seem perfectly content to stay seated.
On one hand, Tom is glad they aren't out for blood—his poor nerves are very much aware of the destruction they could individually cause—but on the other, Tom is worried about how nonchalant they are about remaining at the scene.
Is Batman losing his touch?
Or, Tom thinks with growing horror, is Batman not coming?
As if summoned, the familiar rumbling growl of an engine slices through the noisy night. Speak of the devil.
Red Hood slowly lifts his head, no doubt recognizing the menacing sound of Batman's signature hulking tank of a vehicle rapidly approaching.
But before it comes into sight, a figure drops from a nearby rooftop, tucking into a neat roll to disperse the impact of landing.
Four stories, Jesus—
The man straightens up to his full height, and Tom's heart skips a beat.
Oh, hell.
He's at once very glad for Batman's imminent arrival and very afraid for his life, because Tom remembers reading the warning file for Deathstroke the Terminator.
Black and orange armour gleaming in the flashing red-blue of police cruiser lights, Deathstroke—confirmed metahuman, ex-military, weapons master, DO NOT ENGAGE—strides closer and Tom palms his gun, heartbeat pounding in his ears. If he has to, he will do his best to stall.
The Batmobile screeches to a halt behind Deathstroke, Gotham's Dark Knight emerging with a dramatic swish of his cape. Batman doesn't seem the least bit surprised or concerned about Deathstroke's presence as he storms towards Red Hood.
Turning to Batman, Deathstroke casually sidesteps into his path.
Without missing a beat, Batman redirects, and Deathstroke moves to block him again.
Batman stops.
The resulting tension is stifling. Tom swallows nervously, hand still on his gun.
Gliding forward one menacing step, Batman speaks.
Tom's too far away and it's too loud with the bustle of people battling the fire and providing first aid, but he's confident Batman had told Deathstroke to move.
The answer must be negative, because Batman's fists clench and Deathstroke's shoulders go loose—
“Enough!” a mechanized voice yells, the word cut by bouts of fizzling static.
Red Hood is wavering on his feet, one arm curled around his ribs as his shoulders shudder with a cough. Both Batman and Deathstroke are instantly focused on him, their brief posturing forgotten—when Hood wobbles, Deathstroke is there, gently lowering him to the ground.
After a moment, Deathstroke moves toward the red helmet. Hood's hand rises, quick as a snake, to dig gloved fingers into his wrist.
Deathstroke goes still. He waits on his knees, endlessly patient, until Hood's grip goes slack and he tips his head forward in silent surrender.
The helmet is removed without further protest. Deathstroke sets it aside, curves his bulk over Hood and leans down to speak to him.
Presumably. Tom can't see anything beyond broad armoured shoulders, not that seeing Deathstroke's face would matter when he has a mask covering his entire head.
Deathstroke looks up—Batman crouches, holding a small but bright penlight.
Checking for concussion, Tom realizes as Hood flinches and tilts his whole body away from Batman.
Deathstroke bears the weight with easy acceptance, subtly shifting to better support Hood as he tracks Batman's reaction.
Draped in the shadows of his cape, Batman rises to his feet. He watches, motionless, as Deathstroke collects the cracked red helmet and then carefully gathers a limp Red Hood in his arms.
Something seems to wilt in Batman as Deathstroke heads for the Batmobile. The Dark Knight heaves a silent sigh and scans the area—he's apparently satisfied with how the crisis is being handled, because Batman turns on his heel and follows Deathstroke.
Tom blinks as the roar of Batman's car fades into the distance—where had Harley Quinn gone anyway, when did she sneak away?—and is startled by the sudden, aching urge to hug his son.
He resolves to do that more often.
( Later, Jason gasps awake in the Cave. His head hurts something fierce, his entire body aches, and there's ash and blood and terror on his tongue. Ugh, he hates fires. When Jason turns his head, vaguely disoriented by the oxygen mask over his face—right, smoke inhalation; add that to the sleep deprivation and concussion he definitely has—he sees Slade and Bruce on the training mats, beating the hell out of each other with their fists. Ok. Back to sleep it is. That's for later Jason to worry about. )