Chapter 2 of What's Up, Danger?: No Place Like Home
Jason always appreciated that Alfred laid out a clean set of clothes for him in the mornings.
Even though his stays at the manor were infrequent and often times involuntary, it was the little things like that that made Jason visits to the manor pleasant; and if he ran into anyone there, he behaved himself. Mostly for Alfred's sake.
After slowly dragging himself out of bed, Jason sauntered over to the en suite bathroom. He stripped, turned on the shower, and let the hot water fall over him, being careful not to get his fresh stitches wet. The streams of water washed away the last of the grime and dried blood that lingered on his body from the previous night. Jason didn't bother with any of the flowery or fruity body washes or soaps that were present on the rim of the bathtub.
He placed his hands, fingers spread out, on the tiled wall under the showerhead and let the water run down his taut back like a furious waterfall for a few minutes. He basked in the pitter patter of water as it hit his skin and splashed on the floor, finding the ambient noise soothing.
After showering, Jason made his way over to the dresser where Alfred had placed some folded clothes for him to change into—a white shirt, black leather jacket, jeans, and a pair of un-scuffed and polished boots.
Jason shrugged on the jacket and flinched as the movement triggered a shooting pain through the side of his abdomen. The stitches on his forehead pulled on his skin whenever he moved his eyebrows. His whole body ached in response to last night's escapades. Falling into a trash pit did that to you, even if it did cushion the fall somewhat. He was no stranger to injuries or aching body parts, it came with the territory. And he was also no stranger to his 'brothers' pulling him out of sticky situations or finding him unconscious or half-dead in some seedy alley way. Again, it came with the job.
Finished lacing up his boots, Jason left the guest bedroom and descended the grand staircase that led to the entrance hall, which split off into several rooms. The grandiose and extravagant nature of the manor with its numerous portraits, huge library, perfectly manicured lawn and hedges, and ornate chandeliers used to fascinate him when he was a young boy, but he now preferred the secluded sanctuary of his safe house, valuing his privacy and space. The sound of his heavy footsteps echoed off the staircase as he disturbed the opulence of it all.
Notes of coffee hit his nose when he entered the kitchen. The coffeemaker, a behemoth of an appliance with too many damn buttons, gurgled as it finished brewing.
"Good morning, Master Jason. You will want to take it easy for the next six weeks," Alfred greeted, pouring piping hot coffee into a glossy off-white mug. He placed the filled cup in front of Jason and sent him a warning look. "Meaning, late-night activities are ill-advised."
"G'morning, Al," Jason returned the greeting, "I'll take that into consideration."
Alfred narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly, not to convey disapproval, but in a manner that would probably even make Bruce Wayne second-guess himself. But Jason was used to, and even immune to, looks of disapproval at this point.
Jason took a short sip of coffee. Bitter and hot and perfect. Caffeine helped filter his mid-morning thoughts, removed some of the headachey haze.
The loud padding of footsteps made their way down the staircase and stopped in the kitchen's threshold.
Jason lifted and turned his head 90 degrees to see Dick, who usually shone too brightly like the human personification of a golden retriever, was trying not to scowl.
"Oh great, you're here," Jason grumbled coldly.
Dick folded his arms across his chest and leaned a shoulder against the entryway. "Good morning to you too, Jay."
One of Jason's eyebrows ticked upwards at the nickname. So help Grayson if he ever dared to call him Little Wing again.
Jason didn't even know why he was surprised to see Dick; although the Wayne manor only had four permanent residents, Bruce, Damian, Alfred, and now Duke (Bruce's newest protégé), the rest of them came and went like it was a hostel with a rotating door. Always welcomed, but all having lives of their own outside the manor. Sometimes they only came to crash for the night, other times to train or work on a case together, and sometimes they just liked to pop in for Alfred's world-renowned baked goods and cooking.
Heavy silence filled the air as Jason and Dick stared down at each other, both being too stubborn to be the first one to break eye contact or even blink.
"Another delightful morning," Alfred quipped wistfully, more than used to witnessing the battle of egos between brash young men in his presence. He picked up the coffee pot. "Coffee, Master Dick?"
The question shifted Dick's attention away from Jason and he stepped forward, joining them at the large island counter in the middle of the kitchen. His frown flipped effortlessly into a dimpled smile, bright white teeth showing through his lips. "Sure, thanks, Alfred."
Another cup of coffee poured and nudged into Dick's hands, Alfred excused himself to attend to other matters elsewhere in the mansion that required his attention. He knew that Dick and Jason were like oil and water, unmixable at times, but still hoped that the two would learn to coexist without circling one another like dogs in a fighting pit.
At least they had the decency to wait for Alfred's steps to fade away before digging into each other.
"So," Dick began by gesturing a hand in the air, coffee sloshing in his mug, "do you want to talk about last night?"
Jason eyes fell to the marbled countertop. Tendrils of heat swirled upwards from his hot drink, washing over his face. "No."
Dick exhaled. "Well, we're going to talk about it whether you like it or not," he continued on, tone stern. "You went after those guys with no backup—out-numbered, out-manned—and you turned off your comms. And then some civilian finds you bleeding out from your head. Babs had to hack into your communicator when it sent her an emergency alert that your vitals suddenly dropped."
"It was just a scratch," Jason scoffed dryly. "Not like I haven't had worse—"
"—So not the point," Dick interjected impatiently. Then empathy rippled across his face. "Jason, you have us. You don't need to do these things alone."
Jason looked at Dick, the first Robin, now Nightwing, with an unmoved and unapologetic expression. He had met Dick when he was Robin only a handful of times—when he was tiny and small, thought being Robin gave him magic, and recovering from years of malnutrition from living in Crime Alley. Dick would ruffle his hair, call him Little Wing. Liked playing the part of being a big brother without really ever being there. And that was that. Jason barely knew him then.
And then Jason died. Brutally and violently. Robin's wings clipped. A fucking hero, trying to save his mom in his last, gasping moments. Body ripped open and stitched back together, buried in the earth, six feet under a gravestone, coffin exhumed, and corpse thrown into the Lazarus Pit. Alive, again. Memories of the final months of being Robin a blur. Fucking replaced. Joker still alive. Fury inside him, seething hotter than any magma. His uniform, red, green, and yellow, displayed in the cave in a glass case, just another coffin. How fucking morbid was it for B to keep the costume he was murdered in? Even mended the goddam fabric and removed the blood stains.
Dick, Tim, and the others, they were all reminders that he had died and that the world—and they—had soldiered on without him. It was a tough pill to swallow, and deep down he knew that it wasn't their fault, but it was easier for him to be angry then it was for him to forgive and move on. He wore the badge of hurt on his sleeve, even if it pushed them away.
The Pit, a pool of burning green in a creepy cavern, could fix years of abuse and malnourishment. Bring him back from death. Gave him a body that just grew and grew until he went from five-foot-nothing and not scratching a hundred pounds to over six-goddam-feet tall and breaking two-twenty. But couldn't fix his mind, the trauma. The fucking Bats reasoned that the Pit drove him mad, that he'd always been violent and resurrection brought that closer to the surface. Revisionist history. It was all bullshit.
Life after death was messy and complicated. And Jason sure could do with less complications in his life.
"Did Bruce ask you to give me a pep talk on his behalf?" Jason probed, half-turning away so he could avoid looking at Dick. "Because you're doing a real bang-up job of it."
"That's not—" Dick pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He leaned back against the counter. "I'm not his messenger, and I'm not trying to act like him."
"That's funny because you sure sound like him," Jason jabbed.
It was an unspoken rule that it was a low blow for any of the former Robins to compare one another to Bruce, or Batman.
Dick didn't respond. Trying to talk to Jason was like talking to a concrete wall, impossible to get through without a sledgehammer.
Jason cleared his throat loudly. "Well, as much as I love these forced conversations, I'm gonna head out before the demon spawn returns from daycare."
Jason forced himself to chug the rest of the hot coffee in his cup out of sheer spite, ignoring how the liquid burnt his tongue and throat as it went down. He turned to leave and noticed the tempting assortment of pastries Alfred had prepared on a three-tier dessert tower stand on one of the marble countertops. He nabbed a croissant, took a bite out its corner, and waved half-heartedly over his shoulder with his free hand.
"Later, Dick-bird." He gave him the finger.
Trash duty, again.
Sabine cursed her luck. But at least she was only working the middle shift. Trash bags in hand, she found herself dragging them into the back alley again.
She threw open the lid and looked over the edge of the dumpster, checking; no vigilantes hiding in the garbage today. A truly blessed sign. She sighed in relief and chucked the two bags into the bin before closing the lid.
"Aww, how romantic, this is the place we first met."
Sabine's body froze at the sound of the familiar modulated voice. Her face paled. Slowly, and breathing rapidly, she twisted her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him—Red Hood—leaning against the brick wall with his arms crossed, as if he didn't have any other cares or concerns in the world. He waved at her with two fingers in a familiar manner.
Sabine remained still, like some small animal caught in the sights of a hungry predator, as her mind tried to plot an escape. She wondered how he had crept up on her like a soundless shadow, or if maybe he had been waiting in the alley for her. Both thoughts were unsettling, she decided.
Red Hood was well aware of the effects he had on people. Nothing looked friendlier or more inviting than wearing a crimson mask and guns trapped to your thighs, although they were loaded with rubber bullets these days. Some would say—namely Red Robin, Spoiler, Oracle— that he tried to mitigate his intimidating presence with dry humor in front of civilians, to which he would say that no one was scarier than someone who could shatter the bones in your hand and make you bust your gut laughing at the same time.
"So," Red Hood said, pushing himself off the wall. "What does a guy have to do around here to get a cucumber sandwich and a pumpkin spice latte?"
If Sabine didn't feel like she was about to throw up from sheer panic, she would have realized he was joking.
She found enough strength in her legs to rush back inside, into the safety and shelter of the café and putting a large heavy door between herself and the vigilante.
"Hey, wait, I just wanted to say—"
Red Hood outstretched his hand as the back door slammed in his face, the sound echoing off the high walls of the alley almost like a small explosion.
"—thanks."
A clock tower chimed in the distance, the hauntingly loud bell reverberated in the air before fading.
Too chilly for borderline the transitions from humid summer to crunchy leafed and pumpkin-spiced fall, Sabine had maybe thirty minutes to an hour before the weather outside turned unbearable to the point where she would have to retreat back into her studio. Bundled in her orange sweatshirt, she wished she brought a cup of tea out with her.
Already fatigued from working a middle shift, although it was only for six hours long, she burned the candle on both ends—nearly working almost full-time while in graduate school because her student loans weren't enough to cover everything, like rent or groceries. Needed goddamn money for everything, even if the cost of living in Gotham was more affordable than other cities.
Sabine settled down in the wrought iron chair, orange-red rust coating the dark metal and shaded by a desolate wooden trellis, and a thick textbook, Understanding Criminal Law, in her hands. Weather permitting, the roof of the apartment building was one of her favorite places to study. The landlord had even allowed the tenants to place patio furniture and space out several raised garden beds and pots as high as her knees across it. The furniture set was rusty from exposure to the outdoor elements, sunshine, rain, and snow, and some of the plants in the garden beds were on the brink of death from the look of them, brown and wilting. But there was a homeliness and lived-in feeling that the roof provided. Some tenants had attempted to grow tomatoes and peppers, while others tried to grow flowers or fruits. However, the climate in Gotham was not forgiving for aspiring gardeners.
The typical city sounds drifted up and over the building, sounding muffled in blasts of wind.
The five-story building granted the tenants a spectacular view of the Gotham skyline, panoramic view densely populated with other apartment buildings, neon lights, and skyscrapers. Just beyond the jagged skyline of buildings was the horizon, painted with sunset colors as the sun sank, and punctuated by a waxing moon.
Up here, it was easy for her to forget how messy and complicated the city was. Up here, she could enjoy Gotham.
She placed her textbook on the iron patio table, a piece of wood wedged under one of its legs to keep it balanced, and flipped it open to the chapter titled 'Burdens of Proof'. She reached into her jacket pocket and took out her pencil case. Unzipping it, she retrieved a highlighter.
Sabine barely settled in her spot for more than five minutes when she was interrupted by a ragged meowing.
A fire escape ladder that hooked onto the top of the building, and by it was a large tuxedo cat with a tipped left ear. He jumped fluidly onto the raised ledge that surrounded the perimeter of the roof. The stray cat, a frequent visitor, paced back and forth for a few seconds before noticing her. He trotted up to her, meowing, a low pathetic scraggly sound, for attention.
She and the other residents had named the stray cat CEO because he made demands like he owned the place. No fear of strangers, the friendliest stray she'd ever seen. His black and white markings resembled a suit, black fur coating most of his body except for a large triangular patch of fur on his chest and his paws. And a protruding, hanging gut, a literal 'fat cat'.
She sighed and closed her book with the highlighter in-between the pages, keeping her spot.
"Hungry, aren't you?"
CEO yowled as if he had never eaten a day in his nine lives and skirted around her shins in a figure-eight pattern, brushing against her leggings. Sometimes he brought her gifts of dead mice or tiny birds, he was a capable hunter. But gluttonous. So, so gluttonous.
"Okay, okay," she sighed, smiling, "you're so impatient."
Sabine headed over to a small gardening and discolored, fading storage shed that had been built on the roof, another unfortunate victim of the outdoor elements. Inside, she found the bag of dry cat food she had stored there next to unopened bags of potting soil. She scooped up a half cup of pellets as the cat meowed in the doorway. Her other hand fiddled around in the dark, searching for the small pet food bowl she kept in the shed.
Suddenly, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle, a nagging sixth sense screamed in the back of her mind that someone was silently watching her.
"Yo."
That voice came, booming like thunder.
Sabine shrieked, surprise flickering over her face, and dropped the ceramic bowl. Hitting the ground, it broke in half on impact and the dry food scattered all around her feet. The sudden noise sent CEO skittering away to hide behind one of the raised garden beds.
"Ah, shit…" she mumbled as she crouched down and quickly assessed the damage.
Sabine didn't want to whirl around and face the source of the disruption. Maybe if she ignored him, he would leave? Seconds ticked by agonizingly slow, but she could still feel his eyes on her back through the slits in his helmet. She didn't want to face him, couldn't even fathom why he felt the need to seek her out.
"I'm not gonna bite you, Donuts," he assured her and held up three fingers scrunched together—not that she could see what he was doing. "Scout's honor. Although I think Superman corners that market."
She exhaled, letting go of the deep breath and tension that she was holding tightly inside her lungs, before peering over her shoulder at him.
And for the second time today, and the third time in 24 hours, she was face-to-face with Red Hood again. His silhouette glided by sunset, dramatic, and imposing against the thousand lights of city, smog, and moon behind him. God, he was huge.
Her fingers curled around a shard of ceramic. She narrowed her eyes, scowling at the intrusion.
Red Hood spied the sleight of hand movement even though she had her back to him. Aw, crap.
He dodged to the side as a small piece of pottery came hurtling at him, years and years of practice made him move purely by instinct, and he heard it smash around the ledge behind him.
"Why. Are. You. Following. Me?" she snarled, chucking a second and larger piece of ceramic at his head.
Red Hood tilted his head to the side as the piece whizzed by where his ear would be if he wasn't wearing a helmet. Her aim wasn't bad. He was just glad she didn't have anything bigger or pointier to throw at him. Like a knife.
"I just wanted to say thanks for not leaving me for dead the other day," Red Hood joked as he tiptoed over the tiny broken ceramic pieces, "but you seem allergic to gratitude."
He stayed next to the raised edge of the building and a good ten feet away from her this time. Any closer and he had a feeling she might even throw one of those patio chairs at him.
Cautiously poking his head out, CEO rushed towards her feet and hungrily devoured the dry brown pellets of salmon-flavored food.
Sabine tucked a chunk of her short brown hair behind her ear as a gust blew it in front of her eyes. CEO's body grazed by her boots as he scavenged for food amidst the broken pieces of the bowl.
Sabine eventually huffed in frustration. "What was I supposed to do, post an ad online? Found: Emotionally and psychologically scarred vigilante in a dumpster; local pick up only."
Red Hood tilted his head to the side and snorted, appreciating her flair of humor.
"Emotionally and psychologically scarred? How do you figure that?" Not that it isn't true, he mentally added.
She continued to stare at the dead expression of his helmet, mentally digesting the scenario she found herself in. It would be better to ignore him. It would be better to not engage with him. It would've been better if she hadn't freakin' thrown something at him. But sometimes even she couldn't stop herself from running her mouth, something she had in common with Red Hood.
"I don't think that anyone who goes around wearing masks and goes around killing people doesn't have some sort of, umm, baggage," Sabine elaborated hastily as CEO nuzzled against her shin. Her voice sounded hoarse from nerves and wished she hadn't said anything at all.
Red Hood shrugged. "I was working through some things."
As if that one, short sentence was all the explanation that was needed. He had freakin' beheaded people. Everyone knew that.
Word on the street was that he didn't kill anymore, worked out a truce with the other Bats ages ago. Who knew if that was even true, could've been a rumor for fuck all she knew. But he still kept the guns strapped to his thighs, loaded with rubber bullets now.
"Riiight," she shook her head and crossed her arms.
This conversation was already dragging out longer than she wanted. Why was he here? What did he want? He had said he wanted to thank her, but the gesture seemed entirely unnecessary. And didn't he know how menacing he looked with a mask shining like freshly spilled blood?
Red Hood glanced down at the tuxedo cat. "Cute cat. Yours?"
The friendly nature of the question dumbfounded her. Her guard slipped.
CEO munched noisily on the dry food, a continuous vibrating purr emitting from his body as he ate.
"No," she muttered slowly and then continued after a short lull, "…he's a stray. My landlord doesn't allow pets."
She felt silly talking about something so incredibly mundane with one of Gotham's infamous vigilantes. She couldn't imagine Batman stopping to make small talk with anyone.
For some reason though, the stiffness in her shoulders gradually released. She realized that her hands weren't tightened into uneasy fists anymore and her jaw unclenched. Was he trying to make her feel more comfortable? He kept a polite, reasonable distance.
Red Hood reached for his grappling hook that was holstered on the side of his hip. "Well, good talk."
Things felt awkward now, at least for him. He fiddled with the device in his hand as he jumped onto the ledge. Batman and some of the others had tried to impress on him the importance of building positive public relations and trust with civilians, which hardly ever seemed to go well for him when he tried it. His explosive and deadly entrance onto the crime-fighting scene was still fresh in everyone's minds, even as the years passed. Oh well, at least he could say he tried.
Without looking back, Red Hood jumped down onto the small fire escape balcony under the gooseneck ladder, and out of her view.
She heard the bang of the grappling hook followed by the cable extending before it anchored into something nearby, and then a whoosh.
Sabine pressed her spine against the solid wall of the shed and slid down next to CEO. She curled forward, resting the side of her head on her bent knees. She scratched behind CEO's right ear, the special sweet spot that made the ragged cat melt into an affectionate puddle. She sighed into the cold air, a ghostly white puff of breath escaping from her lips.
"He's so…weird," she murmured, not knowing what the hell to make of all that.
A/N: Thank you for all the hits, favorites, bookmarks, kudos, and comments/reviews! And thank you for reading through two chapters of set-up, more exciting things are to come in the upcoming chapters. :)