AN: So I was knocked on my ass (allergies, man, those of you who don't have 'em-or have mild ones-are lucky and I hate you) and my brilliant 'feel better' plan was to write a shit-ton of AU short stories about Jason being accidentally adopted by Dove Marquis. No, I don't know how it happened. I don't remember writing half of them. But they're there, a mountain of adorable angst, and you'll pry them from my cold, dead fingers because Tiny Jay deserves nice things. Why am I telling you this, you ask? Yeah…you're gonna be mad at me at the end of this chapter, so I wanted to provide nice mental pictures for you first.

AndAnotherOneBitesTheDust-Happy New Year to you, too! May all go well for you, and see PMs for added angst! There's stray shit all over Gotham-kids, dogs, lizards-I could totally find one in a warehouse or somethin'. Geeze. And yeah, Dove...Dove's nice. How Penguin hasn't killed her, I'll never know. S'cause I have his e-mail passwords, kid. Now sit up, you're heavy. Five more minutes? Fine. Five more minutes. But you owe me if you put my arm to sleep.

McStaken-Hilariously, the novelization for Arkham Knight says his ashes got flushed down a toilet. I like that bit of knowledge. We should be so lucky. That fucker probably just resurrects. Stranger things have happened. And really, I am not chasing after him with anything. I know how that's gonna go. He's like a zombie-you have to dismember 'im or he just keeps coming. ...I miss the days of mob-run Gotham. It was peaceful then.

"YOU KNOW HE AIN'T GONNA DIIIIIIIIIIIE!"

Jason is awakened by his phone.

Well, 'awakened' is a strong word. That implies he was asleep. He wasn't. It was more of a…twilight existence. But it might've turned to sleep if his phone didn't decide to ring.

It's times like this that he regrets setting his ringtone to Alice in Chains.

He flails a little, finds the phone, and rolls over. Just a text. Nobody's stupid enough to call him. (Not even Dick-Jason is apparently the only one who thinks answering the phone with 'Red Hood, patron saint of mortuaries, how can I help you?' is funny. Also, he changed his number.)

Hood, u dead?

This is the one (okay, main) problem with having informants who spend their time strung out or vomiting. They miss shit. They pick shit up, too-nobody cares about the guy sitting on the streetcorner-but sheesh…

No.

Well, he's awake now. May as well get in touch with his new mole. Provided he still has a mole.

Wilde, my man, hear anything interesting?

For a few minutes there's no answer, and he's starting to wonder if the guy's dead or going to ignore him (rude!) when he gets a reply.

Who's this?

Punctuation! And spelling! Please, Wilde, don't die.

Aww, I'm hurt. How's your cat?

HOW'D YOU GET THIS NUMBER.

The truth is that he rifled through Wilde's pockets, got his phone, and called himself with it. But that's not exciting.

I have my ways. So. Anything interesting come your way? Anything…pink?

There. Better to let the risks worry that you do, in fact, know everything about them. Makes 'em less likely to screw you over later.

Wilde doesn't text back and Jason shrugs, drags himself outta bed and towards the kitchen. He has bacon in there, he saw it last night.

He's narrowly avoided a pop of grease to the eye (what the hell, VENGEFUL PIG, VENGEFUL PIG IN THE PAN) when his phone goes off again.

He's just gone, I guess, I don't know. I haven't heard from him.

Wilde's an awful mole. What good is he if he doesn't know anything? Ugh…

Blackie call you at all?

No.

Quick. Too quick. Jason suspects a lie.

Oh, well. Bacon first-OW MOTHERFUCKER-

Alfred never has this problem. Alfred probably had it once, raised an eyebrow, and shamed the bacon into submission.

Jason's tempted to call him and ask how.

Thanks anyway. You hear anything, I'd like to hear it, too.

There. That's suitably ominous. It's a text, it's hard to be scary over text unless you're describing somebody's current pajamas and judging their Netflix choices.

Oh, well. He's got a new lead on Flamingo-find the organization that sent him, and he might at least get a favorite bar. Good thing he's got connections.

Dove Marquis is a reliable person. She'd have to be-the Penguin is a reliable person, likes to stick to schedules. Which means that Jason knows exactly when her smoke breaks are, and can take advantage.

"Hey."

"Jesus-" The ash sprinkles to the ground when she jumps. "Hood, if I die from a heart attack…this is Gotham, I will come back to haunt you."

"Sorry, Miss Marquis." He sits down on the fire escape and hangs his legs over the edge. "Got a minute?"

"Maybe."

"This involves Black Mask. Your boss might wanna know."

She snorts.

"Whatever. What do you want."

"Vodka shot?"

"You're underage." What? Bullshit! How? "C'mon, be reasonable here."

Humph.

"Eduardo Flamingo. You know him?"

"Pink guy, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah. Came in here looking for a job…last December, I think. The boss said no. Said he was unpredictable, like Zsasz."

"Where'd he come from? Any idea?"

"I don't know anything…"

"Of course not."

"But if I did, I'd say that sleazy little bar in the Cauldron. You know, the one that's breaking every health 'n safety code in existence?"

"Don't we all?"

She throws him an exasperated look.

"Of course you do…anyways, I really don't know for sure. Guy was creepy, I didn't deal with him much." She takes a long drag and exhales through her nose. "Why? What'd you do?"

He's insulted that he's automatically to blame for this, but…well…

Okay. But still! Rude.

"I'm hurt."

"After that fall, I bet you are."

"Did everyone see that? That's bullshit."

Dove rolls her eyes, stubs her cigarette out, and reaches up to pat his boot.

"You're an idiot. You gotta be, to pick fights with psychopaths every night-"

"Hey!"

"-but your heart's in the right place. So don't just charge in there and get yourself killed, okay? Be safe."

He is safe! Most of the time. It's a dangerous job, that's all. Jeeze. Such little faith from people…

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks."

"Sure, Hood. Now go on, sign says no loitering."

"Tell ya if I get anything good on Sionis."

"Good luck with that."

"Buy ya a stiff drink for puttin' up with me?"

"When you're allowed, I'll take you up on that one."

She ducks back inside and he huffs. Underage…bullshit…his fake ID would beg to differ, and it is impeccable. Kinda has to be. He's pretty sure he's legally dead. Or at least, like, missing but totally presumed dead by everyone.

Huh. He should look and see.

Oh well. Time to go to work.

'That sleazy little bar in the Cauldron' is technically named Joe's Bar, but if you live here, you know its name is Pickpocket's Paradise. Jason'd made rent more than once down here and to this day refuses to feel too sorry. F'you're too drunk to be suspicious of the scrawny, bright-eyed brat chirping 'sorry mister!', you deserve what you get.

'Sides, pickpocketing beat the alternative.

Nobody's quite brave enough to risk it with him-he'd know-but he gives a little girl what he's got on him anyway. S'cold at night. Dangerous.

The inside of the bar is a stereotype of almost tragic proportions-dim, grimy, busted TV, the perpetual air of an oncoming brawl. Nobody looks up when he walks in save for the bartender who, in true Gothamite fashion, merely looks long-suffering.

Good.

He walks up and leans on the corner, waits for her to finish with the handsy guy at the other end (watch it, buddy, push it too far and there'll be a face-shaped dent in this counter), and waves.

"Watcha want."

"Lookin' for a friend of mine. Eduardo Flamingo, likes pink and really rare steak."

"Can't help you."

"Really? 'Cause another friend of mine said you could."

She stares at him with dull eyes, curls her lip, and tosses her head in a half-scoff.

"Bullshit. You gonna buy somethin' or not?"

He's tempted to try it-maybe Dove's unfair superpower is just a side effect of Penguin-but he can't drink it anyway, and he's now broke.

"You don't really want me to start looking for him, do you? I mean, I'm a klutz. I break shit. Glass, tables, arms…y'know."

"Who's the friend that sent you."

"Uh-uh." He wags a finger with no small amount of trepidation-she seems the type to go full Ninja and chop it off. "If I got all my friends killed, I'd be sad. And on the shitlist of a lot of people. Thanks anyway, though, I'll just-"

He senses someone behind him a second before he sees a flash of pink in the bottles behind the bar.

Fuck me.