Chapter Text
“So…there’s banks, those expensive restaurants over the coast, and yet…you’re robbing me?” you say, while the man ties your hands behind your back, making you sit behind the counter. You’re glad you’re wearing long sleeves, ‘cause those cheap strings he tied your arms with would definitely burn your wrists.
“Shut up!” he yells, aiming his gun at you. You sigh.
You work at a bookstore that’s older than your mom. One of those stores that, in the historical session, you need to wear gloves to move the book from one shelf to another, so it doesn't disintegrate in your hands. And, more sadly than that, it’s still decorated for valentines day even though it's march, all decorated with hearts hanging from the ceiling, drawings made by kids on the sundays you read stories and romance books you personally choose to be on a stand with "Recommendations!" written in red.
Still, it’s your favorite place in the world. You remember when you first started working, how the immensity of books made you feel so welcomed, and how even the bad coffee could be tolerated for the clients you attend, their various ages and tastes. It all went down when the owner sadly passed away, an old lonely man, leaving the store to his son. His gambling addicted son, that not only was cruel towards you and other colleagues, but was owing a lot of people a lot of money.
That’s what leads you to this moment. A strange man, who was clearly in abstinence, puts his hands on his head, mumbling to himself while looking around. Obviously, he didn’t expect anyone to be working this late, but you are one of a kind, truly. Having nowhere to be but your bed, you would always finish everything before leaving. He enters your boss’ office, leaving you alone, you just lean yourself in the counter. It was the third time this week an addict came into your bookstore. None of them had guns, though.
You can hear the man yelling and moving furniture around. The drag of the marble table and the terrible sound it made gave you a headache. You knew he didn’t have money there, or anywhere. That man was broke. Not like, couldn’t pay salaries in time, but in a ‘can’t pay a water bottle in the park’ type of poor. You would feel pity, if you weren't tied up because of him. You hear heavy footsteps coming towards you.
“You found nothing, right? I tried too…” you look up. It’s not the burglar. It’s Red Hood. The infamous. The super hot. All that. He leaned onto the counter, looking at you, telling you to shush. You gladly did.
You hear one more yell, and Hood enters running into the office. A chair break, and then a gunshot. After, it’s all silence, and Red Hood leaves the office, red fresh blood looking like paint in his boots. A shiver runs down your spine when he kneels down at your level, taking a knife out of his back pocket. He grabs your hands, cutting the string off your wrists. You groan, massaging your wrists.
“Thank you. Again. I hope you don't think I’m a lady in distress.” you said, laughing a little, he retributes with a smirk.
“I don’t. But I bet it’s been rough on you.” Red replies, getting up and offering you a hand.
“I mean, they won’t kill me. I hope.” the thought of it makes you shiver while you get up.
Every single time an addict barges in, Red Hood has personally put them in time out. Either took them to jail or to the morgue. It is more frequent now, and you haven’t seen your boss in several weeks. You don’t care much if he’s in trouble, but if the bookstore became known for the addicted rotation to try to rob an already declining store, you would certainly lose your loyal customers.
“Will you accept a ride home today?” Red says, stopping your spiraling. You nod, and wish he didn’t wear a helmet so you could see if he smiled or not.
“I’ll just leave a note on the door…” grabbing a post it and a pen, you write “Dead dove: Do not open”, this makes Red exhale through the nostrils mechanically, as you follow him out, turning all the lights off.
Never accept motorbike rides: noted.
You take off your helmet, swinging your head so your hair could look slightly better than you know it is right now. Red is looking at you when you give his helmet back. His hand lands on a rebel lock of your hair, and he puts it behind your ear, his touch sending vibrations all over your already shaky body. He catches himself, taking it back just as fast.
“Thanks, Red. I’ll never do it again, though.” you grinned jokingly, fighting against the heat feeling in your cheeks.
“No trouble.” you turn to leave and walk a few steps, before he calls you back. You look at him, he’s making his way toward you with clenched fists. “Can I give you my email? I…don’t have a phone I can lend you. Only for emergencies, if you like.”
“Oh! Yeah. Sure, Red.” you wanna jump up and down and giggle like a schoolgirl while he types in a series of letters, but you just offer him a kind smile.
As he finishes, he turns on his heel and sprints to his bike, only waving at you as it runs down your street. Now free, you leap up the stairs of your building, hugging your phone. You open your door and hop belly first in your couch, sending a meme to “[email protected]”. It’s weird to email your favorite vigilante? Yes. But so worth it.
You doom scroll as you wait. Wait for what? You’re not entirely sure. But maybe, a meme back? Or a simple ‘Hi.’ , followed by an emoji? Red doesn't seem like the type of guy who would send emojis, but a girl can dream. Your thoughts are suspended when you see a post on the Wayne Enterprise's official instagram. It reads “A new bookstore will arrive in town!”, in the street next to yours.
Sending the post to your colleagues group chat, finding them with the same surprised reactions, you sit up, already spiraling into the worst case scenario: Lose the store. Obviously, Bruce Wayne’s stores were all over town, with technologies and so much money spent on, money you could never even fantasize about. Your phone buzzes, you pick up.
“You’ve got mail!”