Chapter Text
Dick is naked. He feels practically naked without his mask, and Vicki Vale is shoving her phone in his face, looking like Christmas has come early with a stocking full of Pulitzers.
“I am not Red Hood’s sidekick,” Dick tells her firmly.
Vicki’s eyebrows raise, her skepticism clear. “In that case, care to comment on the multiple witnesses that put you on the scene, Mr. Grayson?” She has the gall to pretend to glance down at her phone to quote, “‘kicking ass and taking names like some sort of ninja’?” Her voice rises to be heard over the noise of the crowd around them. She smirks back up at him.
Dick scowls. “They were obviously wrong.”
He hadn’t meant to kick ass and take names in Red Hood’s territory. In fact, Bruce had explicitly barred him from Gotham after another blow up fight between them last week that sent Timmy cowering behind the Batcomputer and Alfred reaching for his emergency tea service.
This was supposed to be a recon-only mission. No suit. In and out. No muss no fuss.
But when has that ever worked out for Dick?
Two minutes into intel-gathering at the border of the Bowery, he heard the screams, the gunshots, and the breaking glass.
And when the goons started firing, well, Dick wasn’t going to let civilians die because of a little spat with Bruce or because of a new crime boss making waves in Crime Alley.
And Dick was going to get away with it too until Red Hood showed up. For a split second, when the blank eyed stare of red helmet turned his way, Dick could’ve sworn Red Hood was going to shoot him too – like he shot at Batman and Robin the first time they ran into each other and every time after that – but Red Hood just flicked his raised arm to the side and clipped the henchman looking to literally stab Dick in the back.
As the fighting died down, Dick figured he’d lose himself in the crowd of police, EMTs, freed hostages, and rubberneckers.
But then he heard his name, and Vicki Vale popped out of nowhere, clearly looking to settle an old score with Bruce with a blatant gotcha journalism. Dick had no idea she knew where Crime Alley was. Vicki’s usual beat had a much higher tax bracket.
“Red Hood!” Vicki cries fearlessly, “Care to comment on your relationship with Dick Grayson?”
To Dick’s ultimate shock, Red Hood actually freezes as he passes them by. “What the fuck?”
As Vicki pounces on her new target, Dick tries to slip past her. Inhumanly quickly, she seizes his upper arm in a crushing grip.
He could dislocate her wrist to get away.
But he doesn’t. Because he is a good person.
“What do you say to the rumor that Dick Grayson is your new sidekick?” she asks, giving Dick a good shake for emphasis, like he’s a very tempting stuffed animal at a carnival prize booth.
Red Hood actually laughs. “Stick to the society pages, Vale.”
“So you don’t deny it,” Vicki says triumphantly.
“For the last time,” Dick says through gritted teeth, “I am not his sidekick.”
“And I’d let go of him if you don’t want Daddy Warbucks suing you for assault on his behalf,” Red Hood says casually, and there goes Dick’s hope that Red Hood had no idea who he is.
“Then what are you doing here, Mr. Grayson, if not playing vigilante, hm?” Vicki asks as she reluctantly lets go. “We’re very far from Bristol.”
“Not acting my sidekick, that’s for sure,” Red Hood says snidely.
Dick throws the helmet an incredulous look. Why the hell is Red Hood still talking to Vicki? He has never gotten any sort of press that didn’t include a crime scene description, and he has certainly never stuck around to give a quote.
“In fact, if anything,” Red Hood continues, “he was getting in my way, blundering about.”
“I was escorting the hostages out while dodging bullets,” Dick says, his tone curt.
“You were drawing unnecessary attention,” Red Hood cuts in, and Dick had no idea Red Hood could sound so like Bruce at his most irritable. It does not help Dick’s rising temper.
“Better me than them,” Dick retorts.
“Oh yeah, of course, better you than a bunch of Crime Alley Street rats –”
“There were children in danger!”
“This is Crime Alley,” Red Hood snaps, “children are always in –”
“You’re not his sidekick,” Vicki breathes, watching the two of them, “you’re his side piece.”
They both whip around to stare at her.
A funny hacking sound comes from the helmet, halfway between a laugh and a choke.
“That’s not – no, we – I am not –” Dick splutters, brain racing for a coherent, believable denial, and he should really be better than this. He has been scrutinized by the media and put in front of cameras since he was eight.
Vicki pockets her phone, her expression unbearably smug as both of them fumble for an alternate explanation. “Well, I have all I need. Have a nice night, boys.”
“Wait, Miss Vale!” Dick calls, but she has already disappeared into the crowd.
“Way to go, Dick ,” Red Hood says scornfully.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“See, it’s comments like that that got us in this situation,” Dick says sourly.
“What situation?” Red Hood asks as he takes a few steps back. “None of my guys care who I’m supposedly fucking. The Gotham blue bloods however…” he drifts off, and Dick can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Have fun fending off the sharks, Circus Boy.”
Silently, Dick despairs. Bruce is going to kill him, and Timmy is going to be so confused.
* * *
Wayne Heir Romances the Red Hood: Star-Crossed Romance of Bludhaven Officer and Gotham Crime Lord
Bruce pointedly shakes out the paper in front of his face as Dick sits down to breakfast. “I didn’t know you were staying over last night,” he says without looking up.
Dick scowls as he reaches for the eggs. Alfred must also disapprove of Dick’s recent life choices because Dick’s favorite cereal is missing from the breakfast spread. Instead, a large bowl of painfully un-frosted mini-wheats mocks him from the middle of the table. Dick ignores it on principle.
The last time this happened, Dick was twelve and had vaulted from the last remaining original chandelier, sending it crashing to the ground.
One slanderous headline versus a quarter of a million dollars in property damage? Bit harsh, if you ask him.
“What happened?” Tim asks.
Dick shrugs. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
“Crime Alley is an interesting detour from Bludhaven,” comes from behind the morning paper.
“I was following a lead,” Dick says coolly.
“I told you to stay out of Crime Alley.”
Dick has no response to that, so he just shovels more scrambled egg into his mouth.
Bruce folds the paper with a sigh. “Red Hood is dangerous and an unknown entity. Given his hostile reaction to us and his penchant for killing, we need more intel on his motivations and plans for Gotham.”
“What do you think I was doing last night?” Dick says, exasperated. “You’re just pissed off I didn’t do it your way.”
“My way doesn’t involve taking unnecessary risks.”
“I wasn’t planning on doing an actual patrol, but people were in danger, and you taught me to help whenever I can –”
“By calling backup when you need it, not –”
“You and Robin were all the way across town,” Dick retorts. “By the time you would have gotten there, it would have been all over and more than a few of Black Mask’s men would have been dead.”
“Red Hood could have seriously –”
“But he didn’t,” Tim interrupts to Dick’s surprise. “He actually let Vicki Vale make those insinuations, and he didn’t shoot at Dick like he did at us. Do you think he recognized you as Nightwing?”
Dick frowns. “We actually didn’t get very close during the fight. Unless he’s an expert in my fighting style, he wouldn’t make the connection.”
Tim hums thoughtfully. He reaches for the coffee pot only for Bruce to smoothly intercept him with the pitcher of orange juice instead. Grimacing, Tim continues, “If we want information, couldn’t we just ask Red Hood? He proved last night there’s one of us he won’t shoot on sight.”
Bruce stares at him as Dick’s mouth actually falls open.
“You know we’re not actually dating, right?”
“Duh,” Tim rolls his eyes, “but the first rule of a cordial relationship is a good first impression –”
Well, if that sentence doesn’t have Gotham’s High Society influence written all over it. Sometimes, when Tim’s at his most sleep-deprived, Dick forgets Tim grew up knowing what canapes are and how to tell a half-Windsor knot from a double-Windsor at fifty feet. “Timmy, what the hell about last night read as ‘good’ to you?”
Tim looks to Bruce, whose brows are furrowed more in bemusement than disapproval. With no help coming from that corner, Tim inhales a fortifying breath as he focuses back on Dick. “What I mean is, you have an opening move now. You have established a rapport that you can use.”
He has got to be kidding.
“A rapport,” Dick echoes flatly.
Tim nods eagerly. “Bruce and I can handle the detective work, and you can keep him distracted and work his human angle.”
Dick’s throat goes dry, and he deliberately does not look at Bruce. “I’m not comfortable running a honeypot, Tim.”
“What’s a honeypot?”
Dammit.
Dick turns to Bruce helplessly.
Taking pity on his eldest, Bruce reddens and clears his throat. “It’s a con that works by seducing the target.”
“What?” Tim yelps, his eyes going wide. Horrified, he shakes his head. “No, I meant you can be his friend!”
“He’s a murderer,” Bruce says.
“Murderers need friends too,” Tim counters. “Maybe they’d do less murdering if they had friends.”
Despite himself, Dick laughs.
Tim brightens as he turns to Dick. “So you’ll do it?”
Over the rim of his glass of orange juice, he points out, “It is a decent plan.”
Bruce’s jaw clenches. “You won’t stay out of it?”
“As long as Tim is in danger, no, that will not be happening,” Dick says smoothly as he picks up his fork. He shoots Tim a quick smile, who flushes a deep red.
Bruce sighs, glancing between his Robins. “Dick, I want you to have at least two panic buttons on you at all times, and one additional tracker on top of your phone and watch. A bullet-proof vest underneath your clothes too.”
Tim blinks. “Seriously? You’re actually… This is happening?”
“I will be watching.”
Dick snorts. “You’ll scare him off.”
“I will be watching from a distance.”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t get too close,” Tim promises Dick. “We’ll give you enough room to operate. Won’t we, Bruce?”
“Hn.”
* * *
Dick follows the gunshots, and, after two false starts – Crime Alley really isn’t kidding about the crime part – he finds his target.
He backs up quickly as Red Hood shoves a kid out of the mouth of an alley with one hand while the other pockets several baggies filled with white powder. “Don’t make me tell you again: stop dealing to minors, Billy.”
Billy scrambles to his feet and takes off down the street at a dead sprint.
“That’s strike two!” Red Hood calls to Billy’s retreating back.
Dick stares after Billy too. No bloody footprints. No limping. A normal, if awkward, running gait. He turns back to Red Hood. “You didn’t shoot him?”
Red Hood actually does a double take as he spots Dick. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Walking.”
Red Hood goes still, and Dick deliberately keeps his posture loose and untroubled as he gives Red Hood a careful once over. To his minor frustration, the helmet doesn’t really give Dick anything to work with. With Bruce and now Tim, he knows them so well out of the mask, having their face half covered doesn’t actually hide much. But Red Hood is a complete mystery.
“And the first thing you do is judge me?” is what comes out of Red Hood’s voice modulator to Dick’s confusion.
“I am a cop, you know,” Dick reminds him.
Red Hood snorts. “Yeah, no surprises there. Let me guess, Golden Boy made detective in record time?” he asks.
Dick blinks. The nickname is new. Nobody has called him “Golden Boy” in a long time. Not since – he coughs. “I’m just an officer.”
“Whatever, Pinkerton. Take your walk somewhere else, and stay out of my business.” Red Hood takes off down the street.
Dick follows. “Why didn’t you shoot him?”
Red Hood glances over his shoulder, his posture tensing as he clocks Dick trailing after him. “You’re outside your jurisdiction,” he says gruffly. “Go away.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Not Crime Alley,” Red Hood snarls. He stops, yanks his gun out of the holster on his thigh, and points it squarely at Dick’s forehead. “Do you know who owns these streets? Me. And you’re trespassing.”
“Nightwing –!”
Dick ignores Bruce’s squawking over the coms. He knows at least five ways to disarm Red Hood with his left hand. One glance down tells him the safety is still on, and Red Hood doesn’t have his finger on the trigger. “So you let the drug dealer go, but you hold up a man who’s just walking?” Dick asks, flashing a winning smile.
“Nobody in Crime Alley will cry over a dead cop,” Red Hood says, his voice deadly quiet.
“But Billy the Cokehead’s got plenty of friends?” Dick asks.
Red Hood deliberately flicks the safety off. “Billy’s a dealer. He doesn’t dip into his own supply. Do you know anything about the drug trade? I guess they’ll let anyone on the force, these days.”
Dick lets his gaze flick momentarily away from the gun to Red Hood’s blank helmet. “At least stay away from the face,” he says seriously. “It’s my best asset.”
The gun wavers a hair.
“Wait, Batman,” Robin cautions. “It looks like Nightwing has the situation handled.”
A beat.
Red Hood stashes his gun with a garbled grumble Dick can’t make out through the voice modulators in the helmet. “You’re the worst.”
Dick bounces on the balls of his feet. “All part of my charm.”
Red Hood whips his head up. “Are you hitting on me?” he demands, and for the very first time, he sounds spooked . “You’re not my type.”
Dick draws up short. He has been flirted with by everyone from aliens, to royalty, to alien royalty , so he doesn’t take offense at Red Hood’s reaction, but he does file it away later to investigate.
Because Dick is everyone’s type.
Kate once commented on how good his ass looked in the updated version of his Nightwing suit, and she’s a lesbian.
“I’m everyone’s type,” Dick argues out loud.
Red Hood’s hand twitches back to his gun, but he just turns on his heel and keeps walking. “Not mine,” he says over his shoulder.
Dick catches up easily.
Before Dick can get a word out, Red Hood says fiercely, “If the next words out of your mouth are ‘Why not?’ I’m gonna shoot you for real.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Dick protests.
“Weren’t you?” Batman asks, a little too seriously in Dick’s opinion.
“Uh huh,” Red Hood says, his modified voice dripping with skepticism. “Just know, for once, someone out there doesn’t think the sun shines outta your ass.”
Dick blinks. “I did know that?” he says, nonplussed. He’s not perfect, not by far. Kory’s off-planet practically because of him and the dumpster fire that is their relationship, and he and Bruce still fight more often than not, now out of Tim’s earshot. And the less said about Jason the better.
“Good,” Red Hood grunts. “Now, get outta my alley.” He turns a corner, marching towards a sleek, black motorcycle parked behind a dumpster, mostly hidden from view from the main street.
“Wait –”
“What now?” Red Hood barks.
“Why didn’t you shoot Billy Not-a-Cokehead?”
“You’re still on this?” Red Hood demands, more than a hint of exasperation bleeding into his voice.
Dick holds up his hands in a gesture of no-harm. “Answer me, and I’ll go.”
Red Hood sighs loudly. “Fine, Dickface. Enjoy this now because this isn’t happening again. I didn’t shoot Billy because he’s a small fish. I took out his supplier last week, and I was hoping he’d dump his excess product instead of selling it, but no dice. He’s just floundering to make ends meet, and he knows he’d better find an alternate revenue stream before he gets his third strike, or I will put a bullet in his skull. Happy?”
Dick can’t help his laugh. “Nice.”
Red Hood stares at him.
“Small fish? Floundering? Revenue stream?” Dick repeats, mildly distressed Red Hood didn’t make those aquatic puns on purpose.
“Really, Nightwing?” Robin mutters in Dick’s ear.
“Oh my god,” Red Hood groans as he swings a leg over his bike. “Good chat, Dickiebird. Let’s never do this again.”
* * *
“So he does have a method to his violence,” Bruce says as Red Hood’s little monologue replays over the Batcomputer speakers from Dick’s recording of their last conversation.
“Definitely seems like it,” Dick agrees as he spots Tim on the high bar. “At least, he doesn’t allow any drugs to kids, which I think is a pretty stellar rule.”
“I do agree, Master Richard,” Alfred chimes in as he restocks the medical supplies. “That is a rule we strive to keep in his household as well.”
Tim scowls as he soars through the air. “If that’s a dig at my caffeine intake…” he drifts off.
“It seems Master Bruce’s detective lessons are indeed paying off,” Alfred says serenely over Dick’s chuckles.
“I’ve only had two cups of coffee today!” Tim lands silently on the mat, but he doesn’t stick the landing, wobbling on his left leg.
“Two cups plus…” Alfred waits for Tim to fill in the blank.
“Four,” Tim mutters as he takes the spotter position, not that Dick really needs it, but he appreciates the gesture.
Dick keeps one ear on Tim and Alfred squabbling about caffeine and one ear on the recording, which Bruce is replaying for the fifth time that afternoon . “Haven’t you gotten that thing memorized by now?” he calls over to Bruce before jumping up to grab the bar.
Bruce leans back to study the screen in front of him. “The pieces aren’t fitting together.”
Dick swoops back down and uses his momentum to somersault twice above the bar before catching it. “People aren’t puzzles, Bruce. They’re people.”
Tim frowns up at him. “You’re not even winded,” he mutters, too low for Bruce to hear.
Dick grins down at him as he does another flip because he can.
“Three strikes rule is unusual,” Bruce says. “And the rule about children. His violent takeover of the drug trade in particular would usually indicate he doesn’t care who gets caught in the crossfire, but he clearly has exceptions.”
“We know he must’ve been planning that whole duffel bag of heads thing for a while,” Tim says as Dick hovers above the bar. “You don’t just find severed heads of the top mobster lieutenants laying around.”
“Based on the freezer burn,” Bruce says, “the oldest one was a week old. Which means at least three weeks of planning.”
“And nobody suspected a thing?” Dick asks.
Tim shakes his head. “Penguin blamed Two-Face. Two-Face blamed Black Mask. Black Mask… well, you get the picture. Meanwhile, Red Hood was behind all of it.”
Dick swings and swings, building momentum.
He has caught bits and pieces of Red Hood’s criminal history, but he really only started looking into him after Red Hood took his first shots at Batman and Robin two weeks ago.
From what Bruce and Tim have told him, Red Hood basically came out of nowhere. He wears the helmet constantly with the vocoder enabled, so they can’t run a voice match search. He’s careful not to leave any DNA, no hair, no skin cells, no blood, at any of the crime scenes Batman and Robin have investigated. Tim and Babs, when she’s had a spare hour or two from her work with the Birds, have been searching for his safehouses. No luck so far.
Red Hood has a Gotham accent, but that’s easily faked by anyone with an ounce of acting talent. And he does seem to have a flair for theatricality.
They don’t even know his age. Bruce thinks he could be anywhere from thirty to fifty. Tim favors mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Dick’s guess splits the difference – late twenties.
Dick neatly dismounts with a double pike. “Alright,” he says as he reaches over to ruffle Tim’s sweaty hair – gross, but big brothers have a duty to fulfill, “it seems like this whole Operation Friendship thing could work out. I’ll be back on Friday for another go.”
Bruce swivels around in his chair. “I think we learned quite enough the first time.”
“Proving it works,” Dick counters, “and we could learn more.”
Bruce’s frown deepens. “Each time you meet him, you’re putting your identity at risk.”
“How, B?” Dick scoffs. “It’s not like I’ll be doing a quadruple flip in front of him anytime soon.” Dick winks at Tim.
Tim rolls his eyes, but Dick doesn’t miss the small smile creeping up the corners of his mouth.
“See that you don’t,” Bruce says, his voice gruff. “But there are a million ways you could give away your identity. Your voice. Your mannerisms. Your speech patterns. Spending any additional time around him is dangerous.”
Dick pats Alfred on the back as he passes. “You might as well keep me from speaking to my coworkers or neighbors ever again.”
“Dick –”
“See you on Friday, Bruce,” Dick says as he takes the stairs up to the Manor at a jog.
* * *
“I don’t think he’s coming,” Dick says under his breath as he starts on his sixth circuit around Crime Alley. So far, he’s been mugged three times – joke’s on the would-be muggers since Dick left his wallet and phone with Robin – but Dick gave the emergency hundred he keeps in his sock to the last one, a homeless kid by the look of him. No older than twelve, the same age as Jason when Bruce took him in. Dick met Jason six weeks later, and he still carried gaunt cheeks where there should’ve been baby fat.
“Fifteen more minutes, please Nightwing?”
Dick sighs. “Fifteen minutes, then I’ll try again on Monday. How about that?”
“Sounds good,” Robin says. “I should have his patrol route fully mapped by then, and you can intercept him next time.”
“Robin,” Batman growls, “have you been tracking Red Hood?”
“On surveillance footage only!” Robin protests at once. “Ask Oracle. She’s been helping.”
Dick chuckles. “It’s not like Red Hood would spot him, if Robin wanted to tail him on foot, though.”
“Hn.”
“We never caught him, and you know we were the best in the business.”
Robin lets out a pleased hum that gets cut off way too soon. “Batman, did you hear that?”
“I did.”
“What?” Dick glances around, but, at street level, everything looks normal.
“Disturbance at Aparo Park,” Batman says. “Call it in, Nightwing.”
“Yeah, alright,” Dick says, as he pauses at the next street corner. “Heading back now.”
“Leaving so soon, Grayson?”
Dick does not jump. But his heart rate kicks into double-time as he turns to see Red Hood leaning against a lamppost in a faux-casual pose, arms crossed over his chest.
For someone so large to move so silently, without Dick clocking his presence, Red Hood must have actual training, which Dick finds very concerning. Most men Red Hood’s size don’t bother. If they did, Batman, Robin, and Nightwing would have a lot harder time taking out the average goon-for-hire.
With the brains to start a crime syndicate from scratch, a physical build that rivals Bruce’s, and assassin-level stealth…
Red Hood pushes off the lamppost. “What did I tell you about trespassing?”
Dick shrugs. “Felt like another walk.”
“Did you,” Red Hood says flatly.
Dick rolls back on his heels and gives himself a little shake to ward off the chill that’s not entirely weather-related. Something just feels off –
Red Hood shoots him.
“What the hell was that?” Dick yelps as he straightens up from his instinctual crouch at the sound of gunfire. His gaze darts up from the bullet lodged in the concrete between his feet to Red Hood.
“That was a second strike,” Red Hood says, his tone cold. “Third one’s going in your head if I see you around here again. Go back to Bludhaven. Go back to Bristol. I don’t care.”
“Hey,” Dick protests, “I thought we had something going!”
“I told you, you’re not my type, Dickface.” Red Hood stiffly raises his gun to Dick’s forehead. The safety is still off. His finger still rests on the trigger. “You don’t want to know what I do to guys who don’t know the meaning of ‘No’ around these parts.”
“Let me guess,” Dick says drolly, “you shoot them in the head.”
“So you’re not as dumb as you look.”
Dick pushes down his irritation. “For the last time, I’m not hitting on you.”
He prefers his paramores to be less murderous for one. Actually red headed, for another.
“Goody,” Red Hood deadpans. “Now get out.”
“Why?”
“One more question, one more strike,” Red Hood says menacingly, his gun as steady as ever. “You wanna risk it, Goldie?”
Dick frowns. “Those weren’t your terms before.”
“They changed, special for you,” Red Hood sneers.
Dick lets out a theatrical sigh as he takes an exaggerated step back. “Fine, I’m going. I’m going. Keep your helmet on.”
“If I ever see you –”
“It’ll be open crim-son on my head, I know,” Dick says solemnly.
Red Hood just stares.
Dick cracks a grin. “Get it?”
With a loud swear, Red Hood shoots, but Dick’s already gone.
* * *
“A minor setback,” he tells a dubious Tim and a scowling Bruce.
Nobody ever accused Dick of being a quitter, and he’s not going to start with Red Hood , who hasn’t even been in Gotham long enough to make the Rogue’s gallery.
Time to switch tactics. Nobody can resist Alfred’s bergamot and lemon shortbread cookies. Deceptively simple. Uniquely delicious.
Two weeks have passed since his last attempt at befriending Red Hood, hopefully enough time for the guy to cool his jets. And if Bruce happens to be in Bialya for a JL mission, he’s one less person to get in the way. Robin is more than enough backup, anyway.
“He should be at Hayes and Marigold any minute now,” Robin says from the rooftop above Dick. “He usually stops to talk to the owner of the food cart on the corner. O once caught him buying a chili dog.”
Dick scans the streets. “Do you see him?”
“No,” Robin says, sounding concerned. “Do you think he got held up?”
“Maybe.” Dick shoves his hands in his pockets and turns on his heel. “What’s the stop before this?”
“Bohnes Alley,” Robin reports. “It’s a popular spot for, uh,” he lowers his voice, and Dick can practically hear the blush heating Robin’s cheeks, “sex workers.”
Dick frowns. “He makes a stop there in the middle of patrol? Seriously?”
“We’ve only caught him talking to them,” Robin says, more business-like now. “Never leaving with anyone.”
“Huh,” Dick says as a car speeds through the next red light, horn blaring. “Maybe they’re just friends.”
At the mouth of Bohnes Alley, Dick pauses. A series of harsh whispers cut off as his shadow falls over a group of huddled women.
“Hi,” Dick says with a little wave.
One of the ladies looks up, her expression frazzled. “Hi, baby,” she says, eyeing Dick up and down. “Be with you in a second.”
“Fucking seriously?” comes from behind the gaggle of sex workers, the mechanized voice unmistakeable.
“You know him?” the woman asks as Red Hood growls, “I’ll kill him.”
“Is he dangerous?” another asks, her brown eyes going wide.
“Yes,” Red Hood says at the same time Dick says, “No.”
Red Hood pushes to the front, crowding the working girls behind him. He staggers, one hand pressed firmly to his flank, fresh blood dripping down his leather-clad fingers. A leggy brunette with a bright red headband supports his other side, her shrewd gaze not leaving Dick’s face.
“You’ve been shot,” Dick says blankly.
This – this could work in Dick’s favor. He doubts it’s the first time Red Hood has suffered a GSW, based on the way he takes pot shots at concerned citizens just out for walks. Red Hood must have some contingency plan to deal with this type of injury, but it doesn’t look like he’s had the chance to enact it yet.
“Nothing gets past you, Goldie,” Red Hood snarls. “Leave.”
Dick steps closer, eyes narrowing in on Red Hood’s injury. “I can help,” he says distractedly. “I’m EMT certified. No hospitals?”
“Red’s right. MENSA must be calling your number any day now,” the Headband snarks.
Dick throws her an annoyed look for wasting time. “No major organs hit?” he asks Red Hood.
Reluctantly, Red Hood admits, “No.”
Dick crouches a bit to get a better look. “Can I see it? Can you move your hand?”
“It’s what’s holding the blood in,” Red Hood grumbles, “so no.”
Dick sighs. “I don’t suppose you have a safehouse nearby?”
“Not one you’re gonna ever see in this life.”
“Right,” Dick takes a step back and turns to Headband, “get him to lie down. I’ll be right back.”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t you dare call –”
“No police, no hospitals, I swear,” Dick says, holding up his hands. “I just want to help.”
Nobody moves. Headband flicks her gaze up to Red Hood for confirmation.
Red Hood lets out an explosive sigh. “Yeah, he just wants to help. He’s super annoying like that.”
Dick nods once. “Get him on the ground. Let gravity do most of the work.” He doesn’t stick around to see if Red Hood listens. Instead, he leaves the way he came at a fast clip, reaching for the first fire escape he sees. Quick as a flash, he scales the building to see a very confused looking Robin peering down at him.
“What’s the plan?” Robin asks as Dick hoists himself up.
“Med kit,” Dick says, holding out his hand.
“You’re actually going to help him?” Robin asks even as he pulls out what Dick asked for.
Dick unzips his cookie bag. “Yes. It’s not fatal, but he could get an infection if it doesn’t get cleaned, and his recovery will be worse if we take longer.”
“But he’s a bad guy,” Robin says in an undertone. “You don’t have to help –”
Dick lays a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Wasn’t this your plan, Robin?”
“Yes, but,” he wrings his hands, “one less murderer on the streets is a good thing, right?”
“Crime has actually been down since Red Hood appeared,” Dick argues as he turns to go back to Red Hood.
It’s not exactly true, but they can hash out the details when a man isn’t bleeding out less than 50 feet away. Property crime has recently seen a sharp downturn at rates unseen in the past twenty years. Violent crime, unsurprisingly, has been on a slow rise.
Over the past two weeks, Dick dived deep into all things Crime Alley. Crime statistics, yes, but also demographics, education achievement levels, homeless rates, drug overdoses, and foreclosure numbers. The picture everything painted all squarely pointed at a neighborhood on the brink of collapse.
Every report he read made Dick chafe with guilt.
He’d been so busy wrestling Bludhaven under control, he didn’t notice his first little brother’s home was going to hell, screaming bloody murder the whole way down – not that anyone was listening.
The Bats stayed away from Crime Alley after Jason died. Bruce silently reorganized his patrol schedule to avoid the bad memories; not that he’d never admit his real intentions out loud to Dick, but Dick knows Bruce better than anyone, except Alfred. When Tim joined the ranks, he either didn’t feel confident enough to ask about re-adding his predecessor’s old neighborhood to the schedule or didn’t think to question it. Dick would bet on the former.
Between the lack of Bats and corruption of the GCPD, Crime Alley fell through the cracks.
Operation Friendship Helmet might’ve started with Tim, but Dick’s pulling rank.
“I don’t agree with his methods,” Dick tells Tim, “but there’s more to this than we’d thought.”
“Dick –”
He pauses one foot on the lip of the roof.
“Be careful,” Robin says eventually.
“Always,” Dick says with a smile as he leaps off the roof.
* * *
Red Hood makes a terrible patient, not that Dick expected any differently. Dick’s not used to patching someone up with a peanut gallery, but he can’t shoo the sex workers off their own turf. They watch, hawk-like, as he gets his supplies all lined up.
“Fuck,” Red Hood swears as Dick cleans the wound.
“I’ve barely gotten started,” Dick tuts as he shines his phone flashlight on the wound for a better look. “Some big bad rogue you are. Can’t even handle a little alcohol swabbing.”
“You need to work on your bedside manner,” Red Hood groans.
“I’ll put it on the to-do list,” Dick says distractedly as he hands his phone off to a lady wearing a fuzzy sweater with sunflowers on it. “Might be a while, though, since I’m not actually a doctor.”
“Good thing. Doctor Dick sounds like a bad porno.”
Headband’s nose crinkles with her suppressed laughter as Sunflower ducks her head, her shoulders shaking with silent giggles.
“Anything with my name in it sounds like a bad porno.” Dick sighs. “There isn’t a dick joke I haven’t heard, honestly.”
“Is your name really Dick?” Headband asks, cocking her head as he studies him.
“Yeah,” Dick picks up the tweezers. “English wasn’t my parents’ first language, and they picked it up from a bunch of sources, including a collection of Dick Tracy comics.”
Red Hood’s laugh ends with a pained wheeze.
“Stop moving,” Dick places a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him still, “unless you want me poking a hole in your kidney by accident.”
“But you just told me,” Red Hood forces out, “you’re named for a hardboiled noir detect – shit on a brick!”
“I told you to stop moving.” Dick worms the tweezers in deeper, pushing some of the ruined flesh out of the way with his other hand for a better view of the bloody glint of metal.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Brown Eyes mutters, looking green.
“C’mon, like this is the worst thing you’ve ever seen in our line of business,” Headband argues. “Anybody got something for her?”
Dutifully, Sunflower pulls a flask from her jeans pocket and hands it to Brown Eyes. “Have at it.”
“Almost over,” Dick mumbles as he squeezes tightly on the tweezers and yanks the bullet out.
“I’m going to need so many shots after this,” Red Hood groans enviously, his helmet twisting slightly as he follows the flask trading hands above his head.
“You want some, Dr. Dick?” Sunflower asks, a faint smile curling the corners of her mouth.
Dick lifts his head in surprise. “Uh, no thanks, but I appreciate the offer,” he says. He gently presses a gauze pad to the leaking hole in Red Hood’s side. He holds for two minutes as the ladies above them praise Red Hood for being so brave and stoic like he’s a neurotic weiner dog at the vet. Only Headband seems to be doing it ironically. It’s a little adorable.
Dick tapes a new gauze pad down, leaning back to eye his handiwork critically. “Alright, you’re officially not going to bleed out.”
“Thanks,” Red Hood says dryly.
Dick gives out the cookies to celebrate. “They were originally for Red Hood,” he says apologetically, “but, you know what they say, sharing is caring.”
“You brought me cookies?” Red Hood says incredulously as Headband takes hers. “You brought me something I can’t even eat,” he says, gesturing to his helmet. “What the hell were you thinking, Dickface?”
Headband slaps him on the shoulder. “Shut up. They’re surprisingly good.”
“Some gratitude,” Red Hood grumbles at her. “See if I ever save your ass again.”
“I could’ve taken him,” Headband protests, but her warm expression tells Dick he’s not getting the whole story.
“What happened?” Dick asks as he shoves the soiled gauze pads in a separate compartment of his bag to analyze later.
“Client thought he could stiff me on the bill,” Headband says, her voice flat. “I yelled at him, he hit me, and Hood shot his dick off.”
“Oh my god,” Robin murmurs over his com.
Dick gapes.
“It was more like one nut,” Red Hood says diplomatically.
Headband snorts an unattractive laugh. “It was Red’s luck that the other guy had a gun too.”
Dick glances around the rest of the ladies. “Does this sort of thing happen… often?”
“Only once before,” Brown Eyes says shiftily. “Maiming clients isn’t really good for business.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the kind of business you want,” Red Hood says, and from his tone of voice, this is an old argument they’ve had before.
“You know what that bastard did to Marisol,” Sunflower says.
Headband pokes Brown Eyes. “Exactly.”
Brown Eyes just shrugs.
“Come on,” Sunflower says as she nudges Brown Eyes with her elbow. “I think it’s time to get back to work. The boys have got this handled.” The other two go with them.
Dick pats Red Hood on the shoulder. “You good?”
“I’ve had worse,” Red Hood grunts as Headband helps him to his feet.
“I’ll walk you to your bike,” she says.
Dick holds out the half-full container of cookies to him. “Here.”
Red Hood pauses, his expression unfathomable beneath the helmet.
Dick falters. Maybe Red Hood doesn’t actually want them? He put up a fuss about not being able to eat them earlier, but he seems the type to make a big stink just because he can. Red Hood could be gluten intolerant or something. But as Dick moves to stow the container back in his bag, Red Hood snatches it out of his hands.
Almost too quiet to hear, Red Hood asks, “Lemon and bergamot?”
Dick pushes down his surprise. “Yeah, good nose.” The helmet filters must be even more sophisticated than he thought; the cookies aren’t particularly aromatic.
“Give me your purse,” Red Hood tells Headband.
“Huh?”
With a curious look, she slips the bag off her shoulder and hands it over. Silently, he plucks out a money clip and holds it out to Headband to take back. She stashes it in her bra. He fishes out a keyring next, which she slides on her left middle finger. Her phone gets tucked into the front waistband of her skirt.
Dick’s eyes widen as Hood pulls out a pistol, but Headband doesn’t look fazed as it disappears behind her back.
Hood dumps the rest of the cookies into her empty bag.
“Really?” she complains. “Red, I’ll never get the crumbs out.”
“Better than a tracker or a bug.”
“You’re so paranoid,” Headband mutters.
Red Hood laughs. Eventually, he says, “I learned from the best.”
Dick frowns as he takes the empty container back. “There aren’t any bugs or trackers.”
“Yeah, that you’d tell me about,” Red Hood scoffs.
“There aren’t any!”
“And I’m Batman.”
Dick rolls his eyes as Robin chuckles in his ear.
Red Hood nods at Headband, who takes the silent cue to start walking. To Dick’s utter shock, he leans over and claps Dick on the shoulder, squeezing exactly once. “Thanks for the patch job, Dickface.”
“You’re welcome.”
Red Hood steps back. “But you’re a dead man if I catch you –”
Dick grins. They’ve done this song and dance before. Maybe it’ll become an inside joke between them, if they actually become friends. “Come on, you’re such a broken –”
“ – or any other little birdies hanging around here again,” Red Hood finishes.
The joking smile falls off Dick’s face and shatters on the Crime Alley sidewalk.
“Stay out of my Alley. I mean it.” Red Hood throws up an ironic two-finger salute in Dick’s stunned face as he takes off after Headband.
It takes far too long for Dick to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. With Red Hood long out of earshot, he rasps, “Was he talking about you?”
“I think so,” Robin says grimly. “Batman’s not going to be pleased.”
Dread curls in the pit of Dick’s stomach, cold and bitter. “Dammit.”
* * *
When they get back to the Cave, Dick opens his bag to find Red Hood’s soiled gauze pads missing.
“He must’ve lifted them when he hugged you,” Tim says as he plops down in the chair in front of the dark Batcomputer. “He knew it’d be a distraction.”
Dick grimaces. “He didn’t hug me –”
“Yes, he did –”
“No, he didn’t –”
“Your standards for hugs are far too high,” Tim retorts, which are big words from a kid so touch deprived he once tried to ride out cuddle pollen solo because he thought Bruce wouldn’t help him out. “Either way, he pulled one over you.”
Dick sighs as he swabs the inside of his bag, a sad attempt to salvage any traces of Red Hood’s blood. “Yeah, he did,” he admits because he’s not too proud to admit he underestimated Red Hood when Bruce basically admitted the same until the duffle bag of heads incident.
“So the question is,” Tim muses, “does he know hugs are your real weakness?”
Dick almost drops the swab. “What the hell, Timmy?”
Tim spins around in the chair, the toes of his boots barely skimming the Cave floor.
“Hugs aren’t my weakness,” Dick splutters. “My weaknesses are normal things! Speeding bullets, sharp objects, I don’t know, redheads with strong leadership skills.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s hugs,” Tim says confidently. “You’re a sucker for a good hug. I’ve gotten so many things past you with a well-timed hug.”
“You’ve gotten –?” Dick sighs. “Fine. So what?”
“If Red Hood chose that tactic on purpose that means he knows you.”
“That’s a bit of a leap.” Dick slots the swab in the analyzer and taps in the specifics of this sample on the screen.
“It’s not,” Tim counters. “He clearly knows more about us than we thought, if he knew I was following you and kept his mouth shut for so long.” He swallows. “I’m pretty sure he set that first distraction at Aparo Park to draw us off your tail and get you alone.”
“Seriously?” Dick grimaces. Bruce could have said something before he left town.
“Yeah,” Tim says, his gaze falling to the Cave floor. “I’m not 100% sure, and I haven’t mentioned it to Bruce – I want hard proof first – but I think so.”
Dick runs a hand down his face, his stomach twisting. Too many things about Red Hood aren’t adding up. If Red Hood knows Dick Grayson works with vigilantes – Dick shudders at what else he might know about the relationship between the Waynes and the Bats.
And the hugs thing sounded ridiculous at first, but Red Hood’s words come back to him, back from their first conversation, “Have fun fending off the sharks.”
Nobody really knew how ruthless high society was, not unless they were right in the middle of it themselves or paid exceedingly close attention to the elites. Red Hood would have had to study Dick intently to know he struggled with dating scandals throughout his teens and his tendency towards physical affection.
Not to mention the fact that he recognized Dick at all . Dick’s formative years were spent under the public microscope, but nearly a decade has passed since then. It’s been at least five years – except for this recent Red Hood rumor, obviously – since Dick was a key feature story in the tabloids. But, in the moment, with Vicki shoving her phone in his bare face, barking insinuations and bad-faith questions, Dick had forgotten he lives a more or less a normal life now.
Why? Was it all a coincidence, Red Hood’s interest in Dick Grayson and the Bats?
Dick’s gut all but screams no.
As Bruce said all too often in training, there are no such things as coincidences.
What sparked Red Hood’s interest in Dick Grayson? He already made it more than clear he has no romantic intentions. Ransom doesn’t fit his MO. So what was the real reason a Crime Alley crime lord would look into Bruce Wayne’s grown-up ward?
“Great,” Dick groans.
Tim shakes his head. “It’s not all bad. If he knows you, it’s ’cause he’s been looking into you.” He taps the Batcomputer to wake it up. “He keeps threatening you every time, but I’m positive they’re empty threats. He seems like the kind of guy to actually kill people he wants dead.”
Dick lets out a single laugh. “Yeah, he gives me that impression too.” He walks up to the Batcomputer chair and leans over Tim’s shoulder to give him a one-armed hug over the backrest. “So, Operation Friendship Helmet is a go?”
Tim cranes his neck to stare at Dick. “Friendship Helmet?”
“Well, it’s not like he’ll wear a bracelet,” Dick says reasonably.
* * *
The hairs on the back of Nightwing’s neck rise at the nearly-silent thump of boots touching down behind him.
“Thought I made my stance on Bats in my territory more than clear,” the familiar mechanized voice says.
Nightwing doesn’t turn around. If Red Hood was going to take a shot at him, he would have done it already. Instead, he keeps his attention trained on the empty loading dock.
“I tracked these guys all the way from Bludhaven.”
Red Hood steps closer to stand side-by-side with Nightwing. “Are you seriously calling dibs? Are you twelve? ”
Nightwing chuckles. “Not dibs. An offer.”
“One I can’t refuse?” Red Hood asks skeptically.
“Uh, no.” Nightwing makes a face. “I’m a vigilante, not the mafia.” He glances up at Red Hood. “Just an offer to work together. You don’t shoot me. I don’t take you in for murder and whatever crimes newly minted Rogues get up to in their spare time.”
Red Hood crosses his arms over chest. “That’s not how Batman operates.”
“Good thing I’m not Batman, then,” Nightwing says cheerfully.
“Where’s the actual twelve-year-old birdie?” Red Hood asks, a strange hard edge to his voice. His helmet swivels around, like he’ll find Robin hanging under a random window eave.
Nightwing tenses; a van is pulling into the loading dock. He mentally notes down the license plate. Without looking at Red Hood, he answers, “He has a pre-calc final tomorrow. And don’t call him twelve to his face; he gets real touchy about that. He’s fourteen.”
Red Hood taps his fingers against the gun strapped to his thigh. “And Batman?”
“Otherwise occupied,” Nightwing says. Not that Bruce especially wanted to attend Wayne Foundation’s annual Underprivileged Youth Charity Dinner. “I have an emergency beacon that will bring him in, but that’s it.”
Red Hood stays silent. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Nightwing echoes, turning to stare.
“I won’t shoot you.”
“Thanks,” Nightwing says dryly. A beat. “Samesies.”
“What the hell? Who says that anymore? You’re so lame.” Red Hood turns back to survey the warehouse. “What’s the entry? Back way or skylight? Blow up the floor?”
“What’s wrong with – no we’re not blowing up the floor.” Nightwing shakes his head. “How would you even do that?”
“C4. Lots of it.”
“And you carry that on you?”
“Never go anywhere without it.” Red Hood nonsensically knocks a fist against his helmet. “So useful.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Nightwing says dubiously. “No unnecessary property damage. Skylight should be fine.”
“Killjoy,” Red Hood grumbles as he takes off, grapple whining with his considerable weight.
Nightwing backs up and takes a running start for the roof. True to his promise to Timmy, he lands with only a triple somersault on the roof.
“Showoff,” Red Hood mutters as he crouches by the nearest skylight.
“Jealous?”
Red Hood stiffens. “That I can clear the kiddie rides at the amusement park? Not really.”
Nightwing’s mouth falls open. “Was that a dig at my height?” As Red Hood just stands there, unrepentant, Nightwing says mulishly, “I’m a gymnast, dumbass. We’re supposed to be lithe!”
Red Hood coughs into his fist, which is stupid because the guy is wearing a full face helmet. It sounds suspiciously like the word “puny”.
Nightwing opens his mouth to retort. He closes it with a snap, horrorifies. He told Red Hood his first profession.
Dammit.
What a fucking rookie mistake, letting the (fr-)enemy goad him. For god’s sake, that used to be his go-to move, back when he was wearing the leotard and pixie boots.
Nightwing turns away from Red Hood to face the skylight. At least he didn’t do the quadruple in front of Red Hood. Robin would laugh him out of the Batcave, and Batman would ban him from all vigilante activities until Nightwing was twice as old as Alfred.
“Hey,” Red Hood shuffles to the side, “Did you know they were transporting kids?”
“Yeah?” Nightwing peers over his shoulder. Below in the dimly-lit warehouse, three men corral a half dozen kids, guns out to ensure cooperation. Four others count vials of a murky green substance – liquified Scarecrow toxin, just waiting for an aerosol sprayer. He counts three exits including the loading dock, two guarded. To Red Hood, he says,“The bio weapons are new to me, though.”
“I knew about the weapons,” Red Hood growls. “Fucking child traffickers. I’m going to rip their throats out.”
Nightwing spins around, his whole body tensing. “You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
Nightwing swiftly straightens to his full height. “You can’t kill them.”
“Who’s gonna stop me?” Red Hood straightens too, and Nightwing’s temper only rises as Red Hood looms over him. He stands eerily like Batman, for all the man claims to hate him. The impassive white lenses might as well belong to a cowl rather than a helmet.
“Me.” Nightwing yanks his escrima sticks into position, but Red Hood has already gone in a shatter of glass.
Nightwing sighs.
So much for teamwork.
Red Hood lands heavily on the rafters and jumps to the floor with a shout, drawing attention. Under the cover of Red Hood’s spray of bullets, Nightwing flits down, sticking to the shadows. He approaches the kids from behind, a finger to his lips, as he raises one escrima stick.
It flies true, hitting one of the distracted guards in the temple.
He falls as Nightwing catches his weapon on the rebound.
Before the other turns, Nightwing jumps him, kicking his knee out from under him and punching him squarely in the face on the way down.
“You’re Nightwing,” one kid breathes.
“That’s right,” Nightwing says, his tone reassuring. “And I’m going to get you out of here.”
Over in the center of the warehouse, Red Hood lets out a deranged cackle and viciously pistol whips a drug dealer slash child trafficker. Blood sprays from the impact, and Nightwing quickly ushers the kids towards the closest exit. “He won’t hurt you.”
“That’s Red Hood,” a little girl whispers.
“Yeah,” Nightwing nudges the door open and peers out. “He’s with me. He won’t hurt you,” he repeats.
“Duh,” the girl says.
Nightwing whips his head around to stare at her. “You’re not afraid?”
“No,” she says, her dark eyes narrowing. Behind her a few more kids shake their heads in agreement. The majority look ambivalent, but none seem to outright disagree with her. “Are you?”
“No.” Nightwing throws her one more incredulous look before he confirms that the coast is clear. He hustles the rest of the kids outside. “He’s a friend of mine,” he says as they cross the street. Behind them, Hood yells something indistinguishable about someone’s mother.
“Red doesn’t have friends,” the girl says plainly.
Nightwing has no idea what to say to that, so he just checks everyone over for injuries.
Five minutes later, footsteps jog towards them. Nightwing whirls around, escrima sticks at the ready.
“Hey,” Red Hood says.
“Hey?” Nightwing demands. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Would you like a punch to the face instead? ’Cause that’s your other option, dick.”
Nightwing rounds on him. “What the hell was that?” Of all the reckless, irresponsible moves Red Hood could have pulled, he decided to go on a murderous rampage in front of a bunch of children. Sure, Red Hood isn’t exactly known as a team player, but taking off without any plan?
“Wait for it.”
Nightwing tenses.
Down the street, the warehouse explodes.
“Holy shit,” one of the kids says in awe.
“So useful,” Red Hood says, his tone undeniably smug.
* * *
Nightwing pulls Red Hood to the side. “What the hell were you thinking?” he demands in a hushed voice. “You blew up all the evidence? The witnesses? Those were all low-level thugs! Now we’ll never be able to trace who’s behind the weapons trading and trafficking.” He throws up his hands.
As Nightwing pauses for breath, Red Hood asks, unimpressed, “You done?”
Nightwing scowls, his temper mounting. “No, I’m not –”
“Great,” Red Hood interrupts, “because I saved evidence. Obviously,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out four vials. “Goons are all alive, slightly exploded, but they’ll talk. And if you ask me, that’s more than they deserve.”
“What?” Nightwing says dumbly.
Red Hood huffs and starts listing off, “Two knee shots, one shot to the torso – dude can survive with a collapsed lung for a few hours – another knee shot. Last guy got knocked around a bit. I also dragged the guys you took out outta the way. You’re welcome,” he finishes sourly.
“You - you wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t blow up the warehouse!” Nightwing flails, still trying to wrap his head around the Red Hood’s words. Nobody died? All the children escaped unscathed? Plus, at least two vials of toxin – one for analysis, one for Batcave storage?
Did this mission actually succeed by all measures?
“Right,” Red Hood takes a step back, his tone growing cold, “I dunno why the hell I thought you were the team player type – the Titans must’ve been more dysfunctional than I thought – so talk to you never and go fuck yourself.”
“Wait.” Nightwing inhales a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Red Hood freezes. “You’re… sorry?”
“Yeah,” Nightwing swallows, “I made assumptions I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake. You did good. Great, even, if you let me take two of those vials off you.”
“Uh, yeah,” Red Hood says, sounding stunned. He offers them over.
Nightwing pockets the vials, his posture relaxing. He sighs. “I can’t believe this worked.” He holds out his hand. “Nice job.”
“You too.”
“Aw, you did make a friend,” the little girl pipes up from somewhere around Red Hood’s elbow.
“Shut up, Petra,” Red Hood says without looking down, “or I tell Claire what happened to her last phone.”
She crosses her arms over her tiny chest, blowing a brown strand of hair out of her face. “You can’t blackmail me. I know –”
In one fell swoop, Red Hood grabs her.
Nightwing jumps forward, freezing as the sound of her breathless giggles fill the air. Because he is… tickling her?
“You give, Pee Wee?” Red Hood growls over her shrieks.
“You’re so fucking mean!”
Red Hood lets out a theatrical gasp. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Petra’s laughs stop. Her eyes go impossibly large, her lower lip trembling. “My mother’s dead.”
“So’s mine,” Red Hood scoffs. “You’re not special. And knock off the crocodile tears. They’re making Nightwing uncomfortable.”
The tears dry instantly, and Nightwing is so confused.
“I’m going to win an Oscar,” Petra says nonsensically.
“You’re going to New York, and you’re going to win a Tony,” Red Hood corrects as he ruffles her hair. “Oscars are for shit adaptations of real literature. You want the stage. ”
“Hmph.”
“New York is fun,” Nightwing says.
Petra says, “Red’s helping my sister save for me to go.”
Nightwing looks to Red Hood for confirmation, who shrugs. “I’m just making sure nobody stiffs her at her job anymore – you know how the Bohnes Alley crowd gets.”
Bohnes Alley? Nightwing squints down at Petra, and now he’s looking for it, he can definitely see the resemblance to Headband. The same slope of her nose, same texture to her brown hair. No wonder Red Hood got so angry when he saw the children in that warehouse.
Sirens blare in the distance, no doubt drawn by the violent explosion.
With a sigh, Nightwing waves off Red Hood. “I got this,” he says before he nods at Petra. “Go take her home. I’m sure her sister’s worried. I’ll make sure the others are looked after.”
“I’ve been out later than this,” Petra argues.
“Always have to have the last word, don’tcha?” Red Hood says fondly as he bends down. “Up, you get. You and your little legs are too slow for me.”
“Fine,” Petra says as she clambers on his shoulders. “But it’s just ’cause I like being tall.”
“Being tall is awesome,” Red Hood says, tipping his helmet in Nightwing’s direction, and Nightwing rolls his eyes. He just had to rub it in one last time.
On his way past, Red Hood high-fives a kid wearing a grubby Gotham Knights cap.
Nightwing flags down the fire chief to start coordinating the cleanup.
He is not short. Five feet, ten inches is positively gigantic for a trapeze artist. Red Hood has barely three inches on him, anyway.
* * *
Two weeks later, Red Hood runs into Nightwing mid-patrol in Gotham (Tim is with the Teen Titans for the weekend) to tell him he has a lead on a “fuckton of kryptonite” coming in across the bay. He doesn’t phrase it like an invitation for help, but Nightwing chooses to interpret it that way.
“You know,” Nightwing says conversationally as the wind whips around them, nearly sending the blueprints laid out on the roof of 38 Bohnes Alley flying into the air. But the two wingdings and Hood’s heaviest knife keep the paper more or less grounded. “This would be easier if we could meet somewhere without gale force winds.”
“Aw, is the widdle birdie getting a little chilly?” Red Hood snarks. “Man up, Wingnut.”
Nightwing takes the high road. Instead of going for a (light) throat-punch, he says calmly, “So you take the front door –”
“I’d make you do it, but there’s your pesky allergy to real body armor.”
“ – to draw fire,” Nightwing continues in a louder voice. “I’ll take the skylight and drop in from behind. Non-lethal shots only –”
“No promises.”
“ – Two minutes after our signal, your guys will surround the doors,” Nightwing says, tamping down on his aggravation at the constant interruptions. “Mine will be on the roof across the street to warn us if we have incoming – ”
“Better check your ‘guy’ doesn’t have detention that day.”
“Oh my god,” Nightwing hisses as his composure finally cracks, “are you always this impossible to work with?”
He can practically hear the smirk in Hood’s voice as Hood asks, “Regretting the team up already?”
“No,” Nightwing says mulishly because he won’t give Hood the satisfaction. “But there’s no way you manage your men like this.”
“With my guys, I’m the one who tends to give orders, first of all,” Red Hood says, raising one finger, “and second,” he counts on another, “anyone who whines gets shot, so that tends to quell the dissent.” He adds a third, pausing as he clearly tries to come up with one last reason, “And I hate you.”
Nightwing laughs. “There’s no way your criminal organization could have survived that much internal blood spilled. That’s more how Black Mask operates – not you.” He claps Red Hood on the shoulder. “And from what I hear, that’s why you’re kicking his ass.”
For once, Red Hood doesn’t have a smart retort ready. He’s frozen, like a statue, his helmet half-turned towards Nightwing like he can’t bring himself to meet his gaze.
Nightwing grins. So that’s how you shut Hood up. Easy peasy. He turns back to the task at hand. “Superman will arrive ten minutes later. That should give us enough time.”
Red Hood grumbles something that would probably make Clark blush and cover Tim’s ears with hands. “I still don’t understand why you have to call in Big Blue. We could carry it out.”
“A solid lead crate and over a hundred pounds of kryptonite?” Nightwing says dubiously. “That’ll take time we don’t have. And nobody is more invested in making sure that kryptonite is out of Gotham as Superman is. He’ll be in and out faster than you can say Metropolis. And,” he says, “if you want this whole thing to fly under Batman’s radar, Superman is our best bet.”
Red Hood tuts, “I would’ve thought the B-man would keep extra tabs on metas in Gotham.”
Nightwing shrugs. “He’s been relaxing the rules for years.”
When Dick was a kid, in his early Robin days, Clark hung around all the time. He’d invent some excuse to interview Bruce Wayne and maybe sneak in a flying session with Dick.
But as Clark, Bruce, and Diana set up the Justice League, there were fewer and fewer reasons to meet up at the Manor when Bruce and Clark had their regular scheduled meetings at Mount Justice.
When Jason died, Clark went back to regular visits to Gotham, even stopping the Joker once when it became clear Batman could not take him on alone. His visits petered out after Tim got folded into the family, but Bruce never gave Clark the no-metas-in-Gotham speech again. Nowadays, Bruce mostly saved it for when Hal put more than a toe over the city limits.
“Batman? Relaxing?” Red Hood repeats dubiously.
Nightwing purses his lips. “He needed extra help after the second Robin died.”
Red Hood grabs his knife and busies himself folding up the blueprints, saying, “So he replaced his sidekick with a meta the first time around? Talk about overkill.”
Nightwing stashes his wingdings. “Not for crime fighting.”
Red Hood looks up, drawling, “Don’t tell me Wonder Woman took over the 9-to-5.”
“No,” Nightwing coughs, “for emotional support. Batman was… not good for a long time after Robin.”
Red Hood starts. “He wasn’t?”
“No,” Nightwing says shortly. He feels jittery with an odd heaping of guilt. But Hood already knows that Batman is human. It shouldn’t be surprising he grieves like a human too. Bruce may try to hide his weaknesses behind an emotionless wall of repression and violence, but Dick never promised to keep that particular secret for him. God knows, the Titans heard enough about it.
Nightwing holds out his hand for a final shake. “See you tomorrow at 2100?”
Red Hood nods once, clearly preoccupied. He clasps Nightwing’s hand once, not even especially hard, with none of his usual macho flair, and disappears down into the alley.
* * *
“You’re working with Red Hood? And you brought in Clark?”
Dick exhales a loud breath as he sets the dumbbell down on the floor. “And what if I was?”
“I’d say that’s a dangerous game you’re playing with an unknown, possibly hostile, player.”
“He’s not hostile,” Tim pipes up from the treadmill where he’s walking at a brisk pace and doing his chemistry problem set with his textbook propped up on the machine. “He’s never shot Nightwing, and only shot at Dick the one time.”
“How reassuring,” Bruce says flatly.
Dick shrugs. “He’s really not that hostile,” he says, nodding in Tim’s direction. “We worked together once before. No casualties. Only property damage and a solid lead on Crane’s next move.”
“Hn,” Bruce grunts, but Dick recognizes the analytical look in his eyes, can practically see the hundreds of thoughts racing through his mind.
“Clark liked him,” Dick adds.
Bruce glares through the mirror as he picks up the 30 lbs and starts his warm up. “I would hope I raised you to be more discerning than Clark.”
“I’ll tell Uncle Clark you said that,” Dick says coolly as, behind them, Tim frowns.
Bruce sighs, some of the hostility dropping from his posture. “I don’t like you both going behind my back on this.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you trusted me to run the mission,” Dick says, fighting to keep his voice level. “He’s a good guy, Bruce.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far –” Tim starts.
Dick grimaces. “Fine, he’s not a danger to the city. How’s that? From what I can tell, he’s still cutting down the occasional murderer and rapist, but the reports of incidental injuries from Red Hood are way down.”
“Hn.”
The treadmill beeps. Tim hops off, tucking his textbook under his arm, casting worried looks between Dick and Bruce, before he turns for the door.
Dick grabs his towel and half-empty water bottle. If he stays in the same room as Bruce, they’re going to fight, and it’s really not what Dick needs right now.
“Tim!” he hollers
Tim spins around. “What?”
“We’re going on a run.” Dick gently steers him away from the family wing and instead towards the front door.
“But I just did cardio –”
“You walked for fifteen minutes.”
“Well, I couldn’t finish my problem set at a full sprint, could I?” Tim says, rolling his eyes.
“Exactly,” Dick grins, “you finished it. Now, time for a real workout.”
“Di-ck,” Tim moans, drawing out his name into two syllables, “I have more homework –”
“We’ll go slow. Work on your endurance.”
“Ugh, fine,” Tim throws up his hands and drops his textbook and homework by the entryway table. “But if I fail pre-calc, I’m blaming you.”
“Fine by me,” Dick says breezily as he throws the doors open wide and starts at a light jog. With Freeze locked up in Arkham this past winter, the season was especially mild, and Spring came early this year.
Tim catches up with him in half a dozen paces, an adorable scowl firmly in place. “I hate you,” he puffs out. “So what was so important you had to literally run away from Bruce to talk about it?”
Dick spins and faces Tim, easily keeping pace despite his backwards run. “Caught onto that, did you?”
Tim, going a little red in the face from exertion (his fault for being so pale) splutters indignantly, “You’re such a show off.”
Dick just grins. “And you’re a smarty-pants. What a pair we make, Timmy! And soon you’ll build up the stamina to keep up.”
“I bet you never did this with Jason,” Tim mutters out of the side of his mouth.
Dick fumbles his next step. God, his chest never gets this tight this early in his run. He swings back around to face front, his face nearly as red as Tim’s. “No,” he agrees in a quiet voice, “I didn’t.”
Tim’s expression shutters.
“About Red Hood,” Dick starts, glancing sidelong at Tim because talking over the case never fails to boost Tim’s mood. Sure enough, Tim’s blank face gets replaced by an intrigued expression. Dick continues, “Do you think he’s got the makings of a vigilante?”
Tim’s brow furrows. He doesn’t respond at once, and they round the first fountain on the front lawn before he says, “I think it’s too early to say.” He exhales an explosive breath, his face determined. “He’s still killing people. Just because he doesn’t do it when he’s working with you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dick shakes his head, “but I think he can be talked ’round to our way of seeing things.”
Tim spends another long stretch thinking that over. As they come up on the third fountain – there are four in total, stylized after the seasons – he puffs, “Your funeral, Dick. Don’t come crying to me when he shoots you.”
“He won’t shoot me,” Dick says. He’s mostly certain Red Hood won’t shoot him. Like 75% of the way there.
As the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. And Red Hood could fall in either camp (Dick’s preferences aside), so either way, it’s best to keep an eye on him. And what better way to do that than make him one of the good guys?