Archive of Our Own

His fighting style fascinates you. 

It's no doubt reminiscent of Batman's and Nightwing's, but it's more brutal. Red Hood fights to kill. His agility and strength are impeccable.

These are all things you write in your journal even though you have countless notes at home on the Red Hood. Still, it's a sight to witness them in person. It's important to record the experience live.

Hood turns the corner and grapples across an alleyway. You wait a beat before climbing up a fire escape, pen between your teeth. You're not used to tracking subjects on foot, but because your subject is so intelligent and capable, you forewent your usual flying drones. Red Hood would find those within the hour anyway, and you don't wish to frighten or anger him.

You just want to watch him. Observe him. It's not every day you meet a man who came back from the dead.

You pull yourself onto the rooftop, trying to keep your breathing quiet.

There's no sign of Hood.

You take a step forward and hold your pen. Observing lab subjects has never been this difficult before. You mapped Hood's patrol route for months before you came out tonight for the first time. There's no reason for him to have changed his path—

"Yo."

You whirl around.

Red Hood steps out of the shadows cast by the chimney. His hands are on his hips, not on his holsters, which means he doesn't find you threatening. That's very promising.

"Why are you followin' me?"

"Hi," you say. You start to approach, but that makes his shoulders tighten. You stay put. "I'm a scientist. Well, actually, I'm a mad scientist. I find that I'm taken more seriously that way."

Hood is silent and still for five long seconds. Then he inhales.

"I—" He shakes his head. "That doesn't answer my question. At all. In fact, it gives me about three more questions."

"Oh, I apologize. I'm following you because you're my new test subject."

"Test subject?"

"Uh-huh."

Hood tilts his head. "Why?"

"My field of study is naked mole rats."

"’Kay, I'll try not to be offended by that segue."

"Oh, please don't be! They're incredible creatures. Have you heard of them?" you ask.

"Uh." Hood's shoulders relax. "Yeah, a little. They're immune to cancer, right? Ugly as sin, though."

You nod excitedly. This is wonderful! No one ever knows what you're talking about. Your mother says it's because no one gives a shit about naked mole rats or you. You think people would care if they gave you a chance to explain, but no one ever does.

Then again, your mother also says you'll never get married, and you think she may be right about that.

"Yes! The reason they're immune is because of their cells' regenerative qualities. Specifically, they're able to regrow their hearts. It's all very fascinating, the concept of regeneration. Prolonging life."

"Right," Hood says. "And what does this have to do with you following me?"

"I heard that you were resurrected from the dead and that no one understands how."

Hood hesitates. Then he asks, "Heard from who?"

"Well..." You shift your weight onto one foot. "I didn't actually hear it. I observed it. You have all the telltale signs of Pit Regeneration. It came up during my research of mole rats. I also collected some of your blood after your fight with Black Mask to confirm."

"What the fuck," Hood says.

"It wasn't a lot! I was only able to run that test. I don't have any more of your blood... Unless you wanted to give me a sample."

You wait hopefully. Hood scoffs.

"Am I s'posed to reply to that?" he asks. "Fuck no. I oughta burn down your lab for doin' that at all."

Your eyes go big. "Oh, please don't. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to anger you. It's just so amazing. Your regeneration is incredible. You came back from the dead, fully functional."

"Fully functional is debatable," he says, tapping the temple of his helmet.

"Not at all. You're highly competent and extremely intelligent. Your dismantling of that drug ring last month was impressive."

"That—have you been stalkin’ me?"

"No."

"No? Certainly sounds like it."

You can see the details in his armor and uniform. There's a slice of revealed skin at the base of his throat, smooth and shiny with sweat. You wish you could take him to your lab and do tests on him, but you have to be delicate. Patient. The Red Hood doesn't trust easily. You've already made a mistake by telling him about the blood sample.

"I've been observing you from a distance," you say carefully. "But I've realized there's only so much I can learn from a distance. So that's why I'm here."

"Yeah," Hood says. "That's stalkin’."

"I think stalking implies a harmful intention," you say. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want to watch you."

"Oh my Mary Shelley," Hood says, looking at the sky. "I do not get paid enough for this."

"If my research ever gets published, I'd be happy to compensate you. I'm hoping to get grant funding soon."

It's hard to read Hood's feelings right now with his helmet covering his face. It'd be hard regardless—you've never been very good at reading faces. Experiments and test subjects are so much easier to handle. No need to guess when the results are right there. When your rats are hungry or thirsty or in pain, you know exactly what to do. People have always been a little more complicated.

But it's especially frustrating that you can't use Hood's face to make an attempt at guessing what he needs.

He shifts, his jacket rustling. It's a very nice jacket: brown leather. Hood is at peak physical fitness, and the jacket fits him well, leather stretching over his wide shoulders. You want to tell him, but you kind of get the feeling he wouldn't appreciate such an observation right now. You'll tell him later.

You roll your pen between your fingers. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"Yes," he says. "Listen, I'm not available for experimentation. Go find someone else to stick tubes into."

"I wouldn't stick tubes into you without your permission. Oh, this is terrible! I should've planned our introduction more thoughtfully. Usually my test subjects are satisfied with bribes of spinach and cucumber. I thought following you inconspicuously would be the best method since you don't trust easily."

"Well, I never turn down a Greek salad," Hood says.

You stand straighter. "I can bring you a Greek salad."

"No, that was a... joke." He sighs. "Alright, look, this stalking—"

"Observing."

"Stalking."

"Observing."

"Stalking."

"I bear no ill will. Observing."

"Jesus Christ." Hood clutches the top of his helmet. "Whatever you wanna call it, it stops now. Go home. I'm on a case, I'm not just patrolling, and that means you could get really hurt. I can't be distracted."

"I wouldn't speak or engage with your target. I would just watch. The best research comes from minimal interference."

"Well, I would be distracted because I don't want you to get caught in the crossfire."

"Oh. I didn't think of it that way," you say.

You're a scientist. You went out tonight and followed a known crime lord-vigilante in the name of science. The risks were irrelevant.

"So, you care about my safety?" you ask, pulling out your pen and notebook.

"Well, yeah, you're still a civilian—what're you doing?"

"Writing observations. Please continue."

In neat letters, you write innately good.

"Go home. Find somebody else to study."

"Okay," you say, clicking your pen. "I'll return another night."

Hood groans. "I'm not even interesting enough to study."

You shake your head. "Nonsense. You're the most interesting person I've ever encountered."

"Oh my God," he says. "Go home so I don't have to tranq you and drop you off."

You frown. This hasn't gone nearly as well as you'd hoped. But... maybe Hood just needs some time to adjust. Everything reacts differently to change. That's the first thing you learned as a scientist.

"Okay," you say. "I'll go home. It was very nice to meet you, Red Hood."

"Yeah... you live close?"

"I live twelve blocks west of here."

"Twelve bl—well, can you take a cab? You shouldn't be walking twelve blocks in Gotham alone at night."

"It’s alright. I followed you without issue."

Hood crosses his arms. "I was keeping an eye on you. I clocked ya ten blocks ago."

"Fascinating!" You scribble this new information down. He knew you were following him and he let you do so. How very unlike any subject you've ever studied. He's nothing you expected.

"Yeah, okay. C'mon. Let's get you a cab."

"Alright. Would you mind if I take a few pictures of you for my research?"

"I don't do photos. Let's go, mad scientist."

He crowds you, and you let yourself be herded into climbing back down the fire escape. You wish you could at least make a quick sketch of him, but you don't think he'd be willing to pose for you. That's alright. You'll get visuals another time.

"You're a lovely test subject," you say as he hails you a cab.

"And you're the weirdest rogue I've ever encountered."

"I'm not a rogue. I would prefer we were friends instead of enemies. Although, I've never had a nemesis."

If Red Hood became your nemesis, maybe you'd get to see him more often.

"Would it be more acceptable for me to follow you if we were enemies?" you ask. "I can be a rogue if that prolongs our visits."

"No, no, nope. I don't need another enemy."

That's a relief. You've never liked the idea of being evil anyway. Being mad is far more interesting.

The cab pulls up to the curb. Hood leans into the window. The driver freezes in fright.

"Take 'em straight home. No funny business," he says.

"Yessir," the driver says, swallowing hard.

You write another note in your journal, then get in the car.

Kindhearted.

"And you, no more stalking," Hood says, pointing at you.

"I don't stalk."

"Uh-huh." He closes the door. "Goodnight."

Hood is across town the next time you observe him. He'd switched up his route after you met, so it'd taken you a few weeks to relearn his pattern. As soon as you figured it out, you packed your backpack and headed out, more prepared this time for a proper study.

Tonight is damp, streets slick with rain from earlier in the evening. Hood has a waterproof tactical layer on instead of his usual brown leather. You wonder if the rain affects his abilities in any way. Probably not. He's so good at what he does, weather couldn't possibly impede his skills.

Right now, he's across the street at a warehouse, taking down some thugs. He won't be long, you know, so you settle on some steps, a safe distance away. You fold your knees and take out the cheese sandwich you've packed for tonight. There's some punching, shouting, and then a tiny explosion. You shield your eyes from the flame, then take another bite.

Hood comes out, dragging an unconscious man behind him. As soon as he sees you, he stops, dropping the man.

"Seriously?!"

You wave, sandwich in hand.

"Hi, Hood."

He grabs the body again and crosses the street, shoulders stiff. He looms over you. He doesn't seem to be struggling with a grown man's weight over his shoulder. You write that down.

"I told you to get lost," he says.

"I can't study you from my lab."

"Yeah, no shit. How'd you even track me down?"

You cap your pen and look up at him.

"You have twenty-three possible patrol routes since you never go past River Street. It's just pattern tracking." You pull out a takeout box from your backpack. "I brought you a salad."

He stares. You take another bite of your sandwich.

"A... salad," he says.

"A Greek salad. Because it's your favorite. Isn't it?"

"What, is it laced?"

"Oh, no." You hold out the box. "I'd never insult your intelligence like that. If I drugged you, it'd be more subtle than this."

"Yeah, that's not the comfort y’think it is."

"Well, obviously I don't want to drug you. I'd much prefer it if we became friends, like I said.”

"And you thought that would happen through you stalking me?" he asks.

You sigh. Some people just don't understand the life of a scientist.

"I bought the salad from an actual restaurant. Saladology. It specializes in salads. I cross-referenced Yelp reviews on every salad seller in Gotham to find the best one. It's perfectly safe."

"Hm." He tucks the box into the duffel bag across his chest. "I'll check it out later."

"Okay. What are you doing tonight?" you ask.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to distract you from important crime-fighting stings."

"Well, I'm supposed to be takin' care of some of Two Face's henchmen, but I'm not, ‘cause of you."

"Why? I won't stop you from doing such a thing. In fact, I think it would provide important information for my study."

Hood drops the man from his shoulder, who hits the ground with a pained groan.

"You're not gonna quit, are ya?"

"Probably not," you say. "I've been studying naked mole rats for six years."

Hood starts walking, dragging the goon behind him by one arm. He doesn't indicate for you to follow him, but he doesn't stop you either. It would seem that the salad bribe worked, like with the mole rats. Perhaps you can bring different foods and create a Pavlovian response in the Red Hood. You make a note of this before following him down the block.

This close, you're able to observe his breathing patterns, his gait, his posture. He's extremely physically fit. You'd love to give him a cardiogram.

"Would you ever consider coming to my lab and running on a treadmill?" you ask. "All I would do is attach a few wires and a device that scans your brain."

Hood looks at you. You look back. The unconscious henchman grunts as he's dragged over a piece of tire.

"...No," Hood eventually says. "And y'need to work on your timing. We've interacted for approximately three hours total. I'm still not past you stalking me and testing my blood without my consent."

"I see. When would be an appropriate time to invite you to my lab?"

"Never. I make it a habit not to visit mad scientists’ labs. Call it a professional discretion.”

More salad is definitely a necessity. He needs to trust you.

"Y'know, I really am boring. Dangerous, but boring. There's plenty of actual heroes who'd make for better studies," Hood says.

"You're too modest. You're the most interesting person in Gotham."

"You're bizarre."

"Yes, my mother tells me that frequently." Though never in such kind terms.

The goon begins to wake.

"Whuh hap'n?" he mumbles.

You look at him, then back at Hood.

"He's awake," you say.

"Yep. Got some questions for him.” Hood heaves the man against a brick wall and holds him there with an arm against his neck. The man’s legs kick out but Hood lazily traps his limbs, taking out his pistol and cocking it one-handed. You write furiously in your notebook, wishing you had enough time to sketch this scene. So capable, confident, calm. You watch a little longer, forgetting your notes for a moment. 

“What are you going to do after you ask him questions?” you ask, fixed on how Hood’s muscles twist and jump under his waterproof cover. 

“If he’s lucky, I'll drop him off to his boss,” Hood says, not looking at you. “And you’ll be gone before then."

You dig in your bag. "Do you want some truth serum? I can dose him.”

That makes Hood look at you. "You have truth serum on ya?"

"Of course,” you say brightly. “I never leave home without it."

"Huh. You're about one life-changing event from becoming an evil scientist."

You shrug. "I don't think so. I've been to therapy."

"Who the fuck is that?" the man asks.

Hood yanks his leg, making the man hiss.

"My stalker. Now start talkin'."

You take a picture. Hood sighs.

"Hello, Hood."

He'd tried to change his patrol route again, even making an appearance in Bludhaven to throw you off. It didn't work for very long.

You sit on the lowest fire escape of an abandoned apartment, swinging your legs. You have chicken soup in a thermos tonight, your notebook on your lap.

Hood is in the middle of an intense fight with five men. One of them points a gun in your direction for a split second before Hood rams his elbow into his face, disarming and knocking him out in one go. You shiver at the display of physical prowess.

"What'd I say about stalkin' me?" Hood yells, voice tinged with mild exertion.

"I'm not stalking you," you say. "I'm observing."

"Tomato, tomahto."

He takes out the last man without firing his weapon. You swing your legs enthusiastically.

"That last disarming was inspired!" you say.

Hood ignores you. You climb down from the fire escape and follow him.

He draws his gun as soon as you do.

"Go home," he snaps, pointing the gun at you.

You purse your lips. "Have I said something wrong?"

"All of this is wrong! Quit fuckin' following me."

You look at the gun. You ought to be afraid, but you've studied Hood for too long to be.

"I know that you won't harm me," you say. "You called me a civilian the first night we met. You don't hurt innocent people."

"Maybe I'll start," he says roughly.

"I brought you pie."

That startles him enough to lower his gun. "What?"

You pull out a takeout box from the bakery by your house. You hold it out to him.

"It's not poisoned," you say. "Though I realize that that's what someone who's poisoned it would say. But it's not."

Hood doesn't take the box. He just stares.

"What flavor is it?" he asks eventually.

"Cherry. Do you like cherry pie?"

He nods. "Yeah. But I like coconut cream better."

"I'll bring you that next time."

Hood takes the box. "I don't eat what you bring me."

You shrug. "That's alright."

"Yeah, I didn't think that'd deter you. C'mon, let's get this over with. I'll walk you home."

"Will you come inside?" you ask, unable to hide your excitement.

"What? I pulled a gun on you."

"The safety was on."

Hood doesn't speak, so you keep talking.

"Did you know that you react two seconds faster when the threat is closer to your right ear than your left?" you say. "I saw it tonight."

"Hm."

"It's true. Were you injured there?"

"Well, I did die, but that was an everywhere injury." Hood thinks for a moment. Then he snaps his fingers. "Oh, shit. I cut my left ear on a table corner when I was a kid. Guess it never healed right. Huh."

"Fascinating. It would seem that your regeneration didn't affect every injury. Perhaps there was a time limit for how much it could heal."

"There's a lot that never healed," Hood says quietly.

You perk up. "Like what?"

"None of your business," he says. "And don't come out here anymore."

Dutifully, he walks you back to your apartment. When you turn after inserting your key in the lock, he’s gone. The pie is also gone, which you’ll consider a win. 

Somehow, for the next two weeks, you lose Hood's trail. He's still working in Gotham, judging by the police reports, but every time you pinpoint his location, you're too late. You're not upset—more impressed than anything. Any variations in observations are often welcomed in a scientist’s work. The fact that Hood is clever enough to duck you for this long is noteworthy. 

Oddly enough, you have begun to have physiological reactions to him. Your heart beats faster when you try to catch him, and your hands get clammy when you're close.

But you aren't worried. Hood is a fine specimen. It makes sense that you're excited to find him.

Eventually, you get desperate. So you lay a trap.

You prey on Hood's aptitude for saving civilians: you stage a carjacking.

It's simple. You find a car close enough to his usual patrol route, then you break the window with a brick. You would've used your car, but you figure Hood knows what your car looks like and would see through your ploy. You'll leave a check for the damage. Seeing Hood again is more important.

The car alarm wails. You lean on the door. Hood makes it there in less than two minutes. He stops short when he sees you.

"Oh, you've gotta be shitting me," he says, stalking over to you. "What the fuck, Frankenstein? Whose car is this?"

"I don't know," you say. "Do you really think I'm like Doctor Frankenstein?"

"Keep breakin’ windows, and you just might be."

You jimmy open the car hood and disable the alarm. Then you turn around and wait. Hood crosses his arms.

"You broke the window of a stranger's car to lure me here?"

"Yes," you say.

He shakes his head. "Damn. Can't believe I fell for that."

"It's not your fault. You couldn't have known how far I'd go. You avoided me for weeks, and I was desperate to find you."

"Yeah, that was the point. Take a hint, why don't ya?"

"I'm sorry." You take out the salad box from your bag and set it on the ground. "Please accept this as an apology. I also have a gift for you."

Hood doesn't take the salad, so you leave it. Subject prefers pie. You take out your gift.

Hood tilts his head. "What's that?"

"It's a defense sphere! One of my personal inventions. I will demonstrate. You press this button..."

You roll the sphere on the ground. Hood reaches for his gun in defense. You ignore him and press the button on your remote. He's suddenly encased in a golden bubble.

"The hell is this?" he asks, voice muffled. "A trap?"

He slams a fist against the bubble. It wobbles, then returns to its original shape.

You shake your head. "No, I promise this isn't a trap. Allow me."

You take out a gun from your bag, flick the safety off, and fire three shots at the sphere. Hood flinches and ducks.

"What the fuck?" he shouts. "Are you insane?"

"Not at all. The bullets dissolved. See?"

You point at the slight divots where the bullets melted into the sphere.

"That could've gone really fuckin' wrong!" he says.

"I'm sorry for scaring you, but I promise I would never use an invention on you without testing it thoroughly. I don't want to hurt you, Red Hood."

"Let. Me. Out."

So you do. The bubble dissolves and Hood takes the sphere, then stomps to you and grabs your remote.

"You're insane." He shakes the remote. "Y'know that? Why're you so obsessed with me anyway? Why don't ya study Superman instead? He's indestructible."

"It's not the same. You were born mortal. By all the laws of the universe, you shouldn't have returned from the dead."

“Yeah, no kidding!” He lets out a sound of frustration. “Fuck. Don’t y’think I know ‘m not supposed to be here?”

You shift your weight, not sure how you should respond. Science would dictate that nothing happens without nature’s permission. Hood is here for a reason. You both want to know why.

He sits on the trunk of the car you smashed. “D’you always carry a gun?”

“Yes,” you say. “It’s Gotham. I taught myself how to shoot, just in case.”

“Pretty good shot.”

You perk up. “Thank you.”

He stretches his arms to the sky, groaning. Then he settles. “Okay. How ‘bout a compromise?”

You rock onto your tiptoes. “What sort of compromise?”

“We go to a diner, eat some pie, and I’ll answer all the questions you ask me. Within reason. And then y’never pull a stunt like this again. ‘Cause it doesn’t matter how many cars you break—I’m not goin’ home with ya.”

You tilt your head, considering. This might be the best opportunity you’ll get for research. Hood has been patient with you, but he likely won’t let his guard down enough for you to gather any of his bodily fluids, or stick him with electrodes.

It’s better than nothing. And as a scientist, you’re primed to learn information however you can.

“Alright,” you say. “I agree.”

He sighs. "God, what's wrong with me? Two years ago, I would've taken you out. Or at least drop you in another country and leave ya there."

"Why not do that now?"

"'Cause I'm 'reformed' and 'on my healing journey.' Disgusting."

"I think that's very admirable of you," you say. "Your adjustment period must be very difficult."

"Why, 'cause I'm crazy and evil and can't do anything right?"

You blink in surprise. "Why, no. Of course not. Anyone would react poorly to life after death. I think you've managed the best way you could. You’re kind, and you want justice, in your own way. You protect me even though I annoy you. You’re good.”

Hood is quiet.

"Did you like the pie?"

"I didn't eat the pie," he mutters.

"Oh, right. I looked for coconut cream pie but they were all out. I'll go to another bakery next week."

To your surprise, he leans in and nudges your shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll take y’home.”

Melvin’s. 8 o’clock.

The slip of paper is under your door the next morning. None of your cameras caught Hood, which impresses you even further. You aren’t much of a graphologist, but the few things you’ve picked up over the years allows you to determine that Hood wrote this with his non-dominant hand. The script is sharp and blocky. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to learn which hand he uses. To eat, to write, to… to touch.

You put on your best shirt at seven thirty. You fuss with your appearance. You never do that. Who cares what you look like? You’re trying to harness the power of regeneration. No one cares if you’re pretty, or if you talk wrong, or if you can make friends, when you’re smart and you have something other people want. Knowledge is power. It’s the only power you’ve got.

But you’ll be in a lit diner, across from Hood, just talking. Something, you’re not sure what, tells you that you should try to look nice. 

There’s no one in the diner when you arrive. Most of the lights are off, except for one above a booth that’s in a secluded corner. Hood is already there.

“Mel left for the night,” he says as you approach. “We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“Did you threaten him?” You’re only a little worried at the possibility, more flattered that Hood would do that for you.

He huffs. “I don’t threaten everybody. We have an understanding.”

Hood slides a piece of pie as you sit. You peer at it.

“Coconut cream,” he says. “Best pie you’ll ever have. Nobody else makes it like Melvin.”

You cut a bite with your fork. Oh.

“Good, right?”

You nod, relishing the creamy sweetness. You eat another bite, and another.

“So,” Hood says. “‘M an open book until midnight.”

“Why until midnight?”

“‘Cause that’s when I told Mel I’d lock up. He’s got a business to run, y’know.”

You try to get your bearings. You’re overwhelmed by the pie and the way Hood’s only looking at you. 

“Do you like my shirt?” you ask, then wince. You shouldn’t have asked.

Hood leans back. “‘S pretty.”

Your heart beats faster. Maybe Hood drugged you. It doesn’t concern you as much as it probably should. The pie is really good.

Wait. Are you the test subject?

“Okay, um.” You shake the thought away and flip through your notebook to your list of questions. “What’s the first thing you remember when you came back to life?”

Hood crosses his arms. Takes a breath.

“Dirt.” He clears his throat. “Woke up in my grave. Had to claw myself out. Then, uh, I was just wanderin’ the streets, apparently. Don’t remember a lot. The person who found me dipped me in the Pit. Made sure I didn’t…”

Die. Your pen pauses. It had never occurred to you that Hood might have tried to die after returning. That his resurrection was not peaceful or wanted or painless. 

You try to find the right words. Apologizing feels flimsy, meaningless. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” you finally say.

He nods once, sharp. You move on.

Hood tells you whatever you want to know, except for names and places. He won’t say where his grave is, or who buried him, but he talks about nearly everything else. He tells you about what he ate in his first days (sweet rice, tea, mangoes). He tells you the first book he read after he returned (Where the Wild Things Are). He tells you about the tortoise shell kitten he adopted a couple years after he moved to Gotham. 

You eat two slices of coconut cream pie. Hood sends you home with a third slice in a plastic to-go box. In bed, long after you should be asleep, you read your notes. Most of them are irrelevant to your experiment. You re-read them over and over, swearing to commit them to memory. 

“Are you gonna stop followin’ me now?” he’d asked at the end of the night, locking up the diner behind you. 

You’d chewed your lip, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to tell the truth either. That had been enough for him. Hood had laughed, beginning the walk back to your apartment. 

“Yeah,” he’d said. “I didn’t think so.”

It’s thundering and raining hard the next time you find Hood. He’s since returned to his typical route, perhaps because it’s no use trying to throw you off his trail. 

You still haven’t eaten the pie he bought you three nights ago. You keep opening your fridge and surprising yourself at the sight of it, startled that the whole thing wasn’t a hallucination. No one’s ever bought you pie. Certainly no subject, but no one else either. 

Tonight you were halfway to Hood’s typical patrol location before you realized you forgot your notebook. You never forget your notebook.

Even more shocking… you didn’t turn around to get it. You didn’t want to miss seeing Hood tonight. You have notebooks filled with notes about him. One night of missed observation won’t hurt anything, right?

You pull your red poncho’s drawstrings tighter around your head so your face doesn’t get wet and climb up to a warehouse rooftop. Normally you’d wait for Hood to come down and see you, but he’s been up there a long time, and you’re getting impatient waiting in the rain. 

On the last rung, you stop, holding yourself there and watching.

Hood is engaged in a spar with Nightwing. Nightwing is on the defensive, but Hood’s movements are vicious. He looks like he really wants to hurt Nightwing.

You crouch, hiding yourself from view. 

“Y’had no fuckin’ right,” Hood snarls, dodging Nightwing’s escrima stick. “No right! I don’t work for him anymore, asshole.”

“That doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want,” Nightwing shouts back. He cuts through a gap in Hood’s armor, and Hood growls in pain.

“What more d’you want from me?” Hood yells. “I already died! I never asked you or B to let me back in! Those men deserved to die tonight!”

“You don’t get to determine that!” 

Something is very wrong. Instead of Hood easily overtaking every opponent like you’ve seen him do these past months, he’s taking hits. A lot of hits. His punches are sloppy and angry. Nightwing is no longer on the defensive—he’s drawing blood. 

Fear corrodes your throat as rain and thunder and fists pummel Hood. He tackles Nightwing, who quickly kicks him off. Hood hits the concrete hard and spits blood.
You don’t think. You climb onto the roof, draw your own gun, and fire.

The shot echoes like a crack of thunder. Nightwing stills, chest heaving. 

“If you kill him, I’ll kill you,” you shout, louder and angrier than you’ve ever been.

Nightwing looks at you. He seems to come back to himself, and he raises his hands.

“I wasn’t going to—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, cleaved in two with what looks like grief. “I would never…”

Your grip shakes. You don’t have the nerve to kill anyone, but you can’t just sit and watch Hood get the blood beat out of him. That’s an observation you never want to make.

“Go away,” you say, not lowering the gun. “Go.”

Nightwing glances at Hood, still on the ground, taking ragged breaths. He looks at you.

“Please take care of him,” he says.

Then he disappears off the roof.

You turn the safety on and shove the gun into your bag. Then you sprint to Hood, nearly slipping. You kneel, not caring if your knees get wet.

“He wouldn’t have killed me,” Hood says, clutching his side.

“Why didn’t you hurt him better? You’ve never lost a fight in all the time I’ve known you,” you say, frantic as you form a plan to get Hood off the roof and somewhere safe. Your apartment is only four blocks away. 

Hood laughs, then wheezes. “That’s a story for another night, mad scientist.”

“Can you walk?”

He grunts and manages to sit up. He isn’t bleeding out, but you can see patches of blood. He’s probably bruised. Nightwing looks like he hits hard.

“‘M fine,” he says. “Can make it back. Go home.”

You won’t. After a few more protests, Hood gives up and lets you drag him through the roof access door and onto the elevator. He’s freezing and soaked by the time you make it to your apartment. You lean him against the railing as you open your door.

Hood trips on the carpet, but you manage to keep him upright until you can get to your basement lab, where it’s the warmest due to all the computers and equipment. You set him down in your computer chair.

“You have to take your clothes off,” you say. “Or you’ll get sick.”

He snorts, head lolling against the back of the chair. “Gonna have t’ try harder than that to get me outta my suit.”

You frown. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He sighs sleepily. “Mm. Nothin’.”

“Oh no. You have to stay awake. You might have a concussion.” 

But Hood’s not listening as he starts to fall asleep. You dig your hand under his helmet and choke his windpipe, enough to cut off his breath. It’s only a couple seconds before he flails and swings. You let go and dart back as he coughs for air. 

“What the fuck!”

“You were falling asleep,” you say, kneeling to unlace his boots. “I have to take off your shoes at the very least, or you’ll get trench foot.”

“Trench foot?” he mumbles, letting you remove his boots. “Like soldiers?”

“Uh-huh. Wet socks and boots.” 

You get his feet bare, then move on to his pants. Hood swats your hands away.

“No,” he says. “Bad scientist.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine. Look, ‘f it’ll make ya feel better…”

He sits up a little and pulls off his jacket, then his tactical shirt, leaving himself in a white, skin-tight tank top. Your mouth goes dry. His big arms are covered in bruises and scars, some white and healed, some pink and fresher. Plump veins line his thick forearms. Perfect for drawing blood. Your mouth waters a little. 

“Oh. Um. Okay. I suppose that’ll…” You swallow. “Well, you should lie down on the cot. It’s warmer. Your skin is unusually cold.”

He hums. “Symptom of comin’ back to life.”

Right, of course. No wonder he’s always dressed warmly, even in the summer. You wondered about his heatstroke risk. 

“An’ look,” he says, sounding sleepy again. “‘Fore you choke me again, I’ll prove no concussion.”

He presses a button on his helmet. 

“Scanning,” says a robotic voice. “Scanning… body scan complete. No life-threatening injuries sustained.”

“See?” Hood yawns. “Good as gravy.”

Well, in that case…

You take the chloroform patch you created years ago and swiftly stick it on Hood’s exposed clavicle. 

“What the f—”

He falls unconscious. You wheel him in the chair to your equipment and begin to prepare a sterile needle and vial. 

The guilt hits you as soon as you knock out Hood.

…That’s not quite true. It creeps in after you collect three vials of his blood. On the fourth, it really gnaws at you, so you stop. 

You also don’t want to bleed him dry. To make up for your impulse, you clean and wrap his wounds and inject a powerful painkiller into his veins, so his injuries won’t ache so much tomorrow morning.

Then you just stare at him. You left his helmet on, unwilling to go that far. Besides, Hood is plenty to look at. You trace the hair on his forearms and his chest. Only once do you lift his tank top, unable to quell your curiosity. You find an autopsy scar, cut too deep to ever properly heal. You quickly tug his tank down, feeling like you’ve done something very bad. 

You run your hand over his abdomen, coolness emanating from his skin. If you couldn’t feel his breath, you’d think he was dead. Something large and daunting swells in your chest. You take your hand away and stand, leaving his things stacked neatly by the cot.

Regeneration is in a mole rat’s nature. Humans are not meant to live after death. They are not meant to claw out of a grave, old heart beating, scars never healing. 

You go to bed, wondering if you’ll ever find the answers you’re looking for, studying Hood. For the first time, you wonder if they’re the answers you should find. 

Hood is still in the lab the next morning. He’s fully dressed. He didn’t take his blood, because you kept the vials tucked under your pillow all night.

But he’s at your desk, reading a journal. Your journals. About him.

“Thought scientists were s’posed to be truthful no matter what,” he says without looking up from your notes. 

“They are,” you say. “I am.”

He lifts the journal. “Not all of this is true.”

You square your shoulders. “Of course it is. I’m not a liar.”

“Then you’re a bad observer.”

“No, I’m not.”

He tilts his head. “You tellin’ me you know me better than I know myself?”

“I’m saying that I have a more unbiased perspective than you do. Hardly anyone can judge themselves accurately.”

He doesn’t say anything. You take the silence to go to him, holding out the vials before you can lose your nerve. 

“Here.” 

Hood holds up a hand. “‘M good, thanks. Got plenty of random vials of blood at home.”

"It's yours," you say. "I took it when you were unconscious. I'm sorry. I was going to use it to run tests but... I realized that I didn't want it without your permission. So, here. And I want you to know that I never removed your helmet, even though I know how to dismantle the electroshock mechanism."

Hood looks at you for a long time. You're reminded of that first meeting on the rooftop.

Then he sets down the blood and hooks his thumbs under his helmet. And suddenly, you're looking into the green eyes of the Red Hood.

There's a scar that runs over his right eye and across his lip. His hair is dark and curly, with a white streak in the center. His lips draw into a sharp Cupid's bow and are rosy. The bridge of his nose is smattered with freckles.

From a purely scientific perspective, the Red Hood is very attractive.

"So?" he says. "'S my face what you expected?"

"Oh. Well, I assumed you were attractive." You clear your throat. "My hypothesis was correct."

One side of Hood's mouth tips up. "Huh."

He hands you the vials. You shake your head.

"I don't understand," you say.

"You've seen my face, y’got my blood. Got everything you need to complete your research. No need for further observation, right?"

You look down at the vials, then back at Hood, at his face. The face you won't be able to spend time looking at. Studying. You want to know where every scar is. Every freckle.

But he's right. You've no need to observe him anymore. He's provided thorough physical information about himself.

"Thank you," you say. "For trusting me."

Hood takes a deep breath. He chews his cheek for a moment, almost like he’s shy. Shy with… you? You go to write that down, then stop.

Perhaps that observation can be just yours.

"Look, uh, I don't know why or how I came back," Hood says. "The, uh, Lazarus Pit was involved in restoring my body. But I don't know what woke me up. I've asked myself why I'm here every goddamn day since I crawled out of my grave. So if... if analyzing my blood gives you an answer, then I'd be grateful to know."

"Yes, of course." There's an odd lump in your throat. You try to swallow it away. It doesn't work. "You'll be the first to know."

Hood smiles. You wish you could draw it. "See you 'round."

He leaves. You wave until you can't see him.

You look down at the vials. You finally have what you want. Why aren’t you satisfied?

Jason Todd's apartment is too warm for August.

This makes sense, considering his return from the dead. But seeing the thermostat cranked up, the many blankets covering the couch, the tea supply in his cupboards, it all does something to you. You kind of want to cry.

"Holy fuck!"

You turn. Jason is in sweatpants and a Gotham University t-shirt with holes in the collar.

"That was fuckin' quick," he says. "Most people use the door."

"Using your door felt intrusive," you say.

"And breaking through my window didn't?"

"I didn't break anything. How did you know I'd come?"

He shrugs. "You got a face reveal and a blood sample on the same day. Not hard to guess what you'd do next."

"Jason."

He nods.

"Jason Todd."

"That's the name, fucked up justice is my game."

You go closer. You're overwhelmed by what you want to do. You want to touch. Feel. Things you're too frightened to think. Things you definitely shouldn't want from a test subject.

You swallow. "I made a mistake."

Jason raises a brow. "A careful, learned scientist like you made a mistake? Huh."

"Yes. I-I realized that my research isn't finished. I need to study you for months, potentially years. Now that you've revealed your identity, I must observe you in your natural environments. This, um, this information is imperative to my analysis of your regeneration—"

"Y'know," Jason says, getting closer than he ever has. You can smell his soap. Lemon. You see a tiny white-pink horizontal scar on his throat. "Y'missed a very important observation. Maybe the most important. I'm shocked you never noticed, frankly."

You lick your lips and glance at his mouth.

"I did?" you ask. "What?"

Jason grins. "This."

He takes your cheek in one hand. And then Jason Todd kisses you.

You kiss him back. Mentally, you make one last note.

Great kisser.