Chapter Text
You work in a run-down Gotham diner that’s always got a distinct layer of grime and exhaustion laced around it. You work there because you want the paycheck, and because it helps put the meager food on the table. You don’t quit because there's a coworker or two that makes break time bearable when they slide you a leftover plate that you can scarf down. Besides, the customers are always nice enough. It’s just a job, after all.
You always take the late night, early morning shift hours because even in Gotham with all the creeps and weirdos that come out to play, they don’t ever grace the doorstep of your diner. So you always rock up to a veritable ghost town, you yourself one of the spirits inhabiting the confines of these four walls until you can finally trudge to the bus stop and stare hollowly out the window.
It’s been a long day, with tired, bleary-eyed customers. Part of you wonders if you’re only looking at a reflection of yourself when you see those glassy expressions staring back up at you as they make their orders, ask for refill on coffee, request a box to-go.
You’re barely scraping by yourself, and your stomach grumbles right on time for your break. You ask for your fifteen and as you slink to the exit in the back, one of the cooks slides you a fresh, heavy delivery bag with the excuse “They got the wrong order, didn’t want it. All yours.”
You catch the wink and respond in kind with a secretive smile for the small miracles that they do for you. As you tuck it under your arm, the radiant heat bathes your chest as you stalk to the back for your time. You’re eager to see what some fool didn’t want to get—this may not be a Michelin, but they always deliver hot, greasy food the way that hits just right after a long day.
Your fifteen are always spent in the graces of a dark, dimly lit back alley where you can usually find your coworkers taking a smoke break, thin plumes ghosting up to the sky. It’s a small, dingy haven where a word or two grousing over the customers or the slow night can be exchanged. But a quick glance to your right, out to the open alley, reveals that no one is there. You let the door swing quietly shut behind you, accepting the full weight as you ease it closed.
As you look to your left, you have to resist the urge to jump, because it turns out someone is there. Not just anyone—you’ve only heard whispers of the urban legend of the imperious figure that crushes bone, rends flesh, takes brutality to an art form. You’ve only seen blurry pictures of that sleek red helmet, that impressive, dangerous form.
The very same form you are taking close inventory of, as you stand no more than a few feet from the Red Hood, who leans on the wall and stares down at you.
You find your mind blissfully blank as you ogle those whited-out lenses that are definitely looking your way, taking ken of your form, sliding down the bag. In your adrenaline-fueled mind, you think of one thing.
You hold out the bag, the folded-over end crumpled tightly in your fist. “Want to share?”
The encroaching silence that seems to press over your shoulders makes you instantly regret it. Even more so when he turns to you, looming over you at full height that shows ample display of those broad shoulders, the raw power he bears. You swallow thickly and you’re certain that he can see it, see the frightened wonder in your eyes as you watch him.
When he speaks, his voice is low, husky. You might find it attractive if you weren’t mentally running out of your mind right now, with that sharp lick of adrenaline coursing through you.
“Don’t have anything to pay you back with, sweetheart.” He replies. Your arm is starting to hurt with the weight of the bag, but you don’t retreat, don’t return it back to yourself. Both of you, it seems, are interested in seeing how this plays out.
“Anything’s better than eating alone.” You reply simply, and you don’t see a change so much as feel it, layered tightly in the atmosphere that seems to shift around you. Seems to shift as he angles his head down at you, as though to better reckon the sight of the person that is offering to feed him, free of charge, for the night.
“I got a big appetite,” He says, almost like it’s a challenge. Almost like he’s not talking about just food.
“Good thing you came to the right place,” You say, because you are talking about the food. Or maybe, you’re not. Not like he’s interested, anyways.
His hand curls around the bag, the leather of his glove grazing against your skin, and you have to gulp down a shudder at the contact. When you release it, he takes it into the full of his arm, holding the bag you had to heft up with relative ease, uncurling the impression your palm worked into it.
It’s a quick choice—you can read from the receipt that the dissatisfied customer left stapled behind to the bag that there’s a veritable buffet in there. You can only watch as he snags a burger still wrapped in the paper, then goes for another—both fit easily in the span of his long fingers.
Something in you would almost be amused if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re willingly feeding one of the more brutal vigilantes that Gotham houses. And for the fact that you don’t know if he’d take kindly to you finding something funny at him going for seconds. Big appetite, indeed.
He passes the bag back to you, satisfied with his choice—not that you can tell anything that he’s thinking or feeling under that imperious mask. It feels light as air in your arms.
“Thanks for the food. Guess I owe you one.” He says, and it takes a moment for your mental wiring to catch up and word a response.
“No worries,” You say, letting a touch of sarcasm bleed through as you tack on, “Anything to help out a man in the force.”
There’s a rough noise that escapes him, that you realize is a chuckle. He plateaus his shoulders at the movement, a crude show of power that seems to awaken something primal in you.
And something signals that even though you’ve only touched a fraction of your break, you should go back inside.
“Um, nice seeing you.” You say, because this is all you can think to say—though you’re certain you’ll stay awake, staring silently at the ceiling for days after this, cringing. “Have a good night, Mr. Red Hood.”
“You too, sweetheart,” He returns, clearly amused. You have to wet your lips as he says sweetheart, and the thoughts that it inspires.
This seems an opportune moment to leave, and so you do. Though, of course, not without taking a final backwards glance over your shoulder at the massive figure that seems to descend into the darkness of the alleyway without a second thought. And, of course, with your gift.
When the door closes behind you, the fluorescent lights washing over you like a baptism, you don’t fight the stunned laugh that escapes you, the incredulous smile on your face. Sometimes Gotham really does give you the oddest moments—you feel as though you’re wide awake and ready to tackle the rest of your shift, no problem.
“Good break?” Your coworker asks from the other side of the counter as you walk back, sliding the bag their way. You realize that you’re still smiling.
“Yeah,” You grin, “Something like that.”
It’s only a one-time thing, after all. Most people have a run-in with the Bat or his gaggle of birds that flock to him. Most people have even been saved by the Red Hood, even though that list is far and few in-between. This was only yours; something nice to talk about one day after you’ve gotten over the high of the experience.
Something nice, you think as you take that sleep-eyed bus ride home, To think about tomorrow on your break.
Except for the fact that he’s there again when you open the door the next day.