A long, overdue conversation.
Chapter 23 of What's Up, Danger?: Gonna Show Her My World
9:30 PM
The weariness of the day seeped into Sabine's bones as she slipped her backpack straps down her shoulders before she entered her apartment. Eyes shut, she tilted her head back and heaved out a tired sigh. One strap of the heavy bag hung in the crook of her elbow as she pushed close the door behind her.
As she locked and deadbolted the front door, her sense of security and privacy evaporated when an unexpected voice startled her:
"Welcome home."
A cold ripple of alarm shot up Sabine's spine and she whirled around in a flurry, fists up and heart pounding so hard it pulsed in her temples, the fight or flight response hooked onto her nerves like thorns.
In her post-study session and whatever-the-hell-that-bizarre-vision-was fatigue, she hadn't noticed the corner lamp in her apartment was on when she entered, the amber glow illuminating the cramped space, or that a very familiar mass had nonchalantly planted himself on her worn-down couch.
Red Hood lounged on her couch like it was his home and she was the guest.
Rude.
One of his hands stroked CEO, who placidly laid on across his lap. The other held her copy of Tender is the Night, one of the few non-young adult books from her shelf.
Her lips curled down into a frown as she stared down the vigilante. Exasperation surged to the surface. She knew he meant no harm, but breaking into her apartment like this and scaring the life out of her—especially in a dangerous city like Gotham—he should know better.
"This is not okay," she said, jabbing his shoulder with her fist over the back of the couch as she approached him. "Nearly gave me a freakin' heart attack. I could've turned you into a lizard by accident or…or something."
Red Hood scratched behind one of CEO's ears and half-shrugged, unphased. The cat purred and nuzzled into his hand.
"It's cold outside, and, hey, has your window lock always been broken?" He paused for a beat, his brain catching up to her words. "Wait-what…turn me into a lizard? Have you done that to someone before? Should I be worried?"
Sabine dropped her backpack on a kitchen chair and sheepishly dipped her head down as she unpacked. "Uhh, maybe?" Pulling off her peacoat, her eyes drifted to the side guiltily. "I might've accidentally flooded a bathroom at my school's library, so…who knows what's possible."
Red Hood's hand stilled on CEO's head, stunned and impressed at the unintentional, destructive display of magic. He snapped the book closed.
"Well, you should talk to your landlord about getting that window fixed, or, ya know, I could fix it for you," he offered, placing the paperback down on the coffee table.
Sabine stacked her mittens on the table and humored him, "Oh, so you're a vigilante and a handyman?"
"You should see my resume," he joked, and rattled off a list, "vigilante, ex-crime lord, ex-bar owner, ex-mercenary…that last one was a friend's idea."
She folded her arms across her chest and raised her brows. "And somewhere in between all that you learned how to fix window locks?"
Red Hood gently deposited CEO onto the adjacent couch cushion. He stood up and attempted to brush the cat hair off his dark cargo pants.
"Something like that," he grunted. The stubborn cat hairs refused to be brushed aside, blanketing the thighs of his pants. He turned his head. "Do you have a lint roller anywhere?"
She gestured towards the closet in the bedroom nook. "One should be near my hamper in there, on top of the detergent and dryer sheets."
He nodded as he pulled open the door and spotted it stuffed inside a fabric tote box with the rest of her laundry items.
Sabine watched in uneven amusement as the vigilante rolled the spindle over his pants. The white and black cat hairs jumped out on the dark fabric. She supposed a thin carpeting of animal hair on his gear would make him a tad less intimidating.
"You flooded a bathroom? How the hell did you manage that?" he asked before ripping off the used adhesive sheet covered in cat hair from the lint roller, crumpling it, and tossing it into a trash can.
She shiftily avoided eye contact, embarrassed. "I don't know. I, uh…kind of had this awful and overwhelming feeling, and then—I don't know—the sinks turned on by themselves and wouldn't stop. The staff had to close the area off."
Red Hood inspected his pants once more before returning the lint roller to its rightful place in her closet.
"A feeling?" he pressed as he trudged over to her.
"Yeah," Sabine nervously hugged herself and rubbed her upper arms, "I don't know how else to explain it. As I said, I just had this overwhelming feeling that something bad happened, or was going to happen." She shuddered, thinking back to the decay, the shadow, the wings…and the burning eyes that saw her.
Fear was becoming her everyday companion at this rate. It crept up from her toes to her neck, turning her blood to ice. The long shadows it cast over her days were a constant reminder that some devious entity wanted her for some unknown end and was determined to leave a trail of carnage in its wake.
Red Hood leaned his back against the wall, arms crossed. "Well, shit."
Her eyes flicked over to him. "What?"
Red Hood rolled his shoulders forward, slumping. Underneath the mask, his teeth dug into his bottom lip and his brows lowered over his eyes, trapped in thought. Tension built in the sides of his jaw, aching, as he held his tongue.
He had to tell her. Being the bearer of bad news felt like a fucking curse at times like these. He couldn't shield or protect her from it, though. She'd find out soon enough. Better it was from him than the police or the news.
"We need to talk," he said.
A grim feeling took root inside her, so there was a reason for his intrusion after all. Did anything ever good follow the dreaded 'we need to talk'?
"Okay," she replied, unsure, and moved over to the living room.
Red Hood stepped forward, following her lead, and rested a hand on her shoulder. "You might wanna sit? Or stay standing. Whatever's best."
Sabine's brows knitted together worriedly and she dropped onto the couch. Her fingers curled at her sides, nails digging into her palms. "Oh, so it's bad-bad."
"Yeah," he nodded as he plopped down near her, far enough away that the crack between cushions separated them but close enough that his long legs bumped into her knee.
He fell silent, an unusual turn for the talkative vigilante.
Her body tensed and she clenched her jaw, waiting, as silence loomed in the air between them.
Red Hood sighed. "Carla Rocha's dead."
All it took was that one short sentence for a riptide of horror to crash over her, plunging her into sudden grief. Her vision swam as she fought back tears.
Sabine's fingers ticked, grazing over the upholstery of the couch—firm, textured, a little fuzzy, polyester—to reel herself back from teetering over the edge of dissociation.
She winced, not wanting to believe him, then swallowed. "How…how do you know?"
"Police report. Her body was found in her home in Burnside." He didn't explain further, she could easily conclude the rest.
"This sucks," she rasped, almost inaudible. Miserably, she sunk into the cushions and hoped she could disappear forever into them. She buried her face in her palms.
Maybe if she disappeared all this insanity would stop? No one else would have to die. Everything could just stop.
"I know," he said, scooting over to her, the side of his thigh pressing against hers. He slung one arm around her small, trembling shoulders and twisted towards her, pulling her against him.
She curled into him, mild comfort reaching through in the warm gesture though her mind was fractured into hundreds of tiny, messy, broken pieces. His body heat permeated through the layers of his gear, swallowing her. Odd that Red Hood was kind of cuddly and huggable. Comfortable, even. Like fitting two puzzle pieces together. Her hands reached around his torso and grabbed the back of his jacket, anchoring herself to him through waves of remorse and guilt.
"This really, really sucks," she repeated, cheek against his chest. "I've been seeing her for years, I…" words were pointless and stupid, nothing she said could convey the impact of the tragedy of another victim. And, fuck, it all felt like it was her fault.
His hand slid over her cheek, using the edge of his thumb to wipe away a stray tear that ran down it.
"Maybe we should see Madame Xanadu again," Sabine said frantically, mind racing in a horrible chorus of it'sallmyfaultit'sallmyfaultit'sallmyfault, "she must know something else, something we can do, something—"
"We can do something," Red Hood said firmly, "you can do something."
Uncoiling herself from their tangle of limbs, she didn't believe him. "I can't. What could I even…I'm useless." A long pause accompanied by a strained sniffle. "She's already gone."
Red Hood was conflicted. Fate was cruel for how it dropped them into each other's lives. Rotten, awful, unfair timing.
Hand on her thigh, he squeezed it in a futile attempt to be reassuring. "We'd have to go tonight." Not a request. A directive.
"Go where?" she challenged heatedly. "And with you? So you can take me to some creepy cave or warehouse?"
The thought had crossed his mind that, yes, she'd be safer and better off with him at one of his safehouses. Hell, even taking her to the manor seemed like a good idea. But to what end?
He hesitated, then said, "No, I have an idea."
Sabine already loathed the sound of it. And why shouldn't she?
She glared at him and knocked his hand away. The last time he had some brilliant idea, he left her behind. She might've forgiven him, but she sure as hell hadn't forgotten. He'd barely earned a sliver of her trust back and now wanted to make more unreasonable requests? The absolute fucking nerve.
Cautiously and distrustingly, she echoed his words, "An idea?"
Red Hood noted her one dubiously raised brow and the sharp edge to her gaze. "Just a little field trip to the Gotham City Morgue. Some light breaking and entering is required, and a bit of sneaking around. Nothing too exciting."
The proposal was so casual like he was just suggesting that they take a stroll in the botanical gardens or stop by the store to fetch a gallon of milk. Like breaking into the morgue was some kind of simple, everyday errand and not criminal trespassing.
Stunned, Sabine lapsed into petrified silence. How tight was his helmet on?—because the damn thing had to be cutting off the blood and oxygen flow to his brain because his 'idea' was insane. He'd lost his damn mind.
The morgue?
The fucking morgue?
She squirmed. "Are you crazy?—the morgue?"
He would've laughed hollowly at that—because, yeah—she wasn't the first, and certainly wouldn't be the last, to sling that accusation at him.
"Just trust me a lil', will ya?"
Internally screaming, she replied sternly, "You're on thin ice and you want me to go 'oh gee, sure, sounds like a swell idea, mister. Let's break into the city morgue'."
He pressed harder. "Don't you want to do something—anything—to help?"
Sabine licked her dry lips. "That isn't fair. Of course, I want to help, but what can I do?"
His knees bounced, eager to talk her through his budding scheme. "You said a while ago that when you touched your friend you saw something. Visions, right?"
She gave him a reserved head bob in confirmation. Where was he going with this?
Red Hood continued, "And you think the connection is magical? Hypothetically, say your friend that you told me about fell into a…magical pool of Baja blast,"—he snorted at his bad joke—, "and that's what brought him back to life. Something magical in nature. So, if these people were killed by something magical, maybe you'll be able to get a glimpse of what it is?"
She wrinkled her nose. This was a huge maybe he was proposing. There was no guarantee it would work, either. His plan hinged on two important yet uncontrollable variables: one, that she would even agree to his plot, and, two, that she'd even be able to see whatever magic touched Carla Rocha's body.
Deeply unsettled by the notion of even touching a dead body, especially a withered husk of someone she knew and cared about defiled by magic, Sabine balked. She understood the logic behind his theory but was horrified by the methodology involved.
Touching Carla's corpse?
Nauseated, acid and bile surged up her throat. God, she wanted to bury her head in the trash can and puke.
"So, what you're saying is," she started carefully, her insides twisting into queasy knots, "that you want to take me to the city morgue to touch the dead body of my therapist? Just to see if I'll see anything?"
There was a palpable pause in the conversation before he nodded.
Red Hood raised a hand, and oh for fuck's safe, gave her a finger gun. "Bingo."
"Fuck, you are insane," she grumbled while rubbing her temple.
"Hey, I'll be there for…moral support," he said, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. "You'll be safe with me, I promise. And if it turns out to be a bust, well, at least we tried."
Sabine rolled her eyes. "Are you even listening to yourself? You keep telling me to trust you," she said acidly, jerking away from him and standing up, "and I want to, I really, really do—"
He scrambled, not knowing what to say. "I apologized for New York, I—"
"—so? That doesn't just make it better. What if…," her bottom lip quivered and her face screwed up, "what if…you leave again?"
He snatched her hands out of the air, thumbs drawing small circles over her knuckles. "I won't," he vowed. Her distrust tore a hole in him, one that he was desperate to mend with whatever he could—duct tape, bandaids, a needle and thread, anything.
Sabine's eyes focused on him, long and hard. Finally, swallowing dryly, she said, slow and quiet, "Look…this is just a lot right now. I need time to think about this."
He sighed, head falling forward. "We don't have time." His chest heaved, aching. He hated pushing her like this. "I know it's a lot to ask, I do. With all the things you've gone through the past few months, all the shit that keeps piling up…I get it. But we need to push forward if we're gonna figure this mess out. I know it's tiring. I know I'm asking for a lot from you right now."
She was at a loss for words. She wanted to help instead of uselessly standing by. What if her dad was next? Or Roz? Or Logan? Or any of her classmates or friends?
Red Hood watched as conflict covered every inch of her face as she stood in front of him. The impulse to make an incredibly stupid decision bubbled up, and it was a notion he toyed with before; unmasking himself. Sabine tolerated Red Hood, but she trusted and liked Jason. If she knew they were the same person then maybe, just maybe, it would be just the nudge she needed to fully trust him.
He'd thought about it before, with all the uncertainty they were facing, the possibility of imminent doom against forces they didn't comprehend, what was the harm?
He stripped the glove off his right hand and held out his large palm to her, ready for the risk and consequences.
Sabine's jaw dropped when she saw him remove the glove, and she choked out, "What are you doing? You-you don't have to do this."
Looking up at her, Red Hood scoffed. "Scared?"
He voiced it like it was a dare instead of a question like they were children on a schoolyard and he had the brazen audacity to up the ante to a triple dog dare.
Her dark eyes traced over the calloused bumps on his palm and the small white scars that mangled his knuckles and fingers, proof of how many fights he'd been in and the hell he put his body through.
Sucking in a tentative breath, she shook her head. "No." Yes.
Did she want to know?
Why did he think this would help her trust him?
The curiosity and intrigue outweighed her fear because who wouldn't want to know who was under there?
Arriving at the point of no return, her fingertips extended towards him and a small part of her hoped she wouldn't see anything.
The pads of her index and middle finger collided with his open palm first and the effect was instantaneous, violently dragging her mind into a vortex.
Smoke and blood in her mouth, ash and dirt on her lips. A macabre symphony of maniacal laughter coming from blood-red lips. Pain. Misery. Acceptance. Knives cutting into the skin, prying open the chest. A coffin. Graveyard dirt. Submerged in bioluminescent green, lungs full of fluid. Sputtering. Choking. Clawing out of the green pool, screaming—
Her face paled, almost bone white, as she clocked the eerie familiarities. All of the sights and sensations rushed through her mind's eye like a horror movie.
Red Hood's fingers threaded between hers and squeezed down, locking their hands together. His touch was scorching against her skin.
For a moment, she imagined—could almost see—his vibrant green eyes shining at her through the bright white lenses of the helmet.
Eyes huge, she whispered, "Jason."
"The one and only," he replied wryly, not missing a beat.
Jason Peter Todd—the name, the ghost, the revenant, the man in front of her, in the flesh, blood, and bone. Her friend that taught her how to throw a punch, effortlessly extorted coffee out of her, and cooked for her in this very room.
But he wasn't just Jason…he was also the Red Hood.
The fucking Red Hood.
He could hide under the red helmet, under all that dark armor and tactical gear, under the red bat symbol emblazoned on his chest, and under all straps and guns all he wanted, but he couldn't hide from the magic in her touch.
Sabine's reaction wasn't what he pictured.
Not at all.
Her face is blank, deadpan, except for her wide eyes drinking in the revelation that her new friend wasn't just the deceased adopted son of Gotham's most renowned oligarch come back to life, but the vigilante that's plagued her for months like her own personal ghost.
It was her turn to wear an unreadable expression, but he detected something brewing there. Gauging her microexpressions, the wheels and cogs in her brain were turning, turning…
Another half second, and she yanked her hand away. Teeth showed through in a fierce scowl he'd never seen her wear before.
"Son of a—"
Ah, okay. There it is.
Her voice raised several levels, incredulous and seething. "Are you fucking serious? Jason?"
There's no point in hiding anymore. The secret's out of his own volition, and there were no takebacks or redos. Skeleton's out of the closet and trapezing under the moonlight now. It's a heavy weight off his back, one he'd carried for far too long.
She knows.
He wanted the moment to be more dramatic if it ever happened at all. Maybe some explosions in the background. Gunfire. Or in the shadows of an alleyway. Not on the couch in her studio apartment with tears in the corners of her eyes.
But it was his decision, his terms. She'd already dug up information on his civilian identity, she might've figured it out on her own given more time.
There was a quiet, burning intimacy in the moment without distractions. A sharp focus where, briefly, nothing else in Gotham, or the world, or the whole damn universe, mattered. Everything outside the 400 sq foot studio apartment melted away into nothingness, blipped out of existence, for this.
Jason's hands reached behind his head, a click and a whoosh of expelled air, and his helmet was off and set on the coffee table. He peeled off the red domino mask and ran a hand through his damp and flat hair.
Sabine's eyes jumped, unable to stay still. The helmet. Jason. The helmet. Jason.
He tried to crack a hearty grin, if anything, to ease her nerves.
After her outburst, she'd fallen into muteness, containing her outrage in a box as she sifted through her emotions. She breathed deep, tempering herself and restraining herself from not attempting to throw the vigilante with over a hundred pounds on her out on his ass into the cold.
Taking a minute to stew on it, it all made perfect sense. The pieces clicked into place and she felt so dumb for not putting it together before; the evasiveness and tension whenever she asked a question, his half-answers, the high wall he built up around himself, the haggard look like he hadn't slept in days, the hard edges and aura of underlying danger, the mysterious and unexplained bruises and cuts she spotted on him, all of the scars…he was protecting himself and others by omitting his nightly activities.
However, the endless circles her mind raced in settled on one, unavoidable question.
"Jason," she said, reserved and eyes narrowed, sitting back down.
Their eyes met, faces level. His jewel-toned eyes shimmered at her under his dark brows. At the front of his hairline, at the roots of a small section of locks, she realized there was a bit of white growing in, something strange she'd never noticed before.
Her bleak expression grew, marring her face with serious intensity, and she lowered her shoulders, leaning low.
"Are we…are we friends?" she asked. A heavy and loaded question aimed at him like the barrel of a gun. "Or was all this—was all of this you just trying to get close to me? Keep an eye on me? Was it…is it real?"
He didn't want to lie, the truth being a mix of reasons and a big fucking mess. It was a fair question to ask, he just didn't expect it so soon.
A muffled noise escaped Jason's throat. "It's real—this—we're friends." His muscles felt like they unraveled at the confession, more so than when he removed his helmet, but he maintained steady eye contact. The weight on his chest both eased as a hand scrubbed over the back of his neck. "I…did think you were a suspect at first and wanted to watch you, but we're friends. Really, I mean it."
Sabine's expression shifted. Hurt. Careful. Thoughtful. Weighing judgment.
Abruptly, she recoiled with a hand over her nose, and said, "You weren't kidding."
Caught off guard, Jason reeled back. "About what?"
She gagged and pointed towards the red helmet. "The smell. You need vents in that thing."
He tipped his head back and groaned. "Oh, come on, I barely broke a sweat getting over here."
"I have Febreeze, let me get it—"
"No."
A/N: This chapter was kind of ride? Sorry not sorry about that.
Morgue adventures up next! (it's only after planing out this arc that it occured to me how fucked up/traumatizing it is to take someone to see the mangled dead body a person they know! But Jason's probs so desensitized to this shit by now he didn't even think of that) It's going to be a looong night these two…
Thanks for reading! Glad people enjoy this lil story o' mine!