"Empanadas today," Red Hood announced, pointedly ignoring the way Alice had already been waving to him before he'd even touched down on the roof. "And my, uh, grandfather pointed out I hadn't asked, so: got any allergies?"

She looked up at him as he got closer. She wasn't sitting on the edge this time, instead perched on top of the AC unit with her hands wrapped around a travel mug. She wrinkled her nose. "I don't think so."

"Great. Empanadas," he said again, setting the bag beside her. "What are we drinking?"

"I am drinking green tea. You're not drinking anything unless you've brought it yourself." She eyed the empanadas first and then him. "Did you bring anything yourself?"

"Nah. I'll keep that in mind, though," he said, intending to do no such thing.

She scoffed and trapped the mug between her knees. "Sure." She sounded doubtful. She picked up the bag and opened it. "Beef?"

"Pork."

"Huh. Is Batman your boss?"

The question gave him whiplash. "What? No. We work together sometimes, but I don't answer to him."

Alice paused and stared up at him. For the first time since meeting her, he felt like he was under a microscope. She wasn't so much looking at him or through him as she was looking into him, and he felt the uncomfortable need to demand that she blink. "Huh," she said again. Then she finally took a bite of an empanada. "How long have you been Red Hood?"

He tilted his head at her. The interrogation was new. "Two years, give or take."

"Huh." They sat—or stood, in his case—in silence as she finished the empanada. She fished out another one and waved it at him. "You have daddy issues," she announced.

"What?" he sputtered. "What makes you say that?"

Instead of answering that, she asked, "How many people have you killed?"

He turned to stare at her more head-on.

"Look at you," she said. She pointed at the guns on his thighs with her empanada. "Carrying a gun doesn't automatically mean you've killed someone, but most people don't wear 'em like you." She regarded him flatly. "I'm not dumb."

He stared at her some more. And then, far too belatedly, he agreed with a confused, "Right."

She squinted at him as she resumed slowly eating her food. "What's Batman's favorite color?"

"Why would I know that?"

"Bet it's lime green," she continued, as if he hadn't even responded. "Since apparently being a hero means your favorite color can't be the one you wear."

He snorted. "Why lime green and not, I dunno, neon orange?"

"Neon orange is dumb."

He didn't really have anything to say to that. He watched as she ate two more empanadas.

"Do you have motorcycle insurance?"

What? "What?"

"For your bike. Do you have insurance? If you do, does it have your real name on it, or does it say 'Red Hood?'"

"It's not insured," he said slowly.

"Old man," she said loudly, hands finally free of her now-eaten empanadas. She pointed at him. "You're a criminal!"

". . . 'cause of the insurance?"

"Exactly." Seemingly satisfied with how that exchange had gone, she laid back on the AC unit and stared up at the cloudy sky. "If your life of crime ever doesn't pay, you could do okay as a cook. Flippin' burgers or something."

He huffed a laugh. "Right. Batburger is my backup, actually."

She turned her head towards him. She stared for a long moment. "Batburger?" she asked.

He blinked. Then he grinned. "I'll show you tomorrow. You'll love the fries. They've got sweet potato."

Red Robin dropped down just after Haunt had portaled the last high schooler from the Gotham River to the paramedics but before they had portaled away themself. "Hey, Haunt!" he called out, doing his best to keep his tone light and friendly. "Got a minute?"

Haunt turned their incomprehensible face towards him, shadowed by their green hood.

"Was wondering if I could get your input on something," he said, dropping his voice just a touch as he moved towards them. He stopped about fifteen feet away and looked around obviously. "Shouldn't take long. Just don't want any prying ears, you know?"

They crossed their arms.

"Great," he said, taking that as acceptance. He moved closer. "I've got a case, and you seem specially equipped to be able to help out."

Haunt didn't respond. After a second, they gestured as if to prompt him to continue.

Red Robin tapped his ear. "Not sure if someone's listening."

Haunt sighed, and it echoed. They put up their hands and opened a portal under their feet. They disappeared.

Red Robin groaned. "Oh, c'mo—"

That was lost in a yelp as he fell. He stumbled, falling backwards and catching himself with his hands. From his new position on the ground, he looked up at Haunt and the portal they were closing. Then he glanced around. He'd been taken somewhere he didn't recognize. Outdoors. There were trees around them, but they didn't look like Gotham trees.

"Um. Thanks." He stood, dusting himself off. "Where are we?"

"Alaska."

"Oh." He looked around again, startled and confused. "Right. Alaska. Alaska? I mean, that's— Wow. How do you—"

"What do you want?" they asked.

He nodded and cleared his throat. "I'm hunting down a weapons smuggling ring."

"Weapons," they echoed. All their voices sounded unimpressed. "You should ask Red Hood." They lifted their hands to open another portal.

"The weapons are magical," Red Robin rushed to say. "Enchanted artifacts, runic weapons, that type of thing."

They paused. Lowering their hands slowly, they said, "What are they doing with them?"

"Distribution. Making bank, I'm guessing. The weapons keep showing up everywhere." He dug out a thumb drive. Holding it out, he said, "I've collected some info, but I'm not experienced with tracking magic artifacts."

They didn't take it. Instead, they said, "I'll look into it."

Red Robin found himself falling through another portal back into Gotham.

"Where's your stuff?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, tightening her hold on her crossbody. It was the only bag she had. "Under my roof," she said, hackles raised. "Why?"

"Just wonderin'." Red Hood shrugged. "Ready for burgers?" He held open the door for her.

She paused in the threshold, leaning forward to look around the inside of the Batburger before stepping in. She sniffed. "Greasy."

"And delicious." He made no move to urge her inside. "Hungry?"

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She made a noncommittal sound and stepped inside. "I'm going to buy the most expensive thing," she warned him.

"Go for it. I will warn you that the leftovers don't keep well, though."

"There won't be leftovers," she said confidently, approaching the counter as she stared at the menu. "What's good?"

"It's all good. Definitely get the sweet potato fries, though. That'd be the Dr. Fries."

"Stupid name," she muttered. "Alright." She focused in on the cashier, who was glancing nervously between her and Red Hood. "Batburger Deluxe Oversized with Dr. Fries. A Riddle-Me-Fish. And, uh, a So-Lemon-ade Grundy," she sounded out carefully.

"And a Bat-Mite Meal," Red Hood cut in. He tilted his head down at her. "With any luck, you'll get a Red Hood toy."

"I sure hope not," she muttered, taking her cup and stalking off to fill it while he paid.

When he joined her at a booth, she glanced up at him. "Don't you have, ya know." She waved a hand at him. "Stuff?"

"Stuff?" he asked, amused.

"To do. People to shoot. Crimes to stop. Cats to save from trees. Hero stuff." She tilted her head. "Vigilante stuff," she amended.

"Did some already. Then I'll check some more things off the list after we're done here."

"Ah." She picked up the table marker that read 15 and started fidgeting with it. "I'm fine, ya know."

He made a noise to encourage her to continue talking without actually agreeing.

She scoffed and propped her arm up on the table, chin in her hand. "Fine. Don't blame me when you get bored, then." She yawned and stretched, both hands reaching up.

Red Hood was about to ask why she was so much more tired than usual when the movement exposed the underside of her right arm. Her sleeve had slipped, and now he could see the bruising around her upper arm. Bruising that was new—no more than a day at most, still a vivid red—and angry and painful and definitely in the shape of a hand.

"What happened?" he demanded, reaching towards her arm, operating on years of field medical work that insisted he check her over as well as raging green anger that someone had hurt her.

Alice jerked back in alarm, elbows hitting the table hard in her frantic scramble away from him. She made it up and out of the booth and several feet away faster than he could blink. Chest heaving and eyes wide, she stared at him with both arms wrapped around herself.

He froze, hand still outstretched. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to soften his voice past his modulator. "I didn't mean to—" He cut himself off before he could say scare you. He doubted she'd appreciate that phrasing. "I was just worried about your arm."

She stared at him for a moment longer. Then she looked down at herself as if confused. She loosened her arms and pulled at her sleeve, searching. As soon as she saw the bruise, she huffed. "I'm fine," she muttered.

"Okay," he said, not believing her and wondering what other bruises she was hiding. He stooped, picking up the table marker from where it had been knocked to the floor. He set it on the table and looked back up at her. "Sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

She kept staring at him, not moving from her spot. "You won't do it again?" she asked. There was a hidden desperation in her tone. "You won't grab me?"

He considered that carefully. "No." Well . . . . "Not unless its for your immediate safety."

Her expression twisted.

"Like if you fall off a roof," he elaborated. "But not for something like this." When she continued to look doubtful, he said, "I promise."'She lifted her chin, staring him down as she stepped back to the booth and sat down on the very edge. They sat in silence until her food was brought.

"Who'd you get?" he asked, watching as she carefully examined her food.

She got the small toy out and turned it over in her hands. "Who is this?" she asked. She held it up so he could see.

"You got Robin. Looks like the original Robin, too."

"Original Robin?" She set the toy down so he could stand and keep watch over her food while she ate. Then she started in on her sweet potato fries.

"Yep. There's been a few, but that's the original. You can tell by the pajamas."

She squinted at the toy's uniform. "He doesn't have pants."

He snorted. "No, he does not. How're the fries?"

She threw one at him, and it smacked his helmet before falling to the table. "Good." She reached for her burger.

He sat back, content to wait as she ate. But she had other plans. When she waved the toy at him and demanded he tell her about the original Robin, he sighed and resigned himself to talking about the older brother he'd never been able to live up to.