Chapter Text
The late autumn sun cast long shadows across Gotham University’s quadrangle, gilding the edges of the stone buildings in fading copper light. Students milled about—some hurrying to evening classes, others lounging on the grass with textbooks or coffees in hand.
Among them, Buffy Summers sat at a wrought-iron café table, her psychology textbook splayed open, a half-finished iced coffee sweating condensation onto the pages. She dabbed at the moisture with the edge of her sleeve, muttering under her breath about the perils of caffeine addiction.
From his perch on the fire escape of the adjacent humanities building, Tim Drake—Robin—watched her through narrowed lenses.
She didn’t look dangerous.
That was the first thing that struck him. Buffy Summers was petite, blonde, dressed in a standard biker-style leather jacket over a university hoodie, her ankle boot-covered feet kicked up on the empty chair opposite her. She chewed absently on the end of her pen, flipping a page with her free hand. If not for the meticulous surveillance reports, Tim would have pegged her as just another undergrad drowning in midterm prep.
But then there was Mercer.
Frank Mercer, former black ops soldier with enough redacted mission briefs to make even Batman hesitate before engaging. The man stood a precise three feet from her table, his back to the brick wall, eyes in constant motion. Even in civilian clothes—black tactical pants, a fitted gray henley, a jacket loose enough to conceal weapons that he most certainly had on his person—he carried himself like a soldier.
Hood’s right-hand enforcer. A man who, according to Oracle’s files, had once been Black Mask’s top lieutenant before defecting to the Red Hood’s faction.
And yet, the way he hovered near Buffy wasn’t just protective.
It was subordinate.
Tim adjusted the sensitivity on his auditory feed, filtering out the chatter of passing students.
"—hovering," Buffy was saying, not looking up from her book. "And not in the fun, ‘I’m just being polite’ way."
Mercer’s jaw flexed. "Boss wants you safe."
She snorted, finally glancing up. The sunlight caught her eyes, turning them gold-green. "And he needs to send you instead of any random ‘employee’ of his? I am safe. Unless you think a rogue psych major is gonna jump me over Freudian theory."
Mercer didn’t so much as twitch. "You know what’s out there."
A beat. Buffy’s smirk faded into something sharper. "Yeah. I do."
There it was again—that undercurrent. Tim had heard it in her voice during earlier surveillance, caught glimpses of it in the way she moved. Most civilians in Gotham had a baseline wariness, a survival instinct honed by living in a city where alley muggings were as routine as bad traffic. But Buffy’s awareness was different.
Calculated.
Like she wasn’t just wary of danger, but expected it.
Mercer exhaled through his nose. "You’re not supposed to have to handle it, that’s why I’m here."
Buffy’s expression softened. "Aww. You’re sweet when you’re not being all growly."
They seemed very familiar. Was it possible they had missed something in their background checks? Military service history together?
"I’m not sweet," the man with the physique of a professional linebacker growled, but it lacked fire.
"Denial is the first sign." She grinned when his scowl deepened, snapping her book shut. "Relax, Frank. You don’t need to stick to me. If anything sketchy goes down, I’ll scream real loud. Promise."
A muscle ticked in Mercer’s temple. Tim recognized the look—the same one Alfred got when Dick insisted, he could totally backflip off the chandelier without breaking anything. Long-suffering. Resigned.
"Warehouse on Friday by six," Mercer said flatly. "Boss’s orders."
Buffy groaned, slumping back in her chair. "Ugh, fine. But if this is another one of his ‘business’ meetings where everyone glares at each other for two hours, I’m bringing flashcards and you’re helping me study. Midterms don’t prepare for themselves."
Mercer didn’t argue. Just stepped back as she stuffed her textbook into a worn leather satchel, his gaze sweeping the quad one last time before falling into step behind her.
Not beside her.
Behind her.
Tim’s fingers tightened around the edge of the fire escape.
That was the thing that didn’t add up.
Buffy Summers wasn’t part of Red Hood’s operations. Oracle’s intel was clear on that—no financial ties, no encrypted comms, no fingerprints on any of the weapons shipments or territory negotiations. She was just a psych major with a suspiciously high number of dismissed assault charges (all in self-defense, according to the reports).
But the way Mercer and the others treated her, it wasn’t just respect for the boss’s girlfriend.
It was respect for her.
And the casual way she interacted with them…
Tim dropped silently to the next rooftop, trailing them at a distance. Buffy walked like she knew she was being watched—not with paranoia, but with an almost lazy confidence, her stride unhurried. Mercer matched her pace, his posture rigid, his attention never straying far from the shadows between buildings.
Then, halfway down Elm Street, Buffy stopped dead.
Mercer was at her side in an instant. "Problem?"
She tilted her head, listening to something Tim couldn’t hear. Then—
"Hey!" She whirled, pointing at a narrow alley to their left. "You! Yeah, you in the gross trench coat—hands off the lady’s purse!"
Tim’s lenses zoomed in. A mugger had an elderly woman pinned against a dumpster, a knife glinting in his grip.
Mercer sighed. "Buffy."
"Nope. We’re doing this." She shoved her satchel into Mercer’s chest and moved.
Fast.
One second, she was on the sidewalk; the next, she’d crossed several feet in a blur of motion, her boot connecting with the mugger’s ribs hard enough to send him crashing into a stack of crates. The knife skittered across the pavement. The old woman shrieked.
"Oops." Buffy winced. "Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle you." She offered a hand, helping the woman steady herself, then rounded on the groaning mugger. "And you—what kind of loser robs grandmas? I’ve seen a lot of questionable stuff in this stupid city, but seriously, where’s your self-respect?"
Mercer pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t even tried to intervene; he acted like this was something that just happened.
Tim’s heart hammered against his ribs.
That hadn’t been combat you got from self-defense classes. No formal stance, no practiced strikes. Just pure, brutal efficiency—the kind that came from experience.
The kind that shouldn’t belong to a college student who supposedly spent her days debating cognitive theory.
By the time the mugger staggered away, Tim’s mind was racing.
Oracle’s files needed updating.
Because Buffy Summers wasn’t just Red Hood’s girlfriend.
She was a variable.
And variables in Gotham had a habit of blowing up in everyone’s faces.