Work Text:
“You, uh, want fries with that?”
Tim nods, hesitantly, at the blood seeping through Red Hood’s fingers.
The vigilante looks confused for the barest moment, before he follows Tim’s gaze down, and seems to notice the wound for the first time. Like catching a bullet with your spleen is an afterthought. “Oh, that’s just a scratch. I’ll take a large fries though.”
Tim thinks, not for the first time since he started this trial he calls a part-time job, that he doesn’t get paid enough to deal with the nonsense Gotham drags through the automatic doors.
Red Hood’s chin is tipped up again, surveying the menu above Tim’s head. Truly indifferent to the pool beginning to drip to the tile. Tim thinks about what a pain the clean-up is going to be, and refocuses.
“Large fries,” he rattles off. Maybe if he plays along with this nightmare, he’ll wake up sooner. “Regular or loaded?”
“What comes on the loaded fries?”
Tim clicks into the enticing icon on his screen and lists, “Cheese, bacon and gravy, for an extra two-fifty.”
“Sure,” Hood replies without missing a beat. Tim wonders, absurdly, whether the vigilante lifestyle pays. “Load me up.”
Do they fund themselves? They don’t collect a wage, and Tim doubts the city is bankrolling their salary, with how incompetent they’re making the GCPD look of late. Do they have sponsors? Some investors?
However Red Hood is getting the dough for his uniform, and his toys, he’s got to be making a better living than Tim is putting up with a vigilante bleeding all over his freshly mopped tile.
“Can I ask you a question?” Tim asks, and Hood glances down from where he’s weighing up the benefits of a double or triple cheeseburger. Tim taps the triple into his system preemptively.
“Shoot,” Hood answers, “and throw a triple cheese in there. Extra bacon.”
Tim winces at his choice of phrase, but dutifully adds two rashers to his order. He wonders if vigilantes have to watch their diets, the same way professional athletes do. Do they hit the gym? Or does dangling crimelords off rooftops give them solid gains?
“Is this whole vigilante thing worth it?”
“Worth what?”
“I don’t know, the perks? What’s the going rate for a professional vigilante these days? Do they include dental?”
Red Hood snorts, and then winces, bowing around the hand pressed to his side. “Uh, no health benefits, unfortunately.”
Tim shrugs. “No worse than this job, then. Coke or sprite?”
“What?”
Tim gestures to the screen above his head. “Your combo meal comes with a drink. Do you want coke or sprite?”
“Do you guys serve fanta?”
“Yup, raspberry or orange?”
“Orange.”
“Done. So where do you guys get your suits from? Is there some sort of utility belt superstore? Do they offer discounts?”
Red Hood grins, crooked to match the bridge of his nose. He still looks unfairly handsome doing it. “Would you believe they’re home-made?” Tim arches a dubious brow, and Hood backtracks reluctantly. “Ok, there’s a bit of bankrolling involved. But most of it is homemade.”
Tim surveys him, from the white tips of his fringe to his steel-capped toes. He could believe the jacket is home-bought, and maybe the pants. The shirt looks armoured though, and Tim’s seen Batgirl take a magazine’s worth of bullets straight to the chestplate. There’s no way that thing isn’t some sort of reinforced, bulletproof weave. Tim’s seen Batman run at a tank before, so bulletproof may be an understatement.
He can see kneepads protruding through the loose trousers that tuck into Hood’s high top boots. And the helmet tucked under his arm is state of the art, from what Tim’s seen of it in action.
Hood notices his staring, and adds, “You just have to know A Guy.”
“A Guy,” Tim repeats, brows at his hairline, but nods nonetheless. “Sure.”
“Why all the questions? Is Batburger’s minimum wage not paying for your prom limo?”
Tim rolls his eyes at the jab to his height. He graduated a year ago, he just hasn’t settled on what he wants to study at college yet. “Ha, ha. It pays. I wouldn’t say it pays well. Especially not when I have to spend my shift scrubbing blood off the floor.”
Hood glances down again and winces. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that.”
Tim shrugs. “Keeps me looking busy for my manager.”
He nonetheless reaches over to tug a few paper thin napkins from the countertop dispensers, and press them almost sheepishly against his plate armour.
Tim eyes the wound and reaches for a large cup on muscle memory. “I’ll get you extra ice for that.”
“Thanks,” Hood mumbles, scrubbing at the rust-blood that’s dried to the kevlar. The thin serviette shreds beneath his efforts.
Tim sets the brimming cup of ice on the counter, watching on dubiously as Hood’s frustration rises.
“So, is Batman & Co hiring?”
Red Hood scoffs. “How should I know?”
“I thought you were affiliated?” Tim asks with a frown.
Red Hood splutters, and Tim can tell he’s hit a nerve. “ Affiliated? ” he repeats, indignant.
Tim shrugs, pointing at the bright red bat emblazoned across Hood’s chest. “You are wearing the Bat’s symbol.”
“It’s ironic, ” Hood bemoans. He looks a little despairing when Tim remains unmoved. “What, you think you could come up with a better costume design?”
Tim plucks at the eye-sore of a polo he’s wearing, name badge flashing under the fluorescents. “And give up these cool duds? Not a chance.”
Hood laughs, and threads his non-bloodstained hand back through his hair. “Okay, but if you were going to be a vigilante, what would you call yourself?”
“I don’t know,” Tim says, lips curling in a grin. “I could be Red Robin.”
“Yum,” Hood intones.
“Could be catchy,” Tim points out.
“Could be copyright infringement.”
“You’re right,” Tim scoffs, and fetches a napkin and straw to pass over the counter to Hood. “And Condiment King is so original.”
“Can’t argue with the guy’s style,” Hood rejoins, but he’s grinning. “Maybe he worked at Batburger before you.”
“A compelling origin story.”
Across the restaurant, the automatic doors chime and slide open to allow three boisterous thugs to shoulder through. Their faces are hidden with mismatched balaclavas, and they rush across the freshly polished tile, brandishing guns at the few diners still out past midnight.
With a sigh, and the long-suffering apathy of someone experiencing their third Gotham robbery this week, Tim reaches for the duress button beneath the counter.
Hood lifts a bloodstained hand to wave him off, his other reaching for a holster. “I got this. You focus on my order, and I’ll handle these three first-timers.”
Tim snorts when he cocks the weapon. “I’ll put it on your tab,” he offers, but he’s not sure Hood hears him over the shouts of surprise from the thugs when the vigilante launches into the fray.
Tim adds a complimentary apple pie for his trouble.
